J. Jance - Hand of Evil

“Your friend’s daughter?” Arabella asked. “The one who ran away?”

Of course, Ali thought. Arabella reads cutloose. “What would you say to her?” Ali returned, without answering Arabella’s question one way or the other.

They were approaching Camp Verde by then. “Turn here,” Arabella said. “I’m hungry. Stop at the McDonald’s-at the drive-up.”

“I don’t have any money,” Ali said. “I didn’t bring my purse.” Or my driver’s license, she thought.

“I have money,” Arabella said. “Stop with the back window at the drive-up. I’ll take care of it. And don’t try anything.”

“Don’t worry,” Ali said. “I won’t.”

Back at Arabella Ashcroft’s house for the second time, Larry and Hank found an older 4 x 4 Mazda pickup truck parked in the driveway. A man, bent under the weight of a heavy box, was hurrying from the truck toward the front door.

Hank stopped the car and Larry jumped out. “Mr. Brooks? Mr. Leland Brooks?”

With his white hair glowing in the headlights, the man turned to look at them. He was dressed in full rhinestone cowboy regalia, from the sequined cowboy shirt to the tips of his snakeskin boots. The box in his arms, full to the brim, was one of the three-side produce boxes used to pack groceries at Costco.

“Yes, I’m Leland Brooks,” he said. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

“Police,” Larry said. “We need to talk to you. Put down the box and then get on the ground.”

“Get on the ground? Are you joking?”

“Not at all. Get on the ground.”

With some difficulty Brooks tried to comply. He stooped over and let go of the box. Groceries spilled out through the opening, rolling in all directions. He dropped stiffly onto one knee, groaning with pain. “My knees aren’t what they used to be,” he said. “If you want me on the ground, you’re going to have to help me.”

He’s an old man for Chrissake, Larry thought guiltily. Give the guy a break.

By then, Hank was out of the car. Instead of pushing Brooks to the ground, Larry grabbed him by his upper arm and hauled him to his feet. “Hands behind your back, then.”

“Behind my back? You’re handcuffing me? What have I done? I had two beers in Prescott, but that was hours ago. If you want a sobriety test…”

“You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of William Cowan Ashcroft the third.” As Larry fastened the cuffs, he automatically recited the Miranda warning.

“Wait a minute,” Brooks said when Larry finished. “You think I murdered Billy? Are you kidding? Why would I? Where did you get such a crazy idea?”

“Where’s Arabella?” Larry asked.

“Where would she be? Inside and asleep, I’m sure. I gave her all her medication before I left. She should be sleeping through the night. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Because she’s taken off somewhere, and she’s taken a woman named Alison Reynolds with her.”

“Ms. Reynolds is missing?” Brooks asked. “Whatever may have happened, I can’t imagine that Miss Arabella has anything to do with it, and I’m sure you’ll find the Rolls is right here in the garage where it belongs.”

“Do you mind showing us?”

“Of course not. The clicker’s in my pocket. You’ll have to get it out.”

“Which pocket?”

“The front one.”

“Do you have anything dangerous in here-anything that will hurt me?”

“You mean like a needle or something? Certainly not!” Brooks said. “I’m not some kind of druggie, if that’s what you’re implying.”

With some difficulty Hank emptied Brooks’s pockets, extracting a wallet, a set of keys, and a small plastic clicker. When he punched the button the heavy garage door rolled up and a light came on revealing an expanse of shiny concrete polished to a high gloss.

“It is gone,” Brooks said, confirming the obvious. “But someone else must have taken it. I’m sure Miss Arabella is asleep in her room exactly where I left her.”

“Do you mind if we check?” Larry asked.

“Of course not. Go into the kitchen, through the swinging doors, and then down the hall. Her room is the first one on the left, but I can tell you for sure. Miss Arabella wouldn’t be driving the car. She doesn’t even have a license.”

“That doesn’t stop some people,” Larry observed.

Hank set off without further urging. He was back in less than a minute. “No one’s there,” he said. “The place is empty.”

“Oh, my,” Brooks said. Sounding genuinely dismayed, he staggered over to the front porch where, unassisted, he sank down on the top step. “How can this be?”

“We thought maybe you could tell us something about that, Mr. Brooks,” Larry said. “When was the last time…”

“Wait a minute,” Brooks interrupted. “You’ve read me my rights? Don’t tell me you think I had something to do with Mr. Ashcroft’s death. I can’t imagine why you’d think such a thing. It’s outrageous.”

“Have you ever heard of someone named Arthur Reed?” Larry asked. “I believe he served in Korea about the same time you did?”

“Of course, I remember Art Reed. United States Marine Corps. Why wouldn’t I?”

“And he gave you his Silver Star?”

“Yes, he did. I was really honored and touched. I saved his life once. Later when he was awarded a Silver Star, he decided to share the honor with me.”

“What became of it?”

“Of the star itself? I’m not sure. It wasn’t mine to wear, of course, since I hadn’t earned it. I treasured it, but I lost track of it years ago, shortly after it was given to me. How do you know about it, and why are you asking?”

“How do you suppose your Silver Star would have turned up in William Ashcroft’s vehicle?” Larry asked. “Our CSI team found it under the floor mat after he was murdered.”

“I have no idea where it’s been all this time or how it got there.”

“You must.”

Larry’s phone rang. “Detective Marsh? Dave Holman here. Your people down in Phoenix have brought us into the loop. I thought you’d want to know that when we put out the APB on that Rolls, we got a hit.”

“You already found her then?”

“No,” Holman answered, “but the Rolls was caught by a red-light camera making an illegal left turn in Scottsdale at Scottsdale and Camelback, just before midnight, Monday night. The citation went out in the mail today. Your records folks were able to scan through the video record and come up with the actual photo. It would appear that Arabella Ashcroft was at the wheel, and she was alone in the vehicle.”

Larry closed his phone. “So where were you on Monday night, Mr. Brooks?” he asked.

The butler shook his head. “I know that’s the night Mr. Ashcroft died,” he said. “But I was out the whole evening, from late afternoon on. It’s my day off.”

“Where did you go?”

“Prescott.”

“What did you do there?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”

“You might want to reconsider,” Larry suggested. “I’ve just received word that the Rolls was cited for running a red light in Scottsdale on Monday night and the insurance company has you listed as the sole driver. We also know that property directly traceable to you was found at the scene of the crime. So if you happen to have a verifiable alibi for the time in question, Mr. Brooks, now might be a good time to mention it.”

Leland Brooks sighed. “I was at Paddy’s,” he said after a pause. “Paddy O’Toole’s”

“Where’s that?” Hank asked. “One of those bars on Prescott’s famed Whiskey Row?”

Leland shook his head. “It’s a world away from Whiskey Row. It’s a private club. A gay private club out in the valley. Some of the people I saw there might not want to be connected to a homicide investigation.”