J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

Ali felt a rush of sympathy for this solitary woman who had damned herself to a life of loneliness in hopes of sparing her son. Ali had spent enough time as a single mother to know the drill-the unrelenting responsibility of having to make all the decisions on her own, all the while hoping against hope that those decisions were the right ones. And now that James Sanders’s murder was in the public eye, all of Sylvia’s efforts to dodge the unsavory past had gone for nothing.

“Since your husband’s body was found in much the same location where the other victim, Gemma Ralston, was found, some people seem to be making the leap that he was somehow connected to what happened to her.”

“I know about the other victim,” Sylvia said. “The detective told me. I have no idea what James was doing there the night he was killed, but I do know he didn’t go there to kill someone. For one thing, the James Sanders I knew wasn’t a killer, but even if he was, he wouldn’t have done something like that there! Never.” Sylvia sounded like she was close to losing it.

Ali gave her a moment. “You sound certain of that.”

There was a long pause before Sylvia answered. “I am certain,” she replied, “because I know that place all too well. We were kids back then. We were horny. We went skiing up in Flagstaff with a bunch of our friends. On the way home, we stopped off at that very place-the turnoff to General Crook Trail. If we’d had more money, we might have gone to a motel. Instead, we found a likely place to pull off the road. Later on we figured out that’s probably where it happened-where I got knocked up. So, no. Even if James turned out to be a cold-blooded killer-which he wasn’t-I refuse to accept that he would have chosen that particular place to murder someone.”

Just then a car door slammed shut outside the house. Several times during the conversation, Sylvia had glanced unobtrusively at her watch. She charged out of her chair and hurried toward the entryway as the front door banged open.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been worried sick. Maddy called to see how you were doing and was surprised to learn that I thought you had gone to work.”

Sylvia returned to the living room accompanied by a rangy young man, a kid in his late teens who, at five-ten or so, was a good head and a half taller than she was. He was good-looking and carried what looked like a heavy book bag slung over one slender shoulder. Ali realized this had to be A.J. He reminded her of her own son back when Chris was a senior in high school.

“I needed some time to think, is all,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Were you with that girl?”

A.J. seemed to bristle. His ears turned red. “What girl?”

“Sasha something or other,” Sylvia said. “A black girl. Maddy tells me she comes by the store when you’re working. She always buys something, but she seems to like hanging out wherever you happen to be stocking shelves.”

“Maddy Wurth needs to mind her own business,” A.J. declared, “but like I said, I was by myself. I needed to think!” At that point, he caught sight of Ali and stopped short. “Who’s this?” he demanded.

Sylvia leveled a look in her son’s direction that, without saying a word aloud, let A.J. know that he needed to mind his manners.

Ali stood up and handed A.J. one of her cards. “My name’s Ali Reynolds,” she said.

A.J. glanced at the card, then back at Ali. For a fleeting moment, an odd look appeared on his face, something akin to panic. By then his mother had turned away from him, but Ali caught the expression before he managed to stifle it. By the time Sylvia sat back down, A.J. had recovered enough that the strange expression had been wiped clean.

“Are you a cop?” he asked.

“No, I’m a writer,” Ali explained. “I’m working on a story about the woman who died, but I’m also trying to piece together what happened to your father.”

“You think he’s the one who killed her?” A.J. asked.

“I’ve spoken to the lead investigator on the two cases. He seems to think that because of your father’s somewhat dubious history, he might be involved in what happened.”

“No,” Sylvia declared, shaking her head. “That’s not true. I told Ms. Reynolds here the same thing I told the detective earlier today, and it’s the same thing I’m telling you right now. James Sanders didn’t kill that woman. Whatever happened to her, your father was not involved.”

“But if he was there at the same time-” A.J. began.

“From what I’ve been able to learn, your father was dead long before the other woman died,” Ali said kindly. “So I’m not accusing your father of anything. I was simply hoping you and your mother might be able to shed some light on what happened. You two may be the only people in the world with a vested interest in proving that your father wasn’t involved.”

A.J. stood there, seemingly struggling with some kind of indecision. “I can’t help you,” he said finally. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve got homework,” he added. “I’d better go do it.”

“Do you want me to heat up that leftover carne asada ?” Sylvia asked.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

With that, A.J. disappeared down a hallway. Shortly thereafter, a door slammed hard behind him.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Sylvia said, shaking her head. “That was a terrible blunder on my part. I’ve known about Sasha Miller for weeks now. I’ve been waiting for A.J. to come clean and tell me about her himself. I never should have mentioned her in front of company.”

It occurred to Ali then that A.J. Sanders and his supposedly secret girlfriend might be following in his parents’ footsteps. Perhaps he and Sasha had been off on their own somewhere and engaged in something far more interesting than solitary “thinking.”

“That’s what happens to boys when they grow up,” Ali said. “Keeping secrets from their mothers is part of the deal. If you’ll pardon my saying it, I’m under the impression that your son hardly knew his father. That’s got to make things that much more difficult for both of you right now.”

Sylvia nodded. “A.J. was a baby when James went to prison. From the time James walked out of the courtroom, A.J. saw him only once. That was a little over a year ago.” For the first time, Ali heard real bitterness in Sylvia’s response.

“James showed up here uninvited on A.J.’s sixteenth birthday, just in time to play the Great White Father. A.J. and I had agreed beforehand that he wasn’t going to get a car because we couldn’t afford it. Not only did James show up with the car, he gave me enough cold, hard cash to pay for insurance and gas for the next three years. Real money, by the way. I checked it before I took it to the bank. I didn’t want to be caught passing out counterfeit bills that I didn’t know were counterfeit.”

“He gave A.J. a new car?” Ali asked.

“Not new, secondhand-a Camry. Even so, the grand total came to over twenty thousand bucks. I convinced myself it was like having James pay back child support. That was the only reason I let A.J. keep it.”

“I’m assuming there was no court-ordered child support, because you never went to court and asked for it,” Ali said.

Sylvia nodded. “By the time James got out of prison, A.J. and I were settled in here and doing all right. I didn’t want to be beholden to him, and I didn’t want to get mixed up in some kind of visitation situation. I decided to just let sleeping dogs lie. When he showed up with the car, it was a big deal for A.J., and not such a good deal for me. My son had always taken me at my word that we were better off without his father in the picture. After the birthday adventure, I think A.J. started questioning that. I also think that’s part of why this is and will be so hard for him. He was probably hoping that someday he’d have a chance to get to know his father. Now he never will.”