45
Salton City, California
Curious, Ali followed Flossie Haywood as she trudged across the road and through the rock-strewn sandy shoreline. Flossie carried the shovel. Ali lugged the metal detector, which she found to be surprisingly heavy.
But the walk gave her some time to consider. Richard Lowensdale’s murder had taken place on Friday. Mina had lit her middle-of-the-night bonfire sometime overnight between Saturday and Sunday. What if she was burning evidence? Or trying to burn evidence? If Ali encouraged Flossie to dig up the leavings-or if she even allowed it-there was a good possibility they would both be tampering with possible evidence in a criminal proceeding. Ali wanted to know what Ermina Blaylock had been burning in the worst way. That was Ali-plain Ali. But the one who was almost a cop-almost a sworn officer-didn’t want to do anything that might make it easier for Mina to get away with what she had done and whatever she was hiding, regardless of what it was.
“Here, I think,” Flossie said. “Hand me the metal detector.”
For several long seconds she ran it a few inches above the fine sand. Eventually it started alarming. “See there?” Flossie said. “I told you so.”
She reached for the shovel, but Ali held it out of reach. “We can’t do this,” she said.
“Yes, we can,” Flossie said. “I was raised on a farm. I was shoveling manure before I learned how to read and write.”
“It’s not the digging,” Ali said. “It’s possible that this may be important evidence. If we disturb it in any way, and if Ermina Blaylock has committed a crime, our messing with the evidence might make it impossible for a district attorney to convict her.”
Flossie stood stock-still. “Are you saying you think she’s done something wrong? I mean something really wrong, not just disrespecting her husband. You mean like something against the law?”
“Yes,” Ali said, “that’s exactly what I mean, and I don’t want to be responsible for letting her get away with it.”
“Neither do I,” Flossie said. “So what do we do?”
“Get a rock,” Ali said. “A big rock that you can use to mark the spot so we can find it again.”
Flossie nodded. “Okay,” she said, but she seemed disappointed.
It took some time for her to find a suitable rock. Then Ali helped carry the equipment back across the road.
“So what am I supposed to do now?” Flossie asked. “Just forget about it?”
“No,” Ali said. “Not at all. It may take some time, but I’ll call it in.”
“Are you some kind of a cop?”
There were times when telling the truth was the only option.
“No,” Ali said thoughtfully. “I’m no kind of a cop at all. I have a friend named Brenda Riley, at least I had a friend named Brenda. She may be dead, and I have reason to believe that Ermina is responsible for what happened to her. If that turns out to be the case, I want her caught and convicted.”
“All right,” Flossie said in grudging agreement.
“But there is something you can do,” Ali offered.
“What?”
“If I can make this work, a little later on tonight, a bunch of cops are going to show up here with a search warrant, and you can do them a big favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Show them where to find that clicker. It’ll be a lot easier for them to get inside the Blaylocks’ house if they can raise or lower the shutters.”
“You think there’s a chance that bitch will go to jail?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “I certainly do.”
“Then you can count on me,” declared Flossie Haywood. “I will not let you down.”
Ali waited only long enough to drive out of Flossie’s sight before she was on her Bluetooth and dialing Stuart Ramey. Yes, it was a holiday, but she had every confidence that Stuart would answer-which he did, once she managed to outwit the series of voice mail prompts.
“Hey, Stuart,” she said. “I want you to look up a telephone number for me. The name is Gilbert Morris, Grass Valley, California. I have his cell phone and his work number. I’m looking for a home number.”
“Have you tried information?”
“He’s a cop,” Ali said. “I’m guessing it’s unlisted.”
“That may take a little longer.”
It turned out the number was unlisted and getting it did take a little longer. Wanting to be able to write down the number, Ali pulled over and parked in a small business park bustling with weekend campers on their way back to their respective cities at the end of the three-day weekend.
“Okay,” Stuart said, “you called that shot. Here it is.”
Ali jotted the home number down on the back of Ermina’s background check, right along with Gilbert’s office and cell phone numbers. When the phone started to ring, she held her breath.
“Hello.” He sounded tentative, uncertain. Before dialing his number, she had put in the code that would block her caller ID.
“Is this Detective Gilbert Morris?” Ali asked. Her tone was brisk, businesslike.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “But who’s calling, please?”
“My name is Alison Reynolds,” she said. “I called earlier and left you two messages. You didn’t call me back.”
“This is an unlisted number. How did you-”
“Listen very carefully,” she said. “I have important information, but since you probably won’t believe me, I want you to call a third party. Do you have a pencil handy?”
“I have a pen,” he said.
“Good. The guy’s name is Laughlin. Detective James Laughlin. He’s a retired homicide cop from Jefferson City, Missouri. I want you to call him. Ask him about Ermina Vlasic Cunningham. Once you do, I believe you’ll be interested in calling me back. Here’s his number.”
After reading off James Laughlin’s number, Ali hung up, without leaving her own number or answering any questions. When Gil Morris got around to calling her back-as she was certain he would-he could damned well go looking for her number. After all, she had already given it to him. Twice.
46
Grass Valley, California
Gilbert Morris was pissed. He had no idea who had given this pushy broad his number but he intended to find out and then there would be hell to pay. This was exactly why cops had unlisted numbers-so every crazy in the universe couldn’t pick up the phone and give them pieces of their ringy-dingy minds just because they felt like it.
His first instinct was to ignore it. She’d already told him that she was a friend of Brenda Riley. Yes, he probably should have picked up the phone and called her earlier today, but he hadn’t, primarily to get back at Chief Jackman more than anything else. He had told himself he’d make the call tomorrow. But now she’d had nerve enough to call him at home. On his unlisted number.
But still, something about the call rang true. Who the hell was Ermina Cunningham anyway? And who was Detective James Laughlin? And what did any of it have to do with the price of tea in China?
Finally curiosity got the better of him. He called the number. It was two o’clock in California. Four o’clock in
