Play Dead. Meryl Sawyer

off when Hayley gave him back his engagement ring. Meg says he’s been trying to get back together with her.”

      “Anythang’s possible,” Phillips replied, his twang more noticeable than usual. “Wells, who heads up the locals, thinks it might be related to the family business. Seems the father who died last year was dead set against importing cheap surf- and skateboards from China the way most of the major companies do. As soon as he was gone, Trent took over the business. The son ordered a container full of boards from Asia. Drugs could have come in with them. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

      “Why would that translate to a bomb that killed their designer?” Ryan asked, but something tripped an internal alarm. Alison, Hayley’s mother and Meg’s sister, had been the lead designer until the plane crash. Two designers dead.

      “Jeez-a-ree, who knows?”

      “Are they sure the plane crash was an accident?”

      Phillips’ dark eyes narrowed as he studied Ryan for a moment. “Where are you goin’ with this?”

      Ryan saw three sleek black limos in the valet parking line. His father would be here soon. “Just wondering. Both designers for Surf’s Up get killed? How important are the designers? I could nose around.”

      “G’wan. Trust your gut instinct.” Phillips walked away.

      Phillips was a bit of a maverick, Ryan decided. He liked working with him. He dodged the chain of command and avoided paperwork wherever possible. Ryan had forwarded his report—nothing interesting on Hayley’s computer—to the L.A. office, the task force and Detective Wells. Ryan was officially off the clock and on his own now. He still had three weeks of vacation before he had to report back to the office. No one except Phillips knew he was investigating this case as a favor to Meg Amboy.

      He would find himself in deep shit if his boss found out, but Ryan didn’t give a rat’s ass. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay with the Bureau. He’d been drifting along, half-heartedly doing his job since Jessica’s death. A contact had offered him a job with a private security firm specializing in computer security for corporations. It was right here in Newport Beach; he wouldn’t have to slog his way through traffic from L.A. He could see his father every day.

      If Ryan closed his eyes, he could see an image forever imprinted on his brain. Conrad Hollister watching with unconcealed pride from the stands at Ryan’s football games. His father hadn’t missed one game from junior high through a two-year stint in the pros.

      His father was going downhill—even though he’d never admit it. Ryan wondered how long his father would live. He had to prepare himself for the worst and see him as often as possible.

      AN HOUR LATER, Ryan was roaming the second floor members-only dining room where the reception was being held. Someone had transferred the photograph of Hayley from the church to the reception. Her compelling eyes kept following him as he moved from food station to food station in the packed room. It was his imagination, of course, but those eyes seemed to implore him to find her killer.

      He’d brought his father up the elevator in his wheelchair and had him stationed at a table overlooking the bay with Meg at his side. A constant stream of guests kept offering their condolences to Meg and the other members of the family seated at the table.

      “Aren’t these shrimp to die for?” asked a female voice at his elbow.

      Ryan realized he was at the seafood station where shrimp were being served in shot glasses of cocktail sauce. Had he eaten any? He’d been so intent on looking around the crowd for Hayley’s ex-fiancé that he wasn’t paying enough attention to what he was doing.

      He turned and flashed a smile at Farah Fordham. He’d met the striking brunette at the church and he’d reviewed her background in the jacket Phillips had given him. He’d checked the files on all the other suspects, too. “They’re good, all right.”

      Farah gazed up at him with inquisitive brown eyes that had enough makeup on them to stock a cosmetics counter. “Are you related to Meg?”

      He could understand why she asked the question. Meg had quickly introduced him by his first name at the church. “No, I’m just a friend.” His instincts told him to play his cards close to the chest.

      Farah reached for another shot glass with a shrimp perched on the rim. “Really? Have you known her long?”

      “Awhile.” Why was she asking? Ryan wondered. Then the light dawned. He knew from talking with Meg that her only sister, Hayley’s mother, was dead, and now, with Hayley gone, Meg didn’t have obvious heirs. He also knew from reading her jacket that Farah was overextended financially. Her CPA firm was doing well, but her lifestyle—and her boyfriend—outpaced her income.

      “Hey, babe, here you are.” A tall man with a surfer’s blond hair and tan strode up to them, his smile revealing perfect white teeth. Phillips would have called them “SoCal teeth” because so many people had invested in braces and teeth whiteners. It was the land of beautiful people with perfect teeth.

      “Kyle, this is Ryan …” Farah waited for him to supply his last name.

      Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan Hollister.”

      Kyle shook his hand with a firm grip. “Kyle Wilfert.”

      “You’re Conrad’s son,” Farah said.

      Ryan nodded; he could see the light going out of her eyes. He was right; she was checking out possible heirs. He wondered how close she was to Meg. Did it matter? Maybe it did. Phillips said at this stage of an investigation, everything should be considered.

      “I’m in real estate development,” volunteered Kyle as he grinned at Farah and slipped his arm around her waist. “Not that there’s much going on right now with the lagging economy and all.”

      He’d skimmed the jacket on Kyle and he recalled the file said the boyfriend had declared bankruptcy and moved in with Farah earlier this year. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in—not that you’d know it from his surfer-dude smile.

      “What do you do?” Farah asked.

      “Computers.”

      “Oh,” Farah said, totally uninterested.

      A tall man with broad shoulders and thick brown hair walked up, saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about Hayley. What a tragedy.”

      Ryan eyed the man who seemed to know Farah and Kyle quite well, but Ryan didn’t recognize him from any of the jackets Phillips had given him. The guy didn’t sound too sincere, but then neither did Farah or Kyle. During the service the only ones who’d cried were Courtney Fordham and Meg.

      “I’m Laird McMasters.” The man introduced himself to Ryan with a firm handshake. “I own Rip Tide.”

      Ryan nodded, recognizing another surf/skate company. It also had a line of clothing that competed with Surf’s Up.

      “Laird offered to buy Surf’s Up,” Farah informed him, “but Hayley wouldn’t hear of it.”

      “Really?” Ryan immediately put Laird on his list of people to investigate.

      “Now’s not the time to talk about it,” Laird said. He set his glass on the table nearby. “I’m sorry about Hayley, but I have to leave. I’ve got a meeting.”

      “We couldn’t sell the company now even if we wanted to,” Farah explained even though Ryan hadn’t asked. “It has to come out of probate.”

      “Should be soon,” Kyle said.

      “Excuse me,” Ryan said. “I see someone I need to talk to.” He turned away and edged his way through the crowd to where The Wrath was standing alone, sipping a bottle of water with a black image of a hooded Grim Reaper on it and studying the mesmerizing photo of Hayley.

      “It’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan asked. “A waste.”

      “Fuckin’