J. Jance - Hand of Evil

That was Ali’s guess, too.

Athena returned to the Cayenne a few minutes later looking downright radiant. “Got him,” she said triumphantly. “Masters was called out of the room for a couple of minutes. The diploma was still there. I got several pictures of that. I also got photos of his Web-casting equipment and his computer, serial numbers included.”

“That’s my girl,” Chris said. “Where to now?”

“North Las Vegas PD,” Ali said. “We’re believers. Let’s see if we can make believers out of them.”

It was late Saturday afternoon. Josie Gutierrez and Frank Edwards, the two on-duty detectives in the Sexual Assault Unit, were both out in the field. It took some talking on Ali’s part to bring them back in to headquarters, and they weren’t particularly happy about it when they got there.

“What’s this all about?” Detective Gutierrez wanted to know.

“It’s about Crystal Holman,” Ali told them.

“The Amber Alert from this week?”

Ali nodded.

“But I heard she came home yesterday,” Detective Edwards said. “I thought everything was fine.”

Ali handed Edwards the CD Chris had made. “Take a look at these files,” she said, “then you tell us if everything’s fine.”

The two officers disappeared into the bowels of the building. A few minutes later, a grim-faced Detective Gutierrez returned. “You’d better come with me,” she said. “We have a few questions. Who the hell is this asshole? Where was the video shot? Who did the enhancement? And who the hell are you? In reverse order.”

Initially, Detective Gutierrez took the same position Larry Marsh had-that civilian involvement was a no-no. As far as she was concerned, Athena should never have entered Masters’s office because it was far too dangerous, and she and Detective Edwards alone should be the ones to interview Crystal and her family.

“Look,” Ali said. “You wouldn’t have a clue about any of this if it weren’t for us. I’ve been through a hell of a lot with Crystal Holman in the last few days, and I think I have some credibility with her. And with Roxie, too,” she added.

“You know the mother?” Gutierrez asked.

“She came to see me in Sedona just yesterday afternoon,” Ali said, choosing to edit out the exact nature of that visit.

The detective turned to her partner. “What do you think, Frank?”

Edwards shook his head. “With kids it can go either way,” he said.

“Chris and Athena don’t have to go,” Ali added, “but if you don’t take me, I’m prepared to show up on my own-with or without your permission.”

The detectives finally relented. They drove in a two-car caravan with the two officers leading the way. When they arrived at the Jackpot Dune’s Mobile Home Park in North Las Vegas, the place was every bit as desolate, grim, and uninviting as Ali expected. It reminded Ali of that old Roger Miller song lyric, “No phone, no pool, no pets.” She was surprised they even allowed children. No wonder Crystal hated it.

While Chris and Athena stayed in the car, Detective Gutierrez led the way up the obviously new wooden steps and knocked on the mobile home’s metal door. When Roxanne Whitman opened it, though, she ignored the police officers and looked straight at Ali.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Has something happened to Dave?”

“It’s about Crystal,” Ali said. “We need to talk to her.”

“She’s in the shower, but tell me. What’s wrong?”

A tall man appeared beyond Roxanne’s shoulder just as Detective Gutierrez held up her badge. “What is it, Roxie? What’s going on? Why are the cops here?”

“Do you mind if we come in?” Detective Gutierrez asked.

Shrugging, Roxie and Gary Whitman stepped aside and let the two cops and Ali enter their small but spotless living room.

“You still haven’t said what this is about,” Gary said, once they were all seated.

“Do you happen to know someone named Richard Masters?”

“Of course, I know Pastor Masters,” Gary Whitman said, answering for both of them. “He’s the youth minister at our church. He’s a great guy, and great with kids.”

“Has Crystal had any interactions with him?” Detective Gutierrez asked.

“Yes,” Gary said. “Definitely. When she started having difficulties at school, we sent her to him for counseling.”

“And did the counseling sessions seem to help?”

“Well, no,” Gary admitted. “Not really. Things have been getting worse instead of better. But she’s a teenager. You know how they can be.”

“Did she indicate whether or not she was happy with the sessions?”

“She did say she didn’t want to go anymore,” Roxanne pointed out. “She said that a couple of weeks ago.”

“And I told her she didn’t have a choice,” Gary said. “She needed to clean up her act, or else.”

Ali’s heart constricted. In her own way, Crystal had tried to tell someone. She probably hadn’t told anyone the whole story, but she had asked for help, and no one had listened. Her parents hadn’t listened, but Ali had. And now something was going to be done about it.

“I hate to have to tell you this, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman,” Detective Gutierrez said. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Masters is a sexual predator who has had inappropriate sexual contact with your daughter. We need to talk to her about it.”

“Why, that son of a bitch!” Gary Whitman exclaimed, his whole body rigid with absolute outrage. “That low-down son of a bitch! Let me at him. I’ll tear him limb from limb!”

Just then Crystal appeared in the doorway to the living room. She was wearing a robe. A damp towel was wrapped around her head. “Mom? Gary?” she asked uncertainly, looking from one face to another. “What’s going on?”

Roxanne leaped off the couch and hurried to her daughter’s side. “Oh, my poor baby,” she murmured, gathering Crystal into her arms. “Come in here. I think we need to talk.”

On Wednesday of the following week Rudyard Kipling Hogan was laid to rest in the cemetery of his hometown of Kingman, Arizona. Ali, along with everyone else, was surprised when it turned out to be a far larger funeral than anyone-including the mortuary-had expected. A standing-room-only crowd turned out to bury him as if paying their respects to a departed hero. As the local paper had editorialized, regardless of who had actually killed Kip Hogan, he was as much a victim of that long-ago but not forgotten fire as the men who had perished in the actual inferno. It had simply taken a lot longer for him to die.

Elizabeth Barrett Hogan came home for her son’s funeral, accompanied throughout the services by both Sandy Mitchell and Jane Braeton. Ali heard several people speculating about who was who and most especially wondering about the two very protective women who never left Elizabeth’s side, but since Elizabeth wasn’t telling, neither was Ali.

She was standing nearby when, at the end of the graveside ceremony, Ali’s father went over to Elizabeth’s wheelchair and handed her an envelope. Ali knew what it was. Bob had found it in the LazyDaze when he had cleaned it out. It was a letter Kip had written to his mother only a few months before his death, one that bore the U.S. Postal Service’s inarguable determination- Return to Sender.

“Kip tried to write to you,” Bob Larson said. “But it was too late. The forwarding address had run out by then, and it came back.”

Elizabeth held the envelope up to the sunlight and peered at it from several different angles. Then she stowed it, unopened, in the purse that rested on her lap. “Thank you for this,” she said, smiling up at him. “If Kip wrote it, it’s not too late. And thank you for being his friend.”