J. Jance - Hand of Evil

Ali knew Crystal had been scared, and that she still was. No wonder she’d been so difficult. Still, now that they were moving forward, Ali kept up the questions.

“Did you tell Detective Farris any of this?”

“No,” Crystal admitted. “But that’s why I don’t want to go back to Vegas. Daddy’s a cop. He won’t let anything bad happen to me. My stepfather…” Again her voice faded away.

“What about your stepfather?”

Crystal shrugged. “He’s pretty much useless. He wouldn’t be able to keep me safe if they came there looking for me. Not ever.”

Ali wasn’t sure Dave could keep his daughter safe, either. She wasn’t sure anyone could.

By then they had finally arrived at the address listed on Dave Holman’s piece of notebook paper. It turned out to be in a golf course development on the far east side of Chandler. Par 5 Drive was a quiet cul de sac that evidently backed up to a fairway on the Desert Steppes Golf Course. In the glow of neatly spaced streetlamps the houses themselves seemed spacious and commanding, but it appeared that only a few feet separated one house from its next-door neighbor. The distinctly California-like density led Ali to believe this was a relatively new development.

She pulled up to a curb and stopped in front of the house. “Here we are,” Ali said.

“Do I have to come in?” Crystal asked. “Can’t I just wait in the car?”

“We’ve already been over this once today, and I think you know the answer,” Ali told her. “Yes, you’re upset, but you’ve proved to be untrustworthy. Come on.”

Caught up in the conversation with Crystal, Ali had given no thought to what she would say to Kip Hogan’s long-lost daughter. Ali was still scrambling for ideas when she pressed the doorbell. In the far reaches of the house the drone of a television set was abruptly silenced. A few minutes later, the porch light flipped on, the door opened a crack, and a tall black man peered out at them.

“Yes?” he asked cautiously.

“Is this the Braeton residence?” Ali asked.

“It is,” he said. “And I’m Jonathan Braeton. Who are you and what can I do for you?”

His voice was wary, but it was also cultured and smooth. His response to unexpected late evening visitors wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t especially cordial, either.

And why would he be? Ali wondered. After all, it was eight-thirty at night, and the man was faced with a pair of complete strangers who had appeared unannounced on his doorstep. Police officers doing this kind of thing at least had official ID to offer. Ali had nothing.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” she stammered. “My name is Alison Reynolds from Sedona, and this is Crystal Holman. We’re looking for a Jane Hogan Braeton. I’m a friend of her father’s.”

“Really,” the man said. “You don’t say.”

He stepped back from the door then, but he didn’t open it. Instead, he engaged the security chain. “Janie,” he called. “You may want to come hear this.”

A woman’s voice called from somewhere in the background. “What?”

“There’s someone here who claims she’s a friend of your father’s.”

“A friend of my father’s?” the woman repeated. “I don’t have a father. Is she nuts?”

“You’d better come see for yourself,” he told her.

Ali hadn’t been particularly surprised when a black man had answered the door. After all, interracial marriages had been on the scene for a long time. What she hadn’t expected at all, however, was that Kip Hogan’s daughter would also turn out to be an African American. Because she was. Her skin was several shades lighter than her husband’s, but she was still clearly black.

If Kip Hogan is her father, her mother was or is black, Ali decided. Or else she’s adopted.

Not the least intimidated, Jane Braeton refused to hide behind the half-open door. Instead, she disengaged the security chain and flung the inside door wide open. For a moment she stood framed in the doorway with her husband directly behind her.

Jonathan Braeton was tall and rangy and in his early to mid-forties. Jane was short and stout and looked to be ten years younger than her husband. The top of her head barely reached the height of her husband’s broad shoulders. He was wearing a sweatsuit with a towel casually draped around his neck and looked as though he had just finished a workout. She was still dressed for work in a skirt, blouse, blazer, and stockings. But no shoes.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want, and what kind of a scam are you trying to pull?”

“It’s about Kip Hogan,” Ali offered. “That’s how we know him. Or, as he’s listed on your birth certificate, Rudyard Kipling Hogan.”

“Words on a birth certificate do not a father make,” Jane returned. “Mr. Hogan has been out of my life for a very long time, and I want him to stay that way.”

“He’s been hurt,” Ali said. “Gravely injured in fact. A gang of thugs beat him up with a baseball bat. He’s in the ICU at St. Francis Hospital. That’s why we came to let you know, so you could go visit him.”

Jane Braeton crossed her arms. “What makes you think I’d want to? You claim you know Kip Hogan?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ali said.

“And does it look to you like he could possibly be my father?”

“Well, no,” Ali admitted. “It doesn’t, but…”

“You’re right. He isn’t. And how badly hurt is he?”

“Very,” Ali said. “He had brain surgery this morning. He’s on a ventilator. According to what my mother was able to learn, he may not make it.”

“What was this, some kind of barroom brawl?”

“It didn’t happen in a bar. It happened along I-17 south of Flagstaff. A couple of days ago three young punks came to the grocery store in Sedona where Kip’s girlfriend, Sandy Mitchell, works as a check-out clerk. They were underage and tried to buy booze. When she carded them, they started hassling her. Kip showed up in the middle of it, stuck up for Sandy, and put a stop to it. Afterward, the kids evidently lay in wait for Kip and took a baseball bat to him.”

“I’ve wanted to take a bat to him myself,” Jane Braeton said. “Let’s let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Janie,” Jonathan Braeton admonished. “Remember, what goes around comes around. We owe Elizabeth more than that. You can’t just turn your back on the man.”

“Why not?” Janie returned. “That’s what he did to us, didn’t he? He walked away from his own mother, for heaven’s sake! He never looked back and never lifted a finger to help her. As far as I can see, he never gave a damn about anyone but himself, and I don’t see why we should care about him, either.”

“Janie…”

“Don’t you start with me about it,” Jane said fiercely. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like. You don’t have any idea.”

“Still,” Jonathan said calmly after a short pause, “let’s remember our manners. We don’t need to broadcast this discussion to the whole neighborhood. How about if we invite these nice ladies in out of the cold, offer them something warm to drink, and have this discussion in a civilized fashion?”

Jane Braeton looked as though inviting Ali and Crystal into her home was the last thing she wanted to do, but eventually she acquiesced. Stepping back, she motioned them inside. “Won’t you come in,” she rasped. She might just as well have been eating glass.

Jonathan, on the other hand, was far more welcoming. “Have a seat,” he said, leading Ali and Crystal into a spacious, comfortably furnished living room. “Now, what can I get you?” he asked. “Hot tea? Cocoa?”

Ali and Crystal settled on matching chintz-covered easy chairs. “Cocoa,” Crystal said at once. After a pointed look from Ali, she added a tardy, “Please.”