“Good to hear from you,” Ali said now to B. “What’s up?”

“You won’t think it’s good to hear from me when you find out what I have to say,” B. warned her. “You’ve got yourself a Trojan.”

“Excuse me?” Ali asked.

“A Trojan horse,” B. replied. “In your computer. Twice each day I run a monitoring check on all the computers I have under contract. Today your noontime analysis came up positive.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that as long as your computer is connected to the Internet, someone else can see everything you do there. He can take over control of your computer. He can gain access to your files and change them. He can also send mail that’s ostensibly from you, even though it isn’t. You don’t use a multiple-computer network, do you?”

“No,” Ali said. “I’m usually on my air card.”

“That’s good,” B. said. “If there are other computers operating on the same network, the bad guy can gain access to those as well. If he’s inside your computer, he’s also inside your network.”

Suddenly, cyber crime sounded a lot more ominous. Ali was surprised to find herself feeling spooked and vulnerable. Knowing that a crook could operate inside her computer made her feel like someone had broken into her house and penetrated her personal safety zone.

“What should I do, then?” she asked. “Turn off the computer? Unplug the damn thing and shut it down?”

“No,” B. said. “If you do that, it might tip him off that we’re on to him. I want you to leave the computer on. Try to use it more or less the way you usually do.”

“Why?”

“Computers that are connected to the Internet are two-way streets,” B. explained. “Whoever sent you the Trojan did it over the Internet. I’m going to try to return the favor and send one right back to him. While he’s monitoring your every keystroke, I’ll be monitoring his keystrokes. If he makes a move, I should be able to begin tracking him down.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali said. “If he has that kind of total access to my computer, shouldn’t I cancel my credit cards and shut down my online banking? Should I report this to the police?”

“It’s my experience that banks are a whole lot more interested in identity theft than cops are. If there’s a murder or even an armed robbery, the cops are all over it. With identity theft, they’re not until and unless we can prove that a crime has actually been committed. They’ll get on the bandwagon once we’ve accumulated enough evidence that it’s easy for them to make a case without having to expend much effort. Right now the best thing that could happen is that the guy will try to rip you off. In order to catch him at it, you’ll need to monitor your credit-card and bank transactions very carefully. Be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary, but don’t use your computer to do it.”

“If I’m not supposed to use my computer,” Ali objected, “how am I supposed to go about monitoring anything?”

“I have a couple of spare laptops lying around,” B. said. “I’ll be glad to lend you one of mine to use for the time being. If you don’t mind, I can drop off a loaner for you a little later this evening. You can insert your air card and use that for anything you don’t want exposed to prying eyes.”

“You’ll drop it off,” Ali murmured. “Does that mean you know where I live?”

“Yup,” B. replied, “I’m afraid I do. It was right there in your computer files, plain as day. And I’m not the only one who would know that, either. If I found it out, our sneaky little friend can find it out, too.”

“Great,” Ali said. “See you when you get here. The sooner the better.”

Ali had been planning on taking a look at Bryan Forester’s two thumb drives. Heeding her computer security expert’s warning, however, she left them in her purse. Under normal circumstances, she might have picked up her computer and checked her e-mail account. But now, self-conscious in the knowledge that her every keystroke might be under observation, she left the computer where it was and went into the bedroom to change into sweats.

Late in the afternoon, Matt managed to get his brain focused on work. When his phone rang, he answered it before the second ring. Yes, he was a bureaucrat-and a lowly one-but that was also why Matt always answered his phone so promptly. He regarded himself as a public servant, and he didn’t like to keep the public waiting.

So when he answered, Matt thought it would be someone calling about one of his many accounts. The last thing he expected was a phone call from a detective-a homicide detective!

“My name’s Dave Holman,” the man on the phone announced. “Detective Dave Holman, with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Is this Matthew Morrison?”

Matt’s first thought was that it had to be some kind of joke. Bill Baxter was one of Matt’s former coworkers at the state auditor’s office. Before transferring over to the Department of Weights and Measures, Bill had established himself as a practical joker of the first water. This sounded like the kind of off-the-wall stunt Bill would pull.

“Bill?” Matt asked uncertainly. “Bill Baxter, is this you?”

“No,” the caller replied. “It’s not Bill Baxter. As I said a moment ago, my name is Dave Holman.”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “My mistake. You sound a lot like another guy I know, a friend of mine.” He glanced guiltily around his cubicle to see if anyone was listening. Bobbie Bacon, his nearest neighbor, was talking on her phone. No one else seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention. “What can I do for you-Did you say Holman?”

“Yes. Dave Holman. I’m a homicide detective.”

“What’s this all about?” Matt asked. Why on earth is a homicide detective calling me? he wondered.

“I’m working on a case that happened up here in our jurisdiction,” Holman explained. “On Monday morning of this week, a woman named Morgan Forester was bludgeoned to death shortly after her children left for school.”

“Where was this again?” Matt asked.

“Up by Sedona,” Holman answered. “Outside the Village of Oak Creek.”

As soon as the detective said “Monday morning,” Matt felt his heartbeat quicken, and he went into a state of near-panic. He knew he had a problem. Matt hadn’t been anywhere near where he was supposed to be that morning, not even close. In the solitude of his cubicle, he felt his ears turn red. Beads of sweat popped out on what his wife liked to call his “very tall forehead.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Matt asked. He did his best to keep his tone conversational and even. It would not do to sound upset or panicked. That was critical.

“The car you were driving was reportedly seen in the area shortly before the crime occurred,” Detective Holman continued. “I was wondering if I could stop by your office and visit with you about that. We’re hoping that perhaps you may have unwittingly witnessed something that could help us in solving our case.”

Matt was utterly mystified. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What car? You say this happened somewhere around Sedona? I wasn’t anywhere near there on Monday morning. What makes you think I was?”

Now it was Detective Holman’s turn to be mystified. “You weren’t?” he asked. “Where were you, then?”

The easy thing for Matt to say was that he had been at work, but that wasn’t true. There was a whole floor of people in his office who would be more than happy to blow a hole in that whopper. Who was this dead woman? And why was the homicide cop calling him? Was he under suspicion somehow? Did he need to have an alibi? The waitress at the truck stop might remember him-he’d left her a nice tip-but if he admitted to having been there, he’d also have to admit why.

Matt’s ears burned anew. The cop was saying something, but Matt hadn’t been paying attention to anything except the damning sound of his own breath coming in short, anxious gasps. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad connection. I didn’t get that last part.”