Man Overboard

Book : Ali Reynolds Series

by J.A. Jance

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

In New York Times bestselling author J.A. Jance's gripping new thriller, Man Overboard, two tech geniuses face off-one intent on saving lives, the other on ending them.

Cybersecurity expert Roger McGeary finally has his life back on track after years of struggling with depression. But when he falls from the balcony of his suite on an all-expenses-paid cruise, the police quickly dismiss it as "death by misadventure," a vague phrase leaving much to interpretation.

Unsatisfied, Roger's tough-as-nails aunt, Julia Miller, is determined to find answers and closure. By contacting Roger's childhood friend Stuart Ramey to help her solve the mystery of his fate, Julia unwittingly sets up a collision course with a serial killer.

Stuart, his sidekick Cami Lee, and journalist turned amateur sleuth Ali Reynolds put the full resources of cutting edge online security firm High Noon Enterprises into learning the truth about Roger's death. With Cami on the high seas investigating the ship from which Roger disappeared, Stuart stays tied to his computer, locked in a battle of wits and technology against an unusually twisted adversary. Aided by Frigg, an artificial intelligence companion of his own creation, the killer targets victims who have lost parents to suicide and attempts to drive them to the same tragic end.

When the heartless killer and his cyber accomplice set their sights on Stuart, High Noon must race against time to save him and countless others.

Release date: March 21, 2017

Publisher: Gallery Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

J.A. Jance

1

On the Tuesday morning after Labor Day, Ali Reynolds pulled into her reserved parking spot outside High Noon Enterprises in Cottonwood, Arizona, just as a dust-covered aging Dodge Ram pickup came to a stop in one of the two designated visitor slots. Since High Noon specialized in cyber security—specifically international cyber security—visitor spaces at the company’s headquarters often remained empty. Occasionally a salesman dropped by, and sometimes Ali’s retired parents showed up unannounced for a visit, but that was pretty much it.

The woman who exited the truck was tall and spare, six feet tall at least. She was dressed in worn jeans, dusty, down-at-the-heels cowboy boots, and a sweat-stained Stetson. She went around to the back of the truck, opened the cargo door, and pulled out a banker’s box. It was cumbersome enough that she had to set the box down on the ground before reaching up to close the tailgate.

Exiting her Cayenne, Ali approached the visitor. The sun-bronzed face beneath the Stetson’s wide brim resembled tanned leather. The road map of wrinkles around her mouth and cheeks hinted that she was probably a lifelong smoker. Her most striking feature, however, was a penetrating pair of bright blue eyes.

“The box looks heavy,” Ali observed. “Can I help you with that?”

“This High Noon Enterprises?” the newcomer asked, hefting the box onto her shoulder with the ease of someone who most likely carried bales of hay in the same fashion.

“Yes,” Ali answered. “That’s us.”

“This is the right place, then,” the woman said. “I’m here to see a fellow by the name of Stuart Ramey. And I can carry the box by myself, thank you very much.”

As they started toward the entrance, Ali hurried ahead. Opening the door with her key card, she allowed the visitor to enter. High Noon’s newly hired receptionist secretary, Shirley Malone, looked up with a smile. “Good morning,” she said to the guest while nodding in Ali’s direction. “May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Stuart Ramey,” the woman repeated, unceremoniously plopping the box down on the countertop. “Is he in?”

Shirley’s blink of surprise mirrored Ali’s. In her experience no one had ever shown up on the doorstep specifically asking to see Stuart Ramey.

High Noon Enterprises was the brainchild of Ali’s husband, B. Simpson. Stu, B.’s second-in-command, was a brilliant software guy with the social skills of an onion. Camille Lee, a recent college graduate and someone ostensibly hired to be Stuart’s assistant, was a capable computer geek in her own right, but her primary duty—one at which she had proved to be uncommonly adept—was keeping the less than personable and somewhat skittish Stuart from veering off into the weeds.

For a long time the reception area at High Noon had been left unattended. On those rare occasions when visitors did arrive, security cameras had allowed Stu Ramey and Cami to see who was at the door and let them into the building, with Cami usually designated to handle whatever needed handling. Lately, though, with Cami’s technical skills focused on more complex tasks, B. and Ali had opted to hire Shirley, an action they had taken over Stu’s strenuous objections.

