J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

This time Dave was the one who ended the call.

The Baseline exit came up fast. Before Ali made it onto the arterial, her phone rang again. Stuart Ramey was on the line. Ali quickly brought him up to date on the morning’s events.

“Okay,” Stuart said. “I’ll go looking for somebody named Dennis in Gemma’s e-mail correspondence. He’ll turn up either there or in her contacts list.”

“Which you have somehow accessed,” Ali said.

“Exactly,” Stuart returned. “Do you need anything else?”

“Yes, I want to know how somebody bringing home minimum wage can afford to give away most of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar payday. Why so generous? And did you come up with anything on that reporter, Betty Noonan?”

“Nothing,” Stuart replied. “As far as I can tell, there’s no such animal, unless you want to count the Elizabeth Louise Noonan, aka Betty, who is eighty-six years old and living in Rapid City, South Dakota. I’ve checked with the Examiner . They don’t have anyone by that name working for them and never have.”

“But someone claiming to be Betty Noonan stopped by to see Sylvia Sanders yesterday.”

“I believe ‘claiming’ is the operant word,” Stuart said. “Did Sylvia see what kind of vehicle the faux reporter was driving? Did she give you any kind of description?”

“I didn’t ask for one,” Ali said. “It didn’t seem all that important at the time, but I’m on my way to see Sylvia right now. I can ask for more details when I see her, and I’ll check with the folks at the Mission in Vegas as well. Since our intrepid reporter claimed to be from the Las Vegas Examiner, maybe she’s been in touch with the folks there, too. If you have time, you might give the Mission a call. If you can’t reach Abigail Mattson, check with her assistant. Her name’s Regina.”

By then Ali was pulling into the parking lot at the corner of Baseline and Rural. The shopping center was on one side of the parking lot, with a string of professional offices on the other. Ali pulled into a parking place just in time to see Sylvia Sanders come racing into the lot. Ali knew from the panicked expression on her face that she was too late. The breaking-news alert about the situation at North High School must have landed. Ali scrambled out of the Cayenne and ran to head the woman off.

“Sylvia,” Ali called, chasing after her. “Stop, please. I need to speak to you.”

Sylvia didn’t pause until she reached her car. “I’ve got to go,” she said desperately. “There’s a problem at A.J.’s high school. They’re reporting a possible shooter on campus. I tried calling his cell, but he isn’t picking up. I’ve got to make sure he’s all right.”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” Ali insisted. “A.J. wanted me to be the one to tell you. That’s why I’m here.”

Sylvia froze with her hand on the door handle. “Tell me what?”

“About what’s really going on. This is important, Sylvia. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

Sylvia looked back at the door to her office. Then, without a word, she walked away from her Passat, leading the way to a small taqueria at the far end of the development.

“What?” she said once they were seated. “Tell me what’s going on.”

In answer, Ali pulled out her iPad and hit a local news feed, playing it for Sylvia to hear. “Phoenix PD authorities are telling us that the situation at North High School has been resolved and that the alleged shooter has been taken into custody without incident.”

“He may not be answering his phone, but that probably also means he’s okay,” Ali said.

“Wait,” Sylvia said, looking aghast. “Are you saying A.J. was the shooter?”

“He’s not a shooter,” Ali said, “because there was no shooter, but he did take a gun to school. It was in the trunk of his car.”

“That’s impossible,” Sylvia Sanders insisted, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My son doesn’t own a gun. I don’t own a gun. I don’t allow guns in my house. And if A.J. is the one who’s been arrested, I need to go there-to the jail or the police department or wherever he is-to see what I can do to help.”

She started to get up out of the booth, but Ali took hold of Sylvia’s arm and bodily pulled her back down. “Right now the best thing you can do to help your son is sit here and talk to me. I told A.J. that the first thing he needs to do once he’s taken into custody is to ask for an attorney. Appointing attorneys takes time, especially since two different jurisdictions are involved-Phoenix PD, where the alleged gun incident happened, and the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department, where your son is a possible suspect in one homicide and a person of interest in another.”

“This can’t be happening!” Sylvia exclaimed. “A.J. is a suspect in a homicide?”

“Are you going to listen or not?” Ali asked.

“I’ll listen.”

For the next ten minutes, Ali related everything she had learned, both from her phone call with A.J. and from her own investigations.

“From what you’re telling me, it’s like he’s been living a double life. We’ve always been so close. I don’t understand why he didn’t talk to me about any of this. And why did he call you instead of me?”

“I think he was ashamed about betraying you,” Ali said. “Now tell me what you know about the girlfriend, Sasha. A.J. said she was the only one who knew about the gun at school. She probably mentioned it to someone without realizing that other people would be upset about it and report it to the authorities.”

“Maddy told me Sasha’s last name is Miller.”

“Any idea where she lives?”

Sylvia shook her head. “Somewhere inside the school boundaries, I suppose.”

“No matter. I’ll be able to find her.”

Sylvia fell quiet, then nodded as if having come to an understanding. “I know why A.J. didn’t tell me about the money.”

“Why?”

“Being given that much money must have seemed like a miracle to him, but he knew that when I found out about it, I’d probably insist that he give the money back. For one thing, who knows how James got it? If Scott Ballentine is involved, it’s probably some crooked deal or another. I’d rather A.J. take six years to work his way through school than use ill-gotten gains for some kind of free ride.”

“Tell me about Scott Ballentine,” Ali said.

“Scott and James were good pals at one time. Best friends, even. He was one of the four guys involved in that counterfeiting scheme from years ago. He paid a fine. James went to prison. Some friend!”

“Did you stay in touch with any of those guys afterward?”

“Are you kidding?” Sylvia replied. “Why would I? After my husband went to prison, I barely stayed in touch with him. The other three of them all walked away and hung James out to dry. I wouldn’t cross the road to see any of them, not ever.”

“I watched the security tape from the casino,” Ali said. “Ballentine turned over three hundred thousand in gambling chips to James Sanders, who loaded them into a strongbox and walked away. Four days later, James was dead. Your son admitted to being in possession of two hundred and fifty grand of that money. We’ve accounted for another five thousand. So where’s the other forty-five thousand? Do you know?”

“Wait,” Sylvia said, her cheeks reddening. “You’re asking me if I have it?”

“Do you?” Ali asked. “If James slipped money to his son without your knowledge, the reverse might also be true. Maybe he gave you some of it, too.”

“No,” Sylvia declared. “He didn’t, and even if he had, I wouldn’t have accepted it.”

“Tell me about the reporter,” Ali said. “The one who came to see you yesterday.”