J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

“What’s the situation with Chip Ralston?” Ali asked. “Any word on whether he intends to turn state’s evidence?” Ali knew if that happened, it would be a game changer as far as Lynn’s situation was concerned.

“No word so far,” Paula said. “I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad news.”

Beatrice’s voice came back on the line. “I don’t know how to thank you enough,” she said. “Should we draw up some kind of official contract for the article or story or whatever it is you’re writing?”

“No,” Ali said. “That’s not necessary. We’ll consider this a handshake agreement. If I end up doing anything helpful, I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you’re going to make a contribution to the fund and how much that should be. But I’ll need complete contact information for both of you. And, as suggested, I’ll send my progress reports to Ms. Urban, with the understanding that she’ll forward them on to you.”

When Paula Urban ended the call, Ali turned back to B., who was still grinning.

“What’s so funny?”

“To quote George Bernard Shaw, ‘We’ve established what you are, now we’re merely haggling over the price.’”

“Right. What happens if I go to jail for operating without a license?”

“Then I guess I show up, checkbook in hand, to bail you out,” B. said with a smile. “I’m also willing to put Stuart Ramey at your disposal.”

“Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, I don’t mind,” B. said. “He’s gotten a real kick out of back-stopping some of your escapades in the past, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to do it again.”

“But why-” Ali began.

“Because I heard you tell Beatrice Hart last night that I’m your partner. How about if I start acting like it?”

“Are you sure?” Ali asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I am. As your mother is so fond of saying, ‘Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’ And speaking of sauce, Leland was close to putting breakfast on the table when I picked up the coffee. You’d better get a move on.”

As soon as breakfast was over, Ali headed for High Noon’s corporate offices in Cottonwood. Having been given a warning call by B., Stuart Ramey conducted her into a conference room and left her to read the mountain of material he had already accumulated, including the fact that for the past five years James Mason Sanders had lived and worked at a halfway house in North Las Vegas called the Mission, where people fresh out of jail could get three hots and a cot. According to the Mission’s fund-raising newsletter, Sanders was the facility’s on-site manager.

The back story on James Mason Sanders, as culled from newspaper articles, related the tragedy of a bright kid pulled into a college-age prank that went awry. A group of Arizona State University fraternity brothers had decided to see if it was possible to use their newly honed computer skills to print their own money. With Sanders doing most of the artwork and one of the other guys laying hands on a ready supply of the right kind of paper, they had printed up and spent a considerable amount of phony twenty-dollar bills. Had they been serious about the project, they probably would have moved on to printing hundreds.

Once the students were caught, the feds didn’t see anything funny about it. The four perpetrators were tried separately. Two, Robert McDowell and Kevin Owens, were found innocent of all charges. It was clear from reading the articles that the two who got off came from families who had been able to pay for name-brand defense attorneys. The two who took the fall, James Sanders and Scott Ballentine, were represented by court-appointed attorneys. Scott, who procured the paper, got off with a five-thousand-dollar fine after agreeing to testify against James Sanders, who was considered the creative genius behind the project.

Sounds familiar, Ali thought, thinking about Lynn Martinson and Chip Ralston.

At the end of one article, Ali discovered a nugget of information:

At the conclusion of the sentencing hearing, where Sanders was given a sentence of twelve to fifteen years, he was led stony-faced from Judge Mathison’s courtroom without exchanging so much as a nod with his weeping wife and their infant child.

Ali picked up the phone and dialed Stuart Ramey. “What became of Sanders’s wife and child?”

“What wife and child?” Stuart wanted to know.

Ali read him the passage.

“I missed that one completely,” Stuart said, “but I’ll look into it.”

“How did you find out all the details about the Mission? When we were talking to Detective Holman last night, he claimed that Sanders had dropped off the grid after he got out of prison.”

“I have my ways,” Stuart said, “some of which you’re probably better off not knowing. For as long as he’s been at the Mission, he’s maintained a checking account at a Wells Fargo branch in North Las Vegas, under the name Mason Sanders. I’ve studied the records for that account for the past three years. His paychecks come and go through that on an automatic deposit. Except for a blip two years ago, when the balance bumped up briefly to twenty grand and then went back down, it’s stayed the same ever since.”

“What about phone records?” Ali asked. “Wouldn’t that be the easiest way to tell if he was in touch with either Chip Ralston or Lynn Martinson?”

“It would be if he had a phone listed in his name, but he didn’t. No cell and no landline, either. What that probably means is that he used a phone at the Mission for making both business and personal calls. It’ll take a while longer to locate those records and go through them. At first glance, I didn’t spot any calls or texts to or from anyone in Las Vegas on Chip Ralston’s phone records or Lynn Martinson’s. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection. It just means I haven’t found it yet.”

“Have you spoken to anyone at the halfway house?” Ali asked.

“That’s not my thing,” Stuart said. “I’m great at backdoor data-mining, but I’m not much good at the direct approach of picking up the phone and asking questions.”

“You’re implying I’d be better at that than you are?” Ali asked.

“Aren’t you?”

“Give me a name and number,” Ali said with a laugh.

“The executive director is listed as Abigail Mattson.” Stuart reeled off a phone number, and Ali jotted it down.

“What am I looking for in particular?”

“For whatever changed,” Stuart said. “Sanders worked at the Mission for years without any record of his ever having a driver’s license or owning a vehicle. Last week he evidently went out and bought a vehicle from a private party, paying for it with a handful of cash. The next thing we know, he’s been found three hundred miles away, shot to death in that same vehicle, a ten-year-old Lumina, which is still registered to the original owner. How come he suddenly needed a car when he evidently hadn’t needed one in years? And how did he suddenly have enough money to pay cash for the vehicle-seventeen hundred bucks-when there’s no change in the balance of his bank account? The money had to come from somewhere.”

“What’s the going rate for knocking off a troublesome ex-wife these days?” Ali asked.

It was Stuart Ramey’s turn to laugh. “Beats me,” he said. “I’ve never had a current wife, to say nothing of a troublesome ex.”

Once Ali was off the phone with Stuart, she sat for a moment, looking at the phone in her hand, while she considered what she would say and how she would say it. Straying too far from the truth probably wouldn’t be a good idea. When she dialed and the phone rang, it was answered by a woman who sounded relatively young. “Ms. Mattson’s office.”