Free Cruel Intent by J. A. Jance Page B

bitterly. There were tears in his eyes.
    Ali pretended not to notice. “That’s pretty much it,” she agreed. Her heart went out to the man. How could it not? And even though she expected the rest of the world would deem her a fool, she decided right then that she would trust him on the cabinet deal. Besides, he wasn’t asking for her money to go to him. He wanted Ali to pay the cabinet manufacturer directly.
    “Where do you want me to wire the payment?” she asked.
    Bryan let his breath out in a sigh of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
    Before Ali could reply, her attention was drawn to the sound of raised voices coming from the open door of the house. The words, indistinct at first, became clearer as the speaker moved closer.
    “You’ve got a job to do, and so do I,” Billy insisted, his voice raised to a near shout. “I’ve wasted enough time answering questions. Now get the hell out of here.”
    Dave Holman emerged from the house a few minutes later, trailed by the two cameramen, one of whom had his camera shoulder-high and running. Obviously, it had occurred to at least one of them that, with a homicide investigation under way, their mundane Mid-Century Revival filming project may have morphed into something that might be more profitable.
    The videographers may have been filming for some time, but this was the first Dave seemed to notice. “Hey, you two,” he said. “What the hell are you doing? This is a homicide investigation. Turn that thing off.”
    The two cameramen, Raymond and Robert, were virtually interchangeable. At that moment, Ali still couldn’t tell them apart, but on this score, she was in full agreement with Dave Holman.
    “That’s right,” she told them. “This falls outside our filming guidelines. Do what he said. Turn it off.”
    Dave glanced toward Ali. When he caught sight of Bryan Forester, he stiffened. “What’s he doing here?” the detective asked.
    “Talking to my client,” Bryan answered in Ali’s place. “In case you haven’t noticed, we have a job to finish here.”
    Without another word, Bryan rose from the table. He stalked off across the driveway and strode past both the detective and the cameramen. Billy Barnes and Bryan walked into the house together. Dave, meanwhile, came over to the table where Ali was sitting. “What’s he doing here?” he asked again. “What did he want?”
    “He already told you what he was doing here,” Ali corrected. “We were conferring about the best way to get my project finished.”
    Dave made no attempt to conceal his disbelief. “The day after his wife was murdered? Sure he was. It’s a lot more likely he’s making the rounds, trying to make sure his people have their stories straight about where he was and what he did yesterday.”
    “Dave—” Ali began.
    “Have you ever seen someone who’s been beaten to death?” Dave demanded, cutting her off. “Morgan Forester died a horrible death on the front porch of her own home. She was beaten to death—so savagely that her face is barely recognizable. I can’t believe those poor little girls came home and found their mother like that. Do I think this was a crime of opportunity—that some stranger just happened to stop by their place, found her homealone, and slaughtered her because he could? No way, Ali. Like I told you last night, when homicide cops see this kind of mindless fury, this kind of rage, we usually don’t have to go looking for some kind of stranger/danger perpetrator. Killers like this are mostly found a whole lot closer to home.”
    “Bryan didn’t kill his wife,” Ali asserted quietly.
    “Oh, really?” Dave returned. “How can you be so sure of that? Because he told you so?”
    “Because I know the man,” Ali insisted. “He’s a nice guy who’s worked for me for months. He just wouldn’t, that’s all.”
    “Right,” Dave said. “Billy Barnes has known Bryan since high school, and he