He had only just barely adjusted to having Cami’s presence added to the mix. Having Ali and B. add in a fifty-something woman with a loud brassy laugh and a bawdy sense of humor was completely outside his comfort zone. The way things were now, Stu stayed in the back while Shirley stayed out front, with Cami shuttling back and forth between the two as needed.

Before Shirley could respond, Ali hijacked the conversation. “My name is Ali Reynolds,” she said to the visitor. “My husband, B. Simpson, and I own High Noon. Mr. Ramey is one of our employees. And you are?”

“Name’s Julia,” the woman said gruffly, holding out a work-callused hand. “Julia Miller.”

“I’m quite sure Stuart is in,” Ali said. “May I tell him what this is about?”

Since Stu lived in a studio apartment addition that had been built onto the far side of the computer lab, there wasn’t much chance that he wouldn’t be there.

“It’s about my nephew, Roger McGeary,” Julia said. “He and Stuart were friends a long time ago, back in junior high and high school.”

“And . . . ?” Ali prompted.

“Roger’s dead,” Julia said abruptly. Clearly she wasn’t someone accustomed to mincing words. “I want to hire High Noon to find out what happened to him.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Miller,” Ali began.

“Ms., if you please,” Julia corrected. “Never married and never intend to be married, either.”

“Of course,” Ali said with a nod. “Ms. Miller, then. But High Noon is a cyber security company rather than a private investigation firm. I’m sure Stuart will be sorry to hear about his friend, but—”

“Roger was in the same business as you folks are,” Julia interrupted. “Cyber Resources Unlimited of San Jose, California. That’s the name of the outfit he worked for. I think someone there may be behind what happened. I think he did something or found out something that offended someone else, and they decided to get rid of him.”

“Why?” Ali asked. “What did happen to him?”

“He supposedly committed suicide on a cruise ship three months ago, but I’m not buying that BS, not for a minute. The investigator just now closed the case and sent me Rog’s personal effects. Since no suicide note was found, the final determination appears to be ‘death by misadventure,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“When did he die?” Ali asked.

“Back in June. The early hours of June third to be exact, in the English Channel somewhere between Southampton and Bruges.”

Ali turned to Shirley. “Would you tell Stuart there’s a Julia Miller here to see him? Ask him to meet us in the conference room. This way,” she said to the visitor.

Nodding, Julia picked up the box and brought it along.

Ali led the way past B.’s office and her own as well and into the so-called conference room, which doubled as a break room. Julia set the box down on one of the two tables with a resounding thump.

“And those are?” Ali asked.

“Roger’s personal effects, except for his clothing,” Julia replied. “From both his office and the cruise ship. Of course, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near his office. Someone packed up his cubicle and sent me whatever was inside it. Ditto for the Panamanian cops.”

“Panama?” Ali asked.

“He was on an Italian ship operating under the Panamanian flag, so officers from there were the ones who actually investigated the incident.”

Stu Ramey appeared in the open doorway and stood there uncertainly. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“I’m the one who wanted to see you,” Julia Miller said, striding forward to meet him with her hand outstretched. “It’s so good to see you again after all these years, Stuart. I believe the last time I laid eyes on you was that summer when you and Roger spent two weeks with me at the ranch in Payson, and Pansy, that mean Shetland pony we had back then, took a bite out of your arm.”

Stuart’s face broke into a genuine grin, something else that took Ali by surprise. The Stu Ramey she knew wasn’t the grinning sort.

“Ms. Miller? Are you kidding? Really? What on earth brings you here?”

“It’s bad news, I’m afraid,” Ali interjected. “It seems your friend Roger passed away.”

Stuart’s welcoming grin vanished. Looking stricken, he staggered over to the table and sank down heavily into one of the molded-plastic chairs. “Roger’s dead? How can that be? What happened to him? A car wreck? Cancer? What?”

“The authorities say he committed suicide, and maybe he did,” Julia said. “If that’s the case, though, I want to know why. Things were going so well for him, I can’t imagine him doing something like that. That’s the reason I came here today. I want to hire you people to get to the bottom of what happened.”

“Suicide,” Stuart repeated. “But I thought he’d put his depression issues behind him. The last time I saw him, a year or so ago at the conference in Las Vegas, he said he was doing great.”

Julia nodded grimly. “He was doing great,” she said.

“Wait,” Ali interjected. “You’re saying Roger had been depressed before?”

