J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

“So they weren’t in touch?” Ali asked. “They didn’t exchange phone calls or e-mails?”

“Not as far as I know,” Sylvia said with a sad smile, “but I could be wrong about that. Secrets, you know.”

“And you don’t know any of James’s associates from Vegas-friends, girlfriends, that kind of thing?”

“No,” Sylvia said. “I’m afraid we didn’t have that kind of relationship. He came here briefly right after he got out of prison. When I sent him packing, that was the last we saw of him until the birthday car a year ago. I had no idea where he was living or how he ended up in Vegas. The detective who came here this morning told me that the dead woman is some kind of fancy-schmancy socialite from here in Phoenix. A doctor’s wife or ex-wife. How would James Sanders have hooked up with someone like that? The detective told me he was working for minimum wage in a halfway house, for Pete’s sake.”

Ali busied herself writing a series of notes, remembering as she did so that Stuart Ramey had said James Sanders’s checking account never went over the thousand-dollar mark. What came in went out again almost immediately. Having learned about the birthday gift, Ali realized that about a year earlier, there must have been another invisible influx of money, some or maybe even all of which James had squandered on a car for his son.

Ali made a show of closing her iPad and putting it away. “A.J. looks like a good kid. Where does he go to school?”

“North High,” Sylvia answered. “You’re right. He is a good kid, one who’s never given me a moment’s worth of trouble. He’s in the Baccalaureate program at North High-the honors program. He also works two hours a day after school and a couple more on the weekends at a Walgreens where one of my good friends, Madeline Wurth, is the manager. He’s saving money to go to college. We both are.”

Ali stood up. “I’d better be going,” she said. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” Sylvia said.

“Oh, you were a help, all right,” Ali said. “The fact that you don’t believe James Sanders would have been involved in any way in Gemma Ralston’s murder doesn’t mean it’s one hundred percent certain. But in my book, let’s say it seems a lot less likely.”

Sylvia Sanders’s hard-won composure took a hit. “Thank you,” she said. “In spite of everything, I believe James was really a good man. Maybe not an honest man, but a good one.”

A man who recently came into another unexplained batch of money, Ali thought, though she didn’t say it aloud.

Ali stood up. “Don’t bother getting up,” she told Sylvia. “I can find my way out.”

Ali’s phone had buzzed twice while she was inside the house. Now she sat in the Cayenne and checked her phone. One call was a message from Stuart Ramey, giving her the exact address of Chip Ralston’s Paradise Valley home, which she immediately fed into her GPS. The other call was from B., which Ali returned while the GPS was busy planning her route.

“I’m here,” B. said. “Checked in to the hotel. How are you doing?”

“Busy trying to prove a negative,” Ali said.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Not very well. So far I haven’t found any obvious connections between Gemma Ralston and the other dead guy, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Ali was about to put the Cayenne in gear when a sudden movement caught her eye. A.J. appeared in the front yard, emerging from the far side of the house. He paused furtively at the corner, as if checking the front door, then moved purposefully toward the second car, now parked in the carport. Once again he was carrying the book bag slung over his shoulder. He quickly popped open the trunk and placed something inside. Then, removing the book bag, he closed the trunk and returned the way he had come, still moving with apparent caution. Whatever it was he had placed in the trunk, it was something A.J. hadn’t wanted his mother to know about.

“Hey,” B. said. “What happened? Are you still there?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I wonder what that was all about.”

“What was what all about?”

“Something odd,” she said. “I was watching a teenager hiding something in a car that he doesn’t want his mother to find.”

“There’s nothing odd about that at all,” B. said with a laugh. “If it had been me, I would have been hiding my private hoard of Penthouse magazines. I always kept them in the car rather than under the bed. So what’s next on your agenda?”

“Next scheduled stop is Chip Ralston’s mother’s place to talk to his mother and sister. I’m also hoping I’ll be able to chat up a couple of their neighbors.”

“Don’t rush on my account,” B. said. “I’ll be here when you get here.”

Ignoring the GPS’s insistent directions that she retrace her path north on the 51, Ali made her way over to Twenty-fourth and up to Lincoln. Eventually, she found her way to Upper Glen Road, where she was disappointed to find that the Ralstons’ place wasn’t inside a gated community. One of those might have given her some security tapes to review or some rent-a-cops to question about vehicles coming and going on the night in question. When she finally located the right address, it was after dark. It was also clear there wouldn’t be any neighbors to chat up. The Ralstons’ house was at the far end of the road, with a yard that backed up to a looming wall of rocky desert cliffs.

The house seemed noticeably smaller than some of the sprawling mansions Ali had passed along the way, and its small fifties-era windows looked almost old-fashioned compared to some of the sharply angled, window-covered places she had seen on the way in. A series of lights showed off the towering palm trees and lush landscaping that made it clear the house had been there for decades longer than some of its more architecturally daring and starkly modern fellows.

As Ali drove up the front drive, she noticed a second, smaller driveway veering off to the right. Despite the lights gleaming in the windows, when Ali rang the bell, no one answered. Without leaving a note, she returned to her vehicle and headed down the driveway, intent on going straight to the hotel. When she reached the turnoff halfway down the drive, she changed her mind and turned up the side path. Driving past a four-car garage built at one end of the house, Ali discovered the casita tucked away at the far end of the driveway that she was sure was Chip’s apartment.

The maid’s quarters, Ali thought, looking at the house, a much smaller replica of the main house. Not bad for an end-of-marriage bolt-hole.

Ali had to admit that she didn’t have much room to talk on that score. After all, what had she done after the collapse of her marriage to Paul Grayson? She had slunk home to Sedona and taken up residence in the double-wide she had inherited from Aunt Evie.

There were no lights on in the casita. Even so, Ali got out and tried knocking. As expected, no one answered. Ali returned to the Cayenne, pulled a U-turn at the back of the house, and started back toward the driveway. Before she got there, she found her path blocked by a pair of blazing headlights. A woman was standing directly in front of the vehicle. Her feet were spread apart in a shooting stance, while she used both hands to keep a weapon of some kind aimed on Ali. Slamming on the brakes, Ali stopped the Cayenne and buzzed down the window.

“Out of the vehicle,” the woman ordered. “On your knees. Hands behind your head.”

“I can explain,” Ali said as she hurried to comply. Scrambling out of the Cayenne, she landed on her knees on the pavement while the open-door alarm chimed away behind her.