Play Dead. Meryl Sawyer

gym. His hair was probably light brown like his eyes but it was slicked upward like a rooster’s comb and appeared black. Cantilevered eyebrows like caterpillars almost concealed his eyes.

      “Yeah, we were friends. She was smart—a lot smarter than the rest of them.” The Wrath looked toward the table where Trent and his wife, Courtney, were now talking with an older woman with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei.

      “I understand you went to Surf’s Up for sponsorship and Hayley wanted to back you while her brother didn’t.”

      The Wrath trained his gaze on Ryan with obvious suspicion. “Damn straight. Trent can’t see beyond board sports. Surfing or skating. But Hayley could. Trent’s singing a different tune now that the MMA line Hayley created for me is raking in the dough.”

      “MMA is on the rise. Their products are hot.” He’d read a bit more online about Mixed Martial Arts since he found The Wrath’s picture on Hayley’s refrigerator.

      “Who the fuck are you?” The Wrath asked. His belligerent tone suggested the guy had testosterone poisoning, but Ryan had played football long enough not to be intimidated.

      “I’m Ryan Hollister. My father’s sitting next to Hayley’s aunt—”

      “I know Meg.” He pointed to the T-shirt he was wearing under a lightweight black blazer. It was a stylized Grim Reaper that Ryan recognized from Hayley’s computer designs. The slogan beneath the macabre face said: Kick Fear—Believe. “Hayley’s aunt added the ‘believe’ to my motto—Kick Fear.”

      “Great idea,” Ryan said, and he meant it, although he would never have suspected Meg would come up with a tag word that gave such punch to a design. “Do you have any idea who would want Hayley dead?” Ryan wasn’t sure why he’d asked; he certainly hadn’t established any rapport with the fighter. It was just a hunch that this man hadn’t been involved and could know something.

      “Haven’t got a clue. But there’s something going on with that family. Ask Courtney. She’s always high. She might tell you something.” The Wrath set down his empty bottle of water that Ryan now realized was The Wrath’s own brand when he saw the slogan written in bold black letters beneath the Grim Reaper.

      “I’m outta here.” He handed Ryan a business card with the same logo on it. “I’m in the cage next week at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas. Wanna see me fight, give me a buzz and I’ll have ringside tickets at Will Call for you.”

      Ryan took The Wrath’s advice and hung around to see if he could catch Courtney alone, or if Chad Bennett would put in an appearance. He hadn’t come to the service. Strange. Meg had told him that Chad still did legal work for the company and was a good friend of Trent’s despite the broken engagement.

      Finally Courtney left the table, apparently headed for the ladies room, and Ryan intercepted her in the hall. “Excuse me,” he said as he walked up beside her. “Are the restrooms this way?”

      “Yes. Just down the corridor.” Her voice was pitched so low that it was barely above a whisper. The Wrath was dead-on. Courtney’s blue eyes were just thin hoops of color around dilated pupils. She was on something, all right.

      “I’m Ryan—”

      “Conrad’s son,” she responded. “You fix computers. I met you just before the service.”

      “Right.” He’d instructed Meg and his father to say he was in computers so no one would realize that he was with the FBI. He’d hoped to get more information that way but so far, zilch. “I understand you were good friends with Hayley.”

      “Yes. We’re creative spirits in a family of … of …”

      “Business types,” he supplied when she seemed to be drifting.

      “Exactly.” Courtney paused outside the entrance to the ladies’ room. “I’ll miss her terribly.”

      He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Who do you think killed her?”

      Courtney’s enlarged pupils welled with unshed tears. “I can’t imagine …”

      She walked into the restroom. Something lingered in the nerve endings of Ryan’s skin. His sixth sense told him Courtney knew more than she was saying. Or was it just his imagination? He could be wrong. Anyway, why would Courtney Fordham tell him—a total stranger—anything?

      Ryan wandered back into the reception, hoping his father and Meg were ready to leave. He immediately spotted Chad Bennett in a corner talking to Trent. From the looks of it, their discussion was very serious. Ryan went to get another steak on the stick from the beef station and watched the men out of the corner of his eye.

      In two gulps, Bennett knocked back a martini with a parade of olives on a pick as he listened to whatever Trent was saying so intently. He munched on the olives.

      Bennett was just above average in height but he had an easy smile and long-lashed blue eyes. The man signaled a passing waiter for another martini and Ryan wondered if the attorney had a drinking problem—or was he drowning his sorrow? He was listening to Trent but Bennett’s eyes kept straying to the huge photograph of Hayley.

      Ryan waited and Trent finally left Bennett when Courtney came teetering into the room. Obviously, she’d done more in the restroom than use the facilities, Ryan decided. The Wrath had been right. Courtney had a problem.

      Bennett wandered over to the photograph and Ryan joined him, sipping a glass of sparkling water. Bennett had a fresh martini with another skewer of olives in it. Obviously, the guy thought this was the veggie course.

      “Damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan knew he was repeating what he’d said to The Wrath, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

      “Got that right,” Bennett replied, facing him.

      Another set of dilated pupils. Welcome to the real word, dude, Ryan told himself. Playgrounds of the rich were havens for drugs and alcohol. Look on the upside. Maybe he’d get more out of Bennett like this than he would if the attorney were sober.

      “You’re Hollister’s kid, right?” Bennett didn’t slur his words or act inebriated. “I sat next to your father at Thanksgiving two years ago. He told me all about your football career. Your job with the FBI. Computers, isn’t it?”

      “That’s right. I wish I’d known Hayley.” He was surprised at how true this was, even though he was merely trying to change the subject. He hadn’t been able to get Hayley out of his mind since Meg had first shown him the photo.

      “You know Meg Amboy. She’s an older version of Hayley. Sharp. Unforgiving.” The last word wobbled just a bit as he said it.

      “I understand you were engaged to Hayley.”

      Bennett kicked back the last of his martini and sucked on the olives for a moment before, saying, “Until I fucked up. Then it was over with a capital O. Hayley is just like Meg. Never forgive. Never forget.”

      Ryan nodded slowly. “Who would kill her so brutally?”

      “You’ve got me.” Bennett shrugged and a cord seemed to be pulsing unsteadily in his neck.

      THE NEXT evening it poured, which was unusual for Southern California in May, Ryan told himself as he stood in Hayley’s loft looking at the rain pounding the dark water in the bay. He’d promised Meg that he would pack up Hayley’s personal things. Tomorrow movers would remove the rest of her belongings so Meg could sell the loft.

      A flash of jagged-white lightning seared the darkness and a few seconds later a deafening clap of thunder shook the loft. The lights at the Blue Water Grill across the small inlet where the loft was located suddenly went dark. The single lamp Ryan had turned on beside Hayley’s computer went out, too.

      “Great,” he muttered. A power failure. With this storm no telling how soon Edison would fix it. This would make his job harder and it would take longer. Hadn’t there been a