J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

“It’s a possibility,” Ali said.

“Would you mind driving down to Phoenix and talking to them about it?” Paula said.

Her question made it clear that she expected to make use of Ali’s investigative skills. The defense attorney was going for more than limiting Ali’s participation to doing routine background checks. That was the moment when Ali could have called a halt and kept to the original agreement. Instead, she pulled out her iPad and jotted the first of several notes.

“I’d also like you to interview Dr. Ralston’s mother, Doris, and his sister, Molly Handraker.”

“I doubt they’ll talk to you,” Lynn said. “Not if they know you’re trying to help me.”

“That’s true,” Paula agreed, “but since they were both at home that night, we need to know what, if anything, they’re saying to the homicide investigators.”

Ali turned to Lynn. “What do Chip’s mother and sister have against you?”

“Mostly that I exist,” Lynn answered, “and especially that I’m not Gemma. Look at me. No one is ever going to accuse me of being the kind of arm candy Gemma was. Doris thought the sun rose and set on her daughter-in-law. As for Chip’s sister? I met her once in passing, but she was something less than cordial. Molly and Gemma have been good friends-best friends-for years. They were roommates at college, and they’ve maintained that friendship ever since.”

“Even after Chip and Gemma divorced?”

“Yes, even after. It only happened a couple of times, but it was embarrassing to show up at Chip’s place-his mother’s place, really-to spend the night and find his ex-wife’s car parked in the driveway.”

“Did the two of you ever have words?” Ali asked.

“You mean did we have an argument?”

“Yes.”

“I saw her once, but we were never properly introduced,” Lynn admitted, “Even if we had been, why would we argue? I mean, it wasn’t like she wanted him, so why make a scene? She regarded Chip as her own personal ATM, and that’s all she wanted from him-his money. Other than that, she was done. The marriage was over, but he didn’t do this.”

“Did you?” Ali asked.

The direct question caused Paula Urban to raise one eyebrow, but she said nothing. Instead, she folded her hands on the table and waited for Lynn to answer.

“No, I didn’t,” Lynn declared. “Of course not.”

“The victim’s blood was found in your vehicle.”

“That’s what the detective said, but it can’t be true.”

“It is true,” Ali said. “Dave Holman wouldn’t lie about something like that. So if you didn’t kill Gemma Ralston, how did her blood get in the trunk of your car and on the back bumper as well?”

Lynn shook her head wordlessly. “I don’t know.”

“If you didn’t do it, then there’s only one other possibility, isn’t there? Chip did it, and he’s trying to put the blame on you.”

Lynn rose to her feet. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Can I go back to my cell now, please?”

Paula picked up her phone and dialed a number. “She’s ready to go back to her cell.”

A moment later, the door opened. A uniformed guard entered, unfastened Lynn’s shackles from the ring in the floor, and then led the prisoner away. Once she was gone, Paula turned to Ali. “Sooner or later, she’s going to have to face facts,” the attorney said. “What’s the matter with her? Why on earth is she defending the guy? First he uses Lynn’s vehicle to transport his dying victim’s body, and then he leaves Lynn’s phone at the crime scene in hopes of implicating her.”

“You’re convinced of her innocence?” Ali asked.

Paula nodded. “According to Lynn, they both use those CPAP breathing machines, and as long as she’s using it, she’s a deep sleeper who rarely wakes up before morning. Since he uses one, too, I suppose it could go either way but I’m wondering if maybe he waited until she was asleep and then used the breathing machine as cover to sneak out of the bedroom and out of the house without Lynn being any the wiser. For all his good-guy facade, I suspect Charles Ralston is really a manipulative creep. The sooner Lynn figures that out, the better off she’ll be.”

“Maybe we need to cut her a little slack on that score,” Ali suggested. “Three times Lynn Martinson thought she landed Prince Charming. Now we’re trying to tell her that prince number three is also a dud.”

“Three strikes and you’re out,” Paula said. “In this case, the frogs are definitely winning. I don’t know what the other two guys did to her, but this one is trying his damnedest to get her sent up for murder. Mark my words. Chip is going to jump at the prosecutor’s deal and hang Lynn out to dry. Once he does that, there’s enough physical evidence that there’s a good chance Lynn Martinson will spend the rest of her life in the slammer.”

“So what do we do?” Ali asked, abandoning all pretense about Beatrice’s writing project.

“I want you to follow up on everything you learned this morning. I think the first way to attack this is to find out whatever we can about the other dead guy. Two bodies in the same place at the same time? There has to be a connection. I also want you to interview the Ralstons’ neighbors. Regardless of what Chip’s mother and sister may have seen or heard, they’re not going to tell us anything that will make their son and brother look bad.”

“Even if they know Chip’s responsible, they’ll try to put the blame on Lynn?”

“You bet,” Paula replied. “The neighbors might not see Chip Ralston as quite the fair-haired boy his family seems to think he is. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking on that plea bargain.”

Ali stood up. “All right, then,” she said. “It looks like I’m headed for Phoenix.”

Ali left the interview room while Paula was gathering her papers. She was on her way back to the jail entrance when she changed her mind. Pausing at the check-in desk, she asked to speak to the jail commander. Tex Higgins was someone Ali knew, and once the desk clerk handed her the in-house phone, she had no trouble getting through to him.

“So you’re done with the interview room?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Ali said. “I’m wondering if Charles Ralston would agree to see me.”

“You’re working for the other side, aren’t you?” Tex asked. “The girlfriend’s side, I mean. I can’t imagine that his attorney would agree to let you talk to him alone.”

“I’m not asking his attorney,” Ali said. “I’m asking him.”

“Wait right there,” Tex said. “I’ll see what he says.”

Much to her surprise, a few minutes later, a guard came to collect Ali. After she deposited her Taser and Glock in a locker, she was led to a standard jail visitation room, a grimly appointed place where shackled prisoners were led in and seated in separate cubicles with battle-scarred gray Formica countertops and walls. Inmates were separated from their visitors by the same kind of Plexiglas barrier that separated the departmental clerks from the general public. Here, however, all communications were conducted over handheld phone sets.

The man led to the spot opposite Ali was a long drink of water, probably once a high school basketball star, with graying curly locks that, in a different era, might have been worn in an Anglo approximation of an Afro. He didn’t look like a Chip or a Charles. The long slim fingers that reached for the handset were delicate enough to belong to a piano player. The man looked to be somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, and what might have been a handsome face was puffy and gray with what was most likely a combination of worry and lack of sleep. The countenance he presented to Ali looked almost as defeated as Lynn Martinson’s.