Julia gave a dismissive wave. “Yes, and I’ll admit he did attempt suicide once, many years ago, but things have turned around for him since then,” Julia added. “And that’s why his committing suicide now makes no sense at all.”

Glancing in Stuart’s direction, Ali saw that the man seemed to be close to tears. It didn’t matter whether or not this investigation was something High Noon Enterprises was prepared to undertake. Learning about his friend’s death had shocked Stuart Ramey to his core, and the least Ali or anyone else could do would be to hear Julia Miller’s story from beginning to end.

“It smells like someone just made a fresh pot of coffee,” Ali said, hoping to take some of the emotional overload off Stu. “How about if I pour some coffee and then you can give us the whole scoop. How do you take yours?” she asked, turning to Julia.

“Black,” Julia replied. “Black and strong.”

While Ali went to the counter to fetch cups and pour coffee, Stu lumbered to his feet, retrieved his drink of choice—a can of Diet Coke—from the fridge, and popped it open. Doing that provided enough of a diversion that, by the time Ali delivered the coffee and Stu returned to the table, he seemed to have regained his composure.

“So tell us,” he said. “From the beginning.”

“Shining Star Cruises was one of the accounts Rog—that’s what I always called him, Rog not Roger—handled for Cyber Resources Unlimited. The cruise line was targeted with some kind of huge data hack that would have turned their whole reservations system upside down. The bad guys, whoever they were, were holding the company’s information hostage and expected to be paid a ransom. Sort of like a kidnapping, only of data rather than of a living, breathing person.”

“And?” Stuart urged.

“Roger figured it out. He discovered the problem and traced it back to a former Shining Star employee—a disgruntled IT guy—who was bent out of shape over getting fired.”

“And then what happened?”

“The cruise line offered Rog a cruise—as a reward. I’m under the impression that some of the people at Cyber Resources were pissed off because he got to go and they didn’t.”

“Names?” Stuart asked, setting an iPad down on the surface of the table and positioning his fingers over the onscreen keyboard, preparing to take notes.

“I don’t really know any of their names,” Julia replied. “I think there was a Kevin, maybe. Somebody named Jack, and there was a woman, too, an Amy or Annie—something that started with an A.”

“So professional jealousy could be part of the problem, but you have no last names?” Stuart insisted.

“None.”

“Tell us about the cruise,” Ali suggested.

“It was a two-week cruise,” Julia answered. “Southampton to Stockholm by way of Copenhagen, St. Petersburg, and I don’t know where all else, but this happened on the second day out. As soon as he got on board, Roger was having a blast and sent me photos of his suite. It looked gorgeous—a sitting room, dining area, bedroom, and bath along with a private patio. First class all the way. And it was one of those deals where food and beverages were all included in the price.”

Ali’s parents, Bob and Edie Larson, were inveterate cruisers, so Ali knew a little about cruise pricing. A two-week, all-inclusive cruise wouldn’t have come cheap.

“Before the cruise, were you in touch with your nephew on a fairly regular basis?” Ali asked.

“I was all he had left,” Julia replied. “His father committed suicide while Rog was still in high school, and his mother, my sister, died a number of years ago. No great loss there, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Eloise Miller McGeary was a complete bitch. Thank God and Greyhound she’s gone.”

Ali glanced toward Stuart. He said nothing but nodded in somber agreement.

“Are you saying that Roger and his mother were estranged before she died?”

Julia let loose a hoot of laughter that ended in a fit of coughing. “What do you think?” she said. “She never wanted Rog in the first place. She was looking for a meal ticket. That’s the reason she got pregnant, so she could marry a likely-looking prospect. She told her son that to his face—called Rog her ‘mistake by the lake,’—Lake Pleasant being the body of water in question,” Julia added dryly. “Unfortunately for James McGeary, as far as Eloise was concerned, it turns out he didn’t measure up to her stringent standards. She ended up running him off while Rog was still in junior high.”

“Let’s go back to the cruise for a minute,” Ali said. “I believe you mentioned that it happened on the second day of the cruise. How did you find out about it?”

“Rog listed me as his emergency contact. The cruise line called me the next morning.”

“So this happened overnight?”

“Yes, my understanding is that Rog went to dinner with some women he met on the ship. Later that night he returned to his room and was never seen again.”

“Were these people he knew before he boarded the ship?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Do you happen to have their names?”

