“Let’s suppose you end up tasing a bad guy,” Ali said. “What if he gets up and comes at you anyway? What do you do then?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Edie said. “You’ve got the thirty seconds while he’s helpless on the ground to call for help and get out of Dodge. You take off and leave your Taser right there with the darts still in him. Afterward, you submit a police report about the incident to Taser International, and they replace your Taser, no questions asked. So it comes with a lifetime guarantee.”

“Interesting,” Ali said.

“Look what happened to Morgan Forester,” Edie continued. “Whoever killed her did it right there in her own front yard, and she was completely defenseless. If she’d had a Taser, maybe she could have gotten away. Frieda told me that she booked three parties for next week based on that incident alone.”

Ali had to concede that Edie had a point. Sedona wasn’t nearly as crime-free as it had once been. That lethal weapon/ shoot/don’t shoot pause in the action, the critical seconds of wrestling with the decision of pulling the trigger and possibly killing an attacker, had proved fatal for countless police officers and civilians alike over the years. And how many people died when, in the course of a struggle, their own weapons were used against them? Maybe Edie and Frieda were right-that having access to a nonlethal alternative wasn’t such a bad idea.

Edie glanced at the clock. “It drives me nuts when your father starts acting like a prima donna, but it’s after eleven now. If you want lunch, I can take your order, but didn’t you just have breakfast?”

“I need a meatloaf sandwich,” Ali said. “To go.”

“With everything?”

Ali nodded. She didn’t mention that she would be delivering it to B. Simpson at his home. That would spin off another whole set of questions, to say nothing of rumors.

Once Ali’s order was up on the wheel, Edie turned back to her daughter. “Frieda asked me if I thought you’d be interested. Next week’s parties are booked, but she said she’d be able to squeeze you in to one of them if you’d like to attend.”

“No, thanks,” Ali said. “For right now I believe I’ll stick with my Glock.”

Gradually, the Sugarloaf’s lunch crowd began to filter into the restaurant. From the sounds of banging pots and pans in the kitchen, Ali knew her father wasn’t yet over his snit, but he would be. He and her mother had their various differences of opinions, but they always got over them one way or the other.

While Ali waited for the sandwich, she tried calling Leland Brooks, hoping to see how he had fared with the tile delivery. She was a little surprised when he still didn’t answer his phone; he usually picked up after only one ring.

“Back in town now,” she said, leaving another message. “Give me a call when you get this.”

As the booths filled up, so did the stools at the counter. Blanche Sims, a teller from Wells Fargo, slipped onto a stool one down from Ali. “I heard they let Bryan Forester out of jail this morning,” Blanche said as Edie filled her coffee cup. “Someone told me they saw his truck parked in front of the funeral home. Probably there making arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral. Under the circumstances, I don’t think the man has any business arranging a funeral, much less attending it.”

The comment was addressed to Edie. Ali had no business involving herself in the discussion, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t sit idly by while people who had no idea of what had happened sat around proclaiming Bryan’s guilt.

“Why wouldn’t Bryan show up for the funeral?” Ali demanded sharply. “Morgan was his wife and the mother of his children. He has every right in the world to be there.”

Everyone within hearing distance, including Blanche, seemed taken aback by Ali’s outspoken response.

“Your order’s up,” Bob said from the kitchen.

Hurriedly grabbing Ali’s to-go bag from the pass-through, Edie handed it to her daughter. “Go ahead,” she said. “We can straighten this out later.”

“Yes,” Ali declared, standing up and favoring Blanche with a cold-eyed stare. “We certainly can.” With that, she stomped out of the Sugarloaf and headed for the Village of Oak Creek.

Unconvinced that Matthew Morrison’s damaged computer would provide any answers, Dave Holman left the crime scene in Scottsdale and headed for Sky Harbor airport. Shortly after noon, armed with the formerly framed photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison, Dave arrived at the Hertz car-rental facility at Sky Harbor. Not that it did him much good.

Once Dave showed his ID, Jim Henderson, the young branch manager, was polite and eager but less than helpful. A check of their records showed that the vehicle in question-a blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates-was out on another rental and wasn’t scheduled to be returned again until Sunday evening. As for Morrison’s rental agreement? It had been done through their online facility. Since Matthew Morrison had a valid gold card, he didn’t have to stop at a rental counter. All he had to do was step off the shuttle, climb into his waiting vehicle, and then drive through the guarded gate, showing his paperwork as he went.

“That’s all there is to it?” Dave asked.

Henderson nodded. “It’s a service for our repeat customers. We maintain profiles on each of them. We know what vehicles they like and their insurance preferences. We also have their license information on file, along with their preferred credit card. That’s all we need. It streamlines the process for everyone.”

“What happens when the vehicle is returned?”

“Customers drive up to one of our drop-off lanes. An attendant checks the car for damage, verifies the mileage and fuel readings, and makes sure nothing’s left in the vehicle.”

“Can you tell which attendant that would have been?”

“Sure. Just a second. Attendant 06783. That would be Bobby Salazar. He’s out on the line now.”

“Do you mind if I talk to him?”

“You can try, but I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” Henderson said. “These guys check in hundreds of vehicles in a week’s time. Bobby’s one of our best, but this is Thursday. He’s not going to remember a vehicle that was turned in on Monday.”

Dave arrived at Bobby Salazar’s station and waited on the sidelines while the attendant finished checking in two very sunburned guys in shorts and Hawaiian shirts who came equipped with a mountain of luggage and two sets of golf clubs. As they piled their stuff onto a rolling cart, Bobby turned an appraising gaze on Dave. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

Wordlessly, Dave handed over first his ID and then the photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison. “Have you ever seen this guy?”

Bobby studied the picture carefully, then shook his head. “Nope,” he said confidently. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“That’s funny,” Dave said. “According to the check-in records, he came through your line on Monday-late in the afternoon.”

“Driving what?” Bobby asked.

“A blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates.”

Dave caught the subtle tightening of Bobby Salazar’s jaw. He looked down at the photo and then handed it back. “I remember the vehicle, but this guy wasn’t the one who was driving it. Why? What’s this about?”

“I’m investigating a homicide that occurred outside Sedona on Monday morning,” Dave answered. “This vehicle was seen in the area and-”

“There was blood in it,” Bobby said. “On the floorboard of the passenger seat. At least it looked like blood.”

“And you didn’t report it?”

“My shift was almost over,” Bobby said. “I didn’t want to be late for class. There wasn’t any other damage to the vehicle. Besides, it wasn’t that big a stain. Carpets get dirty over time. The detail guys clean them up as best they can.”

“I’m sure they do,” Dave said. “But this is the man whose name was on the rental agreement.” He held up the photo. “You’re sure this isn’t the man who was driving?”