J. Jance - Hand of Evil

“But how did he know it was me? How did he know I was driving a Cayenne?”

“Jason has a girlfriend who works Records for Maricopa County. When she heard he was possibly involved in the hospital situation, she came forward and spoke to her supervisor, and believe me, she will be dealt with. He evidently called her earlier this afternoon requesting information about you. He claimed it was for a friend who had seen you and was hoping to hook up.”

“How did he get my name?”

“He didn’t have your name. We’re theorizing he must have noticed you following him home from Phoenix earlier. All he had when he called in was a partial plate number.”

That was the whole problem with living in the information age, Ali decided. If critical information ended up in the wrong hands, it could do incredible damage. But of course, she and Dave had been doing exactly the same thing-trying to locate Curtis Uttley. It seemed best not to mention that.

By the time Ali turned off I-17 and headed toward Sedona, she was back to thinking about Arabella Ashcroft’s diary. Nothing in it had been even obliquely worthy of blackmail, yet Ali was convinced that there was some connection between what had been written in the book and the fact that Billy Ashcroft was now dead. But what was Ali’s responsibility in this regard? She had raised hell with Crystal for not stepping forward and sharing vital information with the authorities after the vicious attack on Kip and the kidnapping of Curt Uttley. If Ali had reason to believe Billy’s failed extortion scheme had something to do with his death, didn’t she have a moral obligation to come forward as well?

But for the time being, the whole question was moot since Arabella’s diary had been collected along with all the other hallway debris as part of a major crime scene investigation.

Once back home Ali entered her bedroom and found Sam curled in regal splendor on her pillow. When the bedside lamp came on, the cat decamped at once, however, hopping off the bed with an annoyed huff and stalking away as if to say Ali had been out past her curfew and was now persona non grata in her own bed.

“Hey,” Ali called after her. “Come back. It isn’t my fault I’m so late.”

But Sam wasn’t interested in doling out forgiveness. Giving up on the cat, Ali crawled into bed, where she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. It was after eleven when she finally staggered out to the kitchen the next morning. Even in its thermal carafe, the coffee Chris had made before he left for school was dead cold when Ali tasted it. She’d had nothing at all to drink the night before-except for far too much coffee and cocoa, which hadn’t kept her awake. Even so she felt groggy and tired and nowhere near ready for the onslaught of attention she knew was likely once her connection to the St. Francis Hospital incident was made public.

Determined to have a robe day, Ali went to make a new pot of coffee. There she found the note Chris had left for her on the counter.

“Welcome home. I know you got in very late. I pulled the phone jack out of the wall so you could sleep. Love, Chris.”

Grateful that her son was so thoughtful, Ali plugged in the phone. Immediately it began to ring.

“You’re awake then,” Edie Larson said. “I’ve been trying to call you off and on all morning.”

“What’s going on?”

“Kip didn’t make it,” Edie said. “Sandy Mitchell just called. She and Kip’s mother…How did they ever find his mother, by the way? Anyway, the two of them were both there with him a little while ago this morning when they took him off life support.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ali murmured.

“I am, too,” Edie agreed. “And your father’s really broken up about it. It gave Dad a lot of satisfaction to think he had helped Kip back from the edge. Now it’s all for nothing.”

Ali thought about the look on Elizabeth Hogan’s face as Jane Braeton had wheeled her into the ICU.

Not for nothing , Ali thought. But too little too late.

“Anyway,” Edie continued, “Bobby just went home to shower, then he’ll head down to Phoenix to bring Sandy home. Did Dave reach you?”

“No.”

“He called here a little while ago. He was on his way back to Prescott to testify in that trial. He said to tell you that Crystal’s at home sleeping, and Roxie’s supposedly coming down from Vegas later today to pick her up. Crystal wasn’t a problem when she was here at the restaurant, but from what I’m hearing about everything that’s gone on the past few days, it sounds like she’s a kid who could use some serious counseling.”

Edie Lawson’s instinctive diagnosis of Crystal Holman’s mental issues had Ali’s wholesale agreement, although she had no intention of going into any of the particulars. All Ali said was, “Yes, I think counseling is definitely in order.”

During their conversation Ali’s call-waiting signal had buzzed several times. Those had been easy to ignore. Now though, when someone rang the doorbell, Ali ended the call. While Sam scampered for the nearest hiding place, Ali pulled her robe tight around her and went to answer. Arabella Ashcroft’s butler, Leland Brooks, stood on Ali’s front porch while the yellow Rolls-Royce idled in the driveway.

“So sorry to disturb you, madam,” Mr. Brooks said through the screen when Ali opened the inside door. “Miss Arabella was most interested in being in touch with you this morning. Something about a borrowed book, I believe. She’s been calling to ask about it, but your telephone seems to be out of order and your cell phone keeps going to voice mail.”

On the way home from Phoenix Ali had struggled with what she should do. She knew she would most likely call someone down in Phoenix to report her suspicions, but not until after she’d had at least one cup of coffee.

“I’m so sorry,” Ali told the waiting butler. “I don’t have access to Miss Ashcroft’s book right now. I can’t answer my cell phone since I had to leave it down in Phoenix last night.”

Mr. Brooks glanced warily over his shoulder in the direction of the Rolls.

“Is she with you?” Ali asked.

He nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “As I said, she’s rather upset about this. I’ll be glad to relay the information, however.”

Clad in only a bathrobe with her hair a mess and no makeup on, Ali was hardly in any condition to receive guests-especially guests who were accustomed to entertaining in the manner Arabella Ashcroft did. Still, Ali felt an obligation to give the woman the bad news about the missing diary in person.

“No,” Ali said. “I’m not exactly prepared for company, but I’m the one who should tell her what happened to it. Please ask her to come in, Mr. Brooks.”

The butler bowed. “Of course, madam,” he said. “I shall extend your invitation.”

While he was gone, Ali hurriedly swiped all the loose papers off both the dining room table and the coffee table. She stowed those and the computer in her bedroom. By the time she emerged, Mr. Brooks had ushered Arabella to the front door. She didn’t look nearly as put together as she had the other day. She seemed anxious and ill at ease. The butler handed her off to Ali and then returned to the waiting Rolls. Arabella allowed herself to be led inside. When she spoke, though, she sounded like her old self.

“You’re most gracious to invite me in this way,” Arabella said. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s quite rude to show up unannounced like this. I’ve never done it before-ever.”

“It’s fine,” Ali assured her. “Please do come in. I’m sorry you weren’t able to reach me by phone. As I told Mr. Brooks, I ended up leaving my cell phone down in Phoenix last night. My landline is back in service now, but it was temporarily out of order.”