Julia nodded. “And their e-mail addresses. All three of them were kind enough to send me notes of condolence. I understand that the dinner that night was a formal affair. He and the women were seated together in the dining room. Afterward, they stopped off in the bar to have a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. I was told that they have security video showing Roger going back to his suite, drunk as a skunk. The footage shows him trying to enter the wrong room before he finally made it into his own. The only other people seen entering or leaving his suite were his butler—a guy named Reynaldo—and a housekeeper named Gabriella.”

“But neither the housekeeper nor the butler were there when he entered the room after the dinner?”

“No,” Julia said. “At least that’s what I’ve been told. No one has allowed me to view the security footage. The cops from Panama described it to me. They evidently saw it, but I wasn’t granted that privilege.”

“All right, then,” Ali persisted. “Your nephew goes to his room. What time was that?”

“A little past midnight.”

“What happens then?”

“Nothing, for a very long time—a period of several hours. Then, at eight fifteen the next morning, the butler . . .”

“The same one you mentioned before—Reynaldo?”

Julia nodded. “Yes, the same one. He shows up with a breakfast tray because Roger had ordered breakfast to be delivered to his room. The butler went inside and found that the sliding door leading out to the patio was wide open. It had been stormy enough overnight that the carpet in the dining area was soaked. He saw Roger’s phone, sitting on a table out on the balcony. The battery was completely discharged. They found a bow tie out on the balcony, too, but nothing else—no shoes, no tux, and no Roger, although there was some evidence that Roger had tossed his cookies outside on the balcony.”

“He’d been sick?”

“Yes, and since his bed clearly hadn’t been slept in, the butler immediately initiated man-overboard procedures. The captain ordered every inch of the ship searched, but of course they found nothing. Roger was simply gone. They concluded that he might have fallen overboard because he was drunk, but the fact that one of the deck chairs had been moved over next to the railing made them suspect it was suicide. I guess, as far as Panama is concerned, the term ‘misadventure’ covers both of those eventualities. But I don’t believe it was suicide,” Julia insisted. “Not for a minute.”

“In cases like this it’s always a good idea to follow the money,” Ali suggested. “Did Roger have a will?”

“Yes,” Julia said. “I happen to have a copy of that along today. It’s in the banker’s box along with the rest of his stuff.”

“And?” Ali prodded.

“I’m his only beneficiary. He had a condo in San Jose that’s worth somewhere in the neighborhood of $750,000 or so. He made good money, but he didn’t live very high on the hog. He sent me money every month.”

“He sent you money?”

“Not me,” Julia said quickly, “and not directly. He gave about five thousand dollars a month to United Way. His company, Cyber Resources, matched his donations, and they sent the combined contribution to my 501(c)3—Racehorse Rest. We rescue discarded racehorses and look after them to keep those magnificent creatures from being turned into horse meat.”

“So your nephew has been single-handedly underwriting your operation to the tune of ten thousand dollars a month?”

Julia nodded. “And whatever proceeds I receive from his estate will most likely end up there, too. There’s some life insurance—group life insurance—and a big chunk of 401(k).”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but does the insurance angle have anything to do with why you’re so determined to prove Roger didn’t commit suicide?” Ali asked. “I mean, is there some kind of clause that would preclude benefits being paid in the case of suicide?”

“No, nothing of the kind,” Julia answered. “In fact, I’ve already filed the death claim on that. Those funds will most likely arrive within a matter of days. I came here today with the intention of offering you the whole amount of the death proceeds—up to $500,000—to hire you and your people to do a thorough investigation.”

“But why is it so important for you to find out what happened?” Ali asked.

Julia paused for a moment before she answered. “Because of Eloise,” she said at last. “She always told anyone who would listen that Roger was cut from the same cloth as his father. She claimed they were both a waste of air, and that since Roger’s dad committed suicide, Roger most likely would do the same, sooner or later. It seemed to me like she was almost goading him into it.”

Julia stopped speaking long enough to wipe a single tear from her eye.

“And?” Ali persisted.

“And I’d like to prove the bitch wrong, once and for all,” Julia said fiercely. “If not, I at least want to know why it happened. As far as I could tell, Rog was in a good place, not only at work, but also in his personal life. He seemed to be starting a whole new chapter in his life, and now he’s gone.”

With that, Julia Miller, who had walked into the office looking as though she were tough enough to chew nails, laid her head on her arms and wept.