J. Jance - Hand of Evil

“No,” Ali answered. “She tried to kill Billy’s father-William Ashcroft Junior. He was her stepbrother. He’d been cruel to her, abused her, and killed her pet bird. She got even by stabbing him.”

“And this was when?” Marsh asked.

“November of 1944.”

“I see,” the detective said. “And you know about this how?”

“Because Arabella told me about it, some of it just today.”

“Let me get this straight,” Marsh said. “The two of you must be exceptionally good friends. Not only does she clue you in on her nephew’s current threat, but she also confesses to the long-ago attempted homicide of her brother?”

“Her stepbrother,” Ali said. “Bill Junior was ten or so years older than she was, and he had been molesting her for years. What finally pushed her over the edge was the death of her pet parakeet. Her stepbrother killed Blueboy right in front of her. A matter of hours later, she took after him with the knife.”

“I take it the brother-the stepbrother-didn’t die as a result of her attack?”

“No. He died several years later in an automobile accident.”

“I’m a homicide detective, Ms. Reynolds. I generally don’t deal with cases concerning dead birds-past or present. And you already told me that the stepbrother didn’t die. This ancient history is all very interesting, of course, but can you explain to me how any of it applies to what’s happening in the here and now?”

Ali had contacted the authorities with the intention of letting them know about Arabella’s diary and how she thought it might somehow be connected to Billy Ashcroft’s death. In the face of Detective Marsh’s outright derision, it wasn’t easy to plunge on, but Ali did so.

“I believe Billy Ashcroft’s murder may be connected to Arabella’s diary,” she said.

“What diary?” Marsh asked. “She’s keeping a diary?”

“Was keeping a diary,” Ali corrected. “Back when she was nine, back when this all happened. And when she found out it was missing a little while ago, she was very upset. That’s when she blurted out the story of trying to kill her brother. If you managed to read it yourself…”

Marsh was losing patience. “You said a moment ago that the diary is missing. How could I possibly read it?”

“It’s missing from my house here in Sedona,” Ali said. “It’s not missing from there in Phoenix. It was in my purse last night during that whole mess at St. Francis Hospital. I’m sure it was picked up in the evidence sweep along with my purse and cell phone. It’s probably locked away in an evidence locker somewhere at your department.”

“And you’re asking me to read it?”

“Yes,” Ali said.

“Is there anything else?”

Ali, too, was losing patience. It sounded as though Marsh’s ears were closed and his mind was made up.

“No,” she said. “I can’t think of anything else.”

“Good then,” he told her. “I want to thank you for coming forward, Ms. Reynolds, but I also feel obliged to give you a word of caution. While we appreciate your interest in the case, it’s usually not a good idea for civilians to insert themselves into one police investigation after another…”

“Wait a minute,” Ali interrupted. “If you’re talking about last night, let me remind you that that particular ‘investigation,’ as you call it, came to me.”

“Be that as it may, Ms. Reynolds. My advice is the same. You might want to take a step back from all this and leave it to the professionals. Of course, just in case you happen to come across any additional information, let me give you my numbers….”

“Don’t bother,” Ali said. “I believe I’ve already got your number. That came through loud and clear.”

In their office cubicle at Phoenix PD, Larry Marsh sat staring at his telephone receiver.

“She hung up on you?” Hank asked.

“Pretty much,” Larry said. “So, where are we?”

“I’m working on tracing the Silver Star that was found under the floor mat in Mr. Ashcroft’s vehicle. The name A. Reed is engraved on the back, but so far no luck tracing Mr. Reed. While Ms. Reynolds was hanging up on you, I was being bitched out by some battle-ax at the VA who read me the riot act and let me know in no uncertain terms that we’re breaking the law.”

“Breaking what law?”

“It turns out that found military medals are supposed to be returned directly to the Defense Department. We’re to make no effort to locate either the serviceman in question or his surviving family.”

“But this is a homicide investigation,” Marsh objected.

“Wouldn’t you think,” Hank agreed. “Which is why I plan on working my way up the chain of command. What about you?”

Marsh stood up. “I think I’m going to take a walk down to the evidence room.”

“How come?”

“Evidently we have Arabella Ashcroft’s diary down there under lock and key. Something weird about a dead parakeet. Ali Reynolds seems to be of the opinion that we should take a look at it, and I guess I will.”

Ali was still fuming long after she put down the phone. She had done her civic duty by reporting her concerns and had felt like a traitor for doing so. Detective Marsh had mocked her suggestion that Arabella’s dead parakeet might somehow be connected to everything that had happened, even though Ali had no idea what that connection might be. Marsh’s attitude had been nothing short of galling. Ali Reynolds wasn’t accustomed to being dismissed as some kind of meddling wacko.

“Leave it to the professionals,” she groused aloud, mimicking Detective Marsh’s snide delivery. “Don’t insert yourself into the investigation.”

But she had already been inserted-by none other than Arabella Ashcroft herself. All her life Ali Reynolds had responded poorly to being told to sit down and shut up, and this time was no exception. Her immediate response to Detective Marsh’s back-off suggestion was to want more information.

To track down the general history of the Ashcroft clan, Ali knew she could spend the next several hours combing through computerized searches. With those, she would come away with the bare-bones outline of what had gone on through the years. Over the weekend and with Chris’s help, she could probably flesh out those reports into something reasonably comprehensive, but what she was looking for right then was a way to jump-start her investigation. To do that, she turned to her computer, all right, but to her address book rather than Google. A few minutes later she was dialing the number for Deborah Springer.

In the realm of female journalists, Mrs. Deborah Springer was legendary. A World War Two widow who never allowed anyone to refer to her as Ms., Deb Springer had gone to work in the L.A. Times secretarial pool to support her three small children. She had gradually boosted herself into doing actual reporting and had spent several years writing the obligatory society postings on the women’s pages. Eventually, though, Deb had beaten the odds and snagged herself a business beat. At a time when “women’s libbers” were just starting to burn their bras, Deb’s hard-nosed reporting had landed her a coveted editorial position. Retired since the mid-1980s, no one knew more about southern California’s movers and shakers than Deb Springer.

Ali had done an interview with the woman on the occasion of Mrs. Springer’s ninetieth birthday. The filming had been done in the lobby area of the assisted living facility in LaJolla where Deb and her now deceased third husband had taken up residence. Ali and Deb Springer had liked each other instantly, and Ali had come away from the interview with a deep respect for this sharp-witted woman who, years after leaving the newspaper business, had lost none of her encyclopedic knowledge of the California business community.