Jefferson City, Missouri. A woman answered with an accent so southern that it sounded like verbal honey.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “He’ll be right here.”
“Jim here,” a male voice said a minute or so later. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Gilbert Morris,” Gil said, feeling stupid. “I’m a homicide detective with the Grass Valley Police Department in Grass Valley, California. Someone suggested that I should give you a call and ask you about someone named Ermina Vlasic Cunningham. I’m not sure why.”
“That’s odd,” Laughlin said. “That’s the second request I’ve had for information about her in as many days. Someone else was asking about her six months or so ago. Long story short, Ermina lived here for a few years with her adoptive parents, Lola and Sam Cunningham. Lola died. Sam supposedly committed suicide. I didn’t buy it then, and I’m not buying it now. I know, as sure as you’re born, that Ermina killed her dad but I’ve got no way to prove it. The inquest ruled Sam’s death a suicide. The daughter was never charged.”
Gil knew what was coming before he ever asked the question. “How did he die?”
“He was drunk,” Tom said. “Somebody put a plastic bag over his head and taped it shut.”
“Holy crap!” Gil said. “And now she may have done it again!”
He ended the call, opened the earlier message-the one he had ignored-and jotted down Ali’s name and phone number before calling her back.
“Okay,” he said, “I talked to Laughlin. Where are you? What have you got? How did you make the connection, and are you a cop?”
Disregarding all Gil’s questions, Ali asked, “Do you have a fax machine?”
Gil glanced around his clean but bare-bones living room. “Are you kidding? I’m at home. I barely have a microwave. Why?”
“An iPhone maybe?”
“Lady, look, if you’re looking for high tech, I’m not your guy. There’s a fax machine at the office. What do you want to send me?”
“As I told you in my earlier message, Brenda was my friend. On Friday, just before she disappeared, she sent me an e-mail, requesting that I order a background check on Ermina Blaylock. That’s what led me to Detective Laughlin.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“No. Not for lack of trying. I made it through the academy but my department furloughed me due to budgetary considerations.”
“So what are you, then, a glorified PI?”
“I’m not a PI, and I’m currently in Salton City, east of Palm Springs. I’ve just come from the home of one of Mark and Mina Blaylock’s neighbors. The woman, Florence Haywood, witnessed Ermina burning something in a barbecue grill bonfire in the early hours of Sunday morning. Later on, that same woman-sort of a neighborhood busybody-saw Mark Blaylock dump the ashes into a wheelbarrow and bury them. We used a metal detector to locate the site. It’s marked so we can find it again. Florence was all set to dig it up. I cautioned her that since this might be critical evidence, she needed to leave it as is.”
Gil thought about that for a minute. “Salton City. What county is that, Riverside?”
“Imperial,” Ali replied.
“I’m a city cop. A Grass Valley cop investigating a crime that happened inside my city limits. There’s no way a judge is going to grant me a request for a search warrant in a county that’s half a state away from here so I can try to figure out who killed Richard Lowensdale.”
“I don’t give a damn about Richard Lowensdale,” Ali told him. “I want to know what happened to Brenda Riley. As far as I’m concerned, those two cases are bound together, but whatever Mark Blaylock was seen burying, it isn’t on private property,” Ali replied.
“It’s public property?”
“Yes. It’s out on the beach. No one is going to require a search warrant to dig it up, but in order to maintain the chain of evidence, I need a sworn officer in attendance. You’re my first choice.”
“Look,” Gil said. “I appreciate the tip, I really do. And I’d like to be there, but it’s not going to happen. I already got hauled into my chief’s office earlier today and bitched out for all the OT I put in this weekend. I was given a direct order to stand down. Based on that, I can’t very well go back to him now and say, ‘By the way, I need to take a four-hundred-mile side trip in hopes of picking up some evidence.’ Besides, even if he said yes, that’s at least a ten-hour trip, most likely longer today. There’ll be lots of people heading home after the three-day weekend.
“I’m friends with a Nevada County detective named Frank Escobar. Since Brenda Riley’s effects were found in the county, he’s the one assigned to her possible suicide. Maybe he has some connections down where you are.”
“The more people we involve, the more cumbersome it’s going to be,” Ali told him. “Did I understand you to say you’re off work today? That your chief sent you home?”
“Yes.”
“So do me a favor,” she said. “Give me the fax number for your department. There’s a general store here. I already checked. They happen to have a working fax machine. I’ll send you a copy of this report so you’ll have it in hand. I’ll also send you what I have on Richard Lowensdale. Once you read the fax, give me another call. By then maybe I’ll be able to figure out what our next move should be.”
But still, Gil had to admit he was intrigued. He had to look at one of his own business cards to come up with the fax number.
“I need to shower,” he said, after giving it to her. “It’ll take me half an hour or so.”
“All right,” she said. “Bye.”
47
Salton City, California
The Salton City Pay and Tote was jammed with customers buying drinks, sandwiches, chips, snacks, and gas for their journeys home. Ali waited in line. When she turned over her stack of documents to be faxed, the harassed clerk shook her head.
“All of these? Can’t you see I’m busy? This is going to take time.”
Ali took a twenty from her purse and laid it on the counter. “That’s for you,” she said. “I’ll pay for the faxes separately.”
“Okay,” the clerk said. “Just a minute.”
It took more than a minute-lots more. The machine was balky. The first three attempts, it cut off after sending only three pages, and each time the clerk started it, she came back to the cash register to help the next person in line.
While Ali waited, she used her iPhone to scroll through her e-mail account.
During Ali’s years in California, as the wife of network executive Paul Grayson in a spare-no-expense era, she had made use of his company’s corporate jet connections on numerous occasions. Once the network started cutting costs and shedding “nonessential” personnel, the corporate jets as well as their pilots had been jettisoned at about the same time Ali had been kicked off the air.
The pilots, most of them former military, were a good bunch of guys. Somehow a few of them had banded together with some other pilots, pooled their resources, and purchased a couple of the network’s stable of secondhand jets. They had used those aircraft to start their own charter service. In turbulent financial times and against all odds, they had started You-Go Aviation and were somehow succeeding at being the low-priced spread in California’s once-thriving private jet business.
Ali wasn’t sure how her e-mail address had been added to You-Go’s customer mailing list, but she received frequent updates advertising their various specials, one of which was $1,995 an hour all in for charters flying anywhere in California, Arizona, and Nevada. Ali remembered from reading their corporate literature that from
