Play Dead. Meryl Sawyer

who had died in the car bombing.

      Panicked, hysterical people stampeded out of Gulliver’s, screaming and holding up cell phones to photograph the geyser of smoke and flames. Others were yelling at 9-1-1 operators. No doubt the emergency switchboard was lit up like the fourth of July.

      To the killer, the sounds were muffled, as if they were coming from underwater. Should have used earplugs. Even if the chaos couldn’t be fully heard, it was exciting. It made the waiting, the planning worthwhile.

      Windows were shattered in the cars parked nearby. Some had suffered major damage from the flying debris. Windows and doors in both restaurants had been blown inward by the force of the blast. The destruction was mind-blowing. Worse than expected.

      Who knew? Excitement like a live wire arced through the killer. Inching along in the shadows to where the rental car was parked behind the three-story office building to protect it from the explosion, the killer couldn’t resist a smile of self-congratulation.

      Hayley Fordham was dead. What a trip! Everything had gone exactly as planned.

       CHAPTER ONE

      TRENT FORDHAM took the turn off Pacific Coast Highway in his Porsche at nearly one hundred miles per hour. It was after two in the morning, so no cars were around. He rarely had the opportunity to see what his baby would do. He floored it and the needle shot up to one-twenty.

      “Slow down,” screeched Courtney from the seat beside him. “You’ll get another ticket.”

      His wife was right, he silently conceded. He could not afford to be stopped tonight. It might result in a sobriety test. Not that he’d been drinking … but it was best to be cautious. After all, he was now a CEO of a company. Not a major player—yet—but he was well on his way up the ladder of success. Another speeding ticket was the last thing he needed.

      He eased off the accelerator to an audible sigh of relief from his wife and watched the needle drop. They drove in silence—what was there to say?—up to the gated entrance to their exclusive community. He slowed, expecting Jerome, the night guard, to wave as they passed. Instead, the guard signaled for him to stop.

      “What’s up?” Trent asked.

      “The police are waiting for you.”

      “Why?” He wasn’t worried; this had to be some mix-up.

      Jerome shrugged. “Wouldn’t say.” He shrugged again, his voice apologetic. “I had to let them in.”

      “Of course.” Trent tried to sound unfazed, but a yellow flag of caution shot up in his brain. “Thanks for the heads up.” That’s why he tipped the guards handsomely at Christmas—just for times like this.

      He roared through the ornate, twenty-foot-tall gates. He sped by mansions lit up like national monuments. What was going on? he wondered silently.

      “It can’t be Timmy. The Scouts would have called my cell or yours. Something’s wrong at Surf’s Up,” Courtney said, sounding only slightly worried.

      “No way,” Trent told her. “Security would have contacted me.” His mind was whirling like one of those dervishes he’d read about. Why would the police be waiting for him in the middle of the night?

      He stopped at the small park area. The green belt had created open space between mansions that took up most of each lot, leaving little grassy areas. During the day, nannies would be there with children and maids walking neighborhood dogs would be strolling along the meandering flagstone paths.

      “What are you doing?” Courtney cried.

      Trent turned off the sports car and climbed out, saying, “That was pretty awesome shit we were smoking. I want to hide my jacket in the trunk. It probably reeks.”

      “You were smoking,” Courtney said, “with your buddies. I—”

      Trent tuned her out. Courtney should talk! She was high on pain pills. All day; every day. He shared a spliff or two with the guys on weekends only.

      Bile had risen in his throat; he needed air. He tossed the jacket into the trunk and looked up at the stars. He forced himself to inhale a few deep, calming breaths. The Milky Way slipped in and out, back and forth like a kaleidoscope. He tried lowering his head, then sucking in more air. Better, but not much.

      “Oh, my God!” Courtney cried her voice high-pitched. “Maybe something did happen to Timmy. They might not have been able to reach our cells. You know, a tower outage or something.”

      Trent stood up and rushed back to the driver’s side. Their son was with the Boy Scouts at the San Diego Zoo’s Wild Animal Park for something called a Roar and Snore sleepover. The kids stayed up half the night to watch the lions feed, then they slept in tents.

      A thought hit him, kind of wobbly, fading away almost before he could grasp it. The Scouts required all sorts of emergency information before they took the kids anywhere. He was as sure as he could be when he was this mellow that nothing had happened to his son. “Don’t worry, honey. Timmy is fine.”

      “I hope so.”

      “Unless,” he said as he put the Porsche into gear, “they caught him with dope again.”

      “Impossible! You know he’s being bullied. Those kids planted it in his backpack. None of those little monsters are Scouts.”

      “Right. So you said.” Trent wasn’t buying that bridge. He’d been Timmy’s age not so long ago. True, his son was just eleven and Trent had been older before he’d first experimented. But today’s kids were getting into trouble at a younger age.

      The problem with Timothy Grant Fordham wasn’t experimenting with drugs. His son was a wimp. How could he grow up in a family who made a fortune from surf and skateboard equipment and not even be able to ride a boogie board? Timmy only used his skateboard when Trent insisted.

      The kid should be a surfer or least a skateboard champ, the way Trent had been at the same age, if his mother didn’t do her best to make him a sissy. The kid wanted piano lessons. Now whose idea was that? Courtney’s. She was a frustrated singer who’d sung backup for a local band before he’d met her. She had music in her blood and claimed Timmy did, as well.

      Trent rounded the corner and forced his mind back to the problem. The police cruiser was parked right in front of his house, which, like all the other houses around, was still lit up even though it was well after midnight.

      Maybe Timmy had been caught with drugs again. Perhaps the Scout leaders had found his stash and called the police. The Scouts did not like having their name dragged through the muck, so it seemed unlikely that they had called the cops.

      Then he noticed the panda car belonged to the Costa Mesa police. Newport Beach patrol cars had ocean blue stylized italic lettering on the sides. Very beachy—for cop cars. Timmy was in San Diego County. If there’d been a problem, the Newport Beach police would have contacted him. Wouldn’t they? They lived in Newport, not the lower-middle-class Costa Mesa where Trent had grown up. It bordered Newport but was worlds away financially, socially.

      Trent pulled to a stop in his driveway near the rear of the police car and got out. A uniformed officer stepped out of the driver’s side of the cruiser while a man in a sports jacket emerged from the passenger side.

      “Mr. Fordham?” asked the officer.

      “Yes?” Keep it together, Trent warned himself. “Is something the matter?”

      “Could we go inside?” This from the suit. Trent assumed he was a detective.

      Trent leaned into the Porsche, turned off the ignition and switched off the headlights. Courtney was already out of the car and waiting near him. Tears clouded her dark eyes. She cried so damn easily. Once he’d found it touching. Now was not the time to bawl. Something was really wrong. He needed to be firing on all cylinders, which he wasn’t, thanks to the heavy-duty