J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

“One of the crime scene techs went up the road to have a smoke and found what he thought was an abandoned vehicle. Inside, he found the body of a man shot at close range through the driver’s-side window. The second victim has been identified,” the detective added. “That’s the name I just gave you-James Mason Sanders. He was an ex-con who served time for counterfeiting years ago and dropped out of sight after completing his parole. Even though Mason’s death preceded Gemma Ralston’s by some period of time-twelve to fourteen hours, at least-due to his proximity to the Ralston crime scene, we’re operating on the assumption that the two cases are related.”

“He’s not the one the newscaster called a person of interest-the one who called 911?” Beatrice asked.

“No,” Dave said. “That call was made a matter of minutes before Ms. Ralston succumbed to her injuries. Mason died hours earlier than that, so he couldn’t have made the call.”

Beatrice thought before shaking her head. “I’m quite sure I’ve never heard that name. Do you think he was supposed to be a hit man or something?”

“That’s one possibility we’re pursuing.”

Beatrice shook her head. “Lynn never mentioned knowing anyone like that. Maybe this Sanders guy was a friend of Chip’s. Please, Detective Holman, I’ve answered all your questions, but you have yet to tell me where my daughter is being held or what’s going to happen to her.”

“She’s in the Yavapai County Jail in Prescott.”

“Can I see her? Will she be released on bond?”

“As I said earlier, she has yet to be officially charged,” Dave answered. “If she ends up charged with homicide, there’s not much possibility of her being released on bail. Nonetheless, I’d suggest you go see her as soon as possible. You might be able to convince her that her best bet will be to take the plea deal.”

“What plea deal?” Beatrice asked.

Dave’s eyes flicked briefly in Ali’s direction before he answered. “The county attorney has made an offer to both your daughter’s attorney and Dr. Ralston’s. Whichever one agrees to testify against the other will walk away with a manslaughter conviction rather than standing trial on first-degree murder.”

“My daughter has an attorney?”

“A court-appointed public defender,” Dave replied. “Her name is Paula Urban, and she’s fully aware of the situation. She also understands that the deal is only good for twenty-four hours. So if you have any influence with your daughter, I suggest you use it.”

Beatrice stood up abruptly and collected her purse. “I most certainly will,” she said. “I’ll go see her immediately. I’ll also use every bit of influence I have to convince my daughter to fight this tooth and nail. If Chip Ralston killed his ex-wife, I’m not going to stand still and let you lay that crime at Lynn’s door. She would never do such a thing!”

With that, Beatrice stomped out of the house. Ali followed her. “Have you ever been to Prescott?” she asked.

“No, but I’m sure I can figure out how to get there. All I have to do is go back to Cordes Junction and turn right.”

“If you take Exit 278 and turn right on Highway 169, you take several miles off the Cordes Junction route.”

“Thanks,” Beatrice said. “For the directions, the food, everything.”

Ali reached into the cover of her iPhone and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my name and number,” she said. “Call me if you think I can be of any help.”

“Thank you for that, too,” Beatrice said. “I may just do that.”

Back in the house, Ali discovered that B. and Dave had moseyed into the kitchen, where B. was ladling the last of the evening’s stew into a bowl.

“For Dave,” B. explained. “He missed dinner at home.”

“Thanks for the help,” Dave said, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs.

“It doesn’t sound as though Beatrice is convinced her daughter had anything to do with what happened,” Ali said.

Dave nodded. “Mothers are always the last ones to realize their little darlings have gone off the reservation.”

“Lynn didn’t strike me as the murderous type, either,” Ali said.

“You’ve met her?”

Ali nodded. “Once. Last summer. We were at the same television station to tape a segment for a program based on Brenda’s book. I told you about that.”

“I don’t know about types,” Dave said grimly. “What I know is that when the CSI people sprayed her trunk and back bumper with BlueStar, they lit up like Christmas trees. And we found Lynn’s supposedly missing phone at the crime scene. But all of that is strictly circumstantial. In all honesty, I think Cap Horning is jumping the gun here. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I’ve heard rumors that he may be gearing up to run for the state attorney general slot. If that’s the case, a confession from Martinson or Ralston will sew this one up in a hurry and make his life so much simpler.”

“So the plea deal is a way for Horning to keep from having to work so hard?” Ali asked.

Dave nodded, but Ali could tell he wasn’t happy about it. “That’s about the size of it. My take is that Horning is smart but lazy. He wants to get the job done with the least amount of effort.”

“What about the 911 caller?” Ali asked.

“There’s always a chance that the perp had a change of heart and came back in hopes of changing the outcome,” Dave said. “Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.”

Placing a steaming bowl of stew on the table in front of Dave, B. sat down across from the detective as he dug in. “What’s the ex-con’s connection to all this?” B. asked.

“Remains to be seen,” Dave said. “Once James Sanders finished his parole, he went off the grid. The car he was found in was licensed in Nevada. He bought it last week off Craigslist; paid cash. Not cash, actually. The guy who sold it said the victim paid for the car with two thousand-dollar gambling tokens from the MGM Grand, and once he drove off in it, he didn’t bother changing the registration. No ID or driver’s license was found on the body, and we’re unable to locate a current driver’s license for Sanders there or anywhere else. No credit cards, although he does have a checking account. We found a blank check in his wallet.”

“You’re thinking Sanders may have been involved in some kind of criminal enterprise,” B. suggested.

Dave nodded. “Something that’s long on cash and short on credit cards. And it must have been working for him right up until someone blew out his brains at close range.”

“So he was shot,” Ali surmised. “What about Gemma Ralston?”

“Stabbed,” Dave said, “but with no defensive wounds on her body and with nothing under her nails. There were no signs that she was restrained in any way. The ME is running a tox screen, which will take time, but he’s operating under the theory that Gemma was incapacitated in some way before she was stabbed.”

“Is it possible these are two entirely unrelated incidents?” Ali asked.

“Possible,” Dave agreed. “Just not very likely.”

He bolted his stew and took off for home while Ali and B. finished putting Leland’s kitchen back to rights.

“If Leland was counting on serving stew for lunch tomorrow,” B. said, “he’s in for a surprise. Now, about that partner bonus? Jet lag just hit big-time.”

Lynn Martinson lay in her jail cell with her head on her arm and tried to imagine how any of this could have happened to her. Her attorney, who was nice enough but very young, had outlined the terms of the county attorney’s offer. All Lynn had to do was finger Chip for Gemma’s murder, and Lynn herself would probably skate.