had evidently been on the floor, and set it on the counter. That was when Ali realized what she was seeing was most likely a strongbox.
For a moment Sanders struggled with the latch. When he wrenched the box open, he held it along the edge of the counter and shoved the mound of chips inside. When he was done and the strongbox was latched, he waited while Ballentine finished loading his briefcase with the second pile of tokens. Once Ballentine’s briefcase was closed, the two men shook hands briefly. After that, Ballentine turned and headed for the baccarat tables, while Sanders took his loaded strongbox and walked away.
The third and final clip showed Sanders alone, carrying the strongbox and exiting the casino. By the time it ended, Ali was already on the phone to Stuart Ramey. “Any idea how much money was there?” she asked.
“Five hundred thousand,” Stuart said.
“Each chip is worth a thousand bucks?” Ali asked.
“That’s right. My BFF was able to find out because special arrangements for cashing a cashier’s check of that size had been made in advance. To prevent money laundering, transactions of that size are also reported to the IRS. The chips come out in stacks of ten each for ease of counting. Looks to me like Sanders got the lion’s share- thirty stacks, as opposed to Ballentine’s measly twenty.”
“So we’re talking about three hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yup,” Stuart said. “And he walked out of the place carrying it in that little metal box.”
Stuart may have said “metal,” but Ali’s mind immediately translated it into something else-“little tin box.” One of the things Ali had inherited from her aunt Evie, along with the double-wide mobile home, was an extensive collection of musical comedy recordings, including the almost forgotten original cast recording of
Somehow Ali doubted James Mason Sanders had been humming a few bars of that as he walked through the casino with that box full of chips, but he should have been. “That’s a big bundle of money to be carrying around, even in broad daylight,” she said. “Did you check the tapes to see if anyone followed him out?”
“I already thought of that, and the answer is no,” Stuart said. “Nobody followed him. Sanders walked out the main entrance, hailed a cab, and went straight back to the Mission. I got the cab’s number from the security tapes. I already checked the cabbie’s records.”
“So he leaves the casino with three hundred thousand bucks, and in the next several days, he drops five thousand. Less than a week later, Sanders turns up dead. So where’s the rest of the money? Did somebody search his room?”
“Yes,” Stuart said. “He stayed in a one-bedroom unit at the Mission. Room and board were part of the paycheck. His unit was searched by the North Las Vegas police department, who executed a warrant at the request of investigators from Yavapai County. No money was found on the premises, and neither were any gambling chips.”
“You know all this how?” Ali asked.
“A good buddy of mine works for them,” Stuart answered.
In Ali’s estimation, Stuart Ramey had “good buddies” almost everywhere.
“What about the strongbox?” Ali asked. “Did they find that?”
“Nope.
“We know he picked up the money,” Ali mused. “He evidently preferred having chips rather than cash. How come?”
“He sure as hell didn’t put it in the bank,” Stuart said, “at least not into any of the accounts I’ve been able to find.”
“So if James Sanders was still carrying the chips around, maybe his death was a straight-out armed robbery. That scenario makes it less likely that his case had anything to do with Gemma Ralston’s death, even with the geographical proximity.”
“Would you like me to keep following up on the money situation?” Stuart asked.
“Yes,” Ali answered. “I’m guessing we’re late to the party. We’re probably not the first ones to learn about those gambling chips, and we’re not the first ones who are asking what happened to them, either. A reporter from the
“I’ll look into it,” Stuart said. “Anything else?”
“Also see what else you can find out about Sanders’s pal Ballentine,” Ali said. “You said Gemma Ralston’s Hearts Afire profile said she was looking for a high-end meaningless relationship. With a boatful of new money, Ballentine or even Sanders could be likely targets for someone like her.”
“You’re right,” Stuart agreed. “Could be.”
“Sorry, Stuart,” Ali said. “I’ve got another call.” She switched over to find Paula Urban on the line, in a state of high umbrage.
“Did anyone ever mention that Cap Horning is a complete jackass?”
It seemed to Ali that Sheriff Maxwell had come close, without using that exact word. “What’s he done now?” she asked.
“I’d like him to quit waffling on the deal Chip Ralston proposed. Either Horning takes it and lets Lynn Martinson walk, or else we go after her defense full-bore. The problem is, he has a while to go on that seventy- two-hour deadline, where he’ll either have to charge them or let them go. Do you have anything for me?”
Ali brought Paula up to date with what she had learned from Stuart.
“All right, then,” Paula said when Ali finished. “I think you’re right. With that much money involved, robbery is far more likely. So let’s step away from the Sanders situation and leave that one up to the cops while we concentrate on Gemma et al.”
“Okay,” Ali agreed. “I’ll be tracking Valerie Sloan as soon as I get showered and dressed and have some breakfast.”
“You stayed in Phoenix last night?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the Ritz,” Ali said.
“The Ritz! You’re not expecting to bill Beatrice Hart for that hotel room, are you?” Paula asked.
“No,” Ali said, grinning at B. “I’m pretty sure the hotel bill will be on someone else’s nickel.”
21
Valerie Baker Sloan lived in a condo development on the far side of Scottsdale Road that would have been considered a low-rent district by Paradise Valley standards. She was a blue-eyed blonde, but one in need of hair color. She had the nut-brown sun-damaged skin of a woman who spent much of her time in the great outdoors. In November, when visitors from the Midwest were all sporting shorts, she opened the door and showed her Arizona roots in her manner of dress-a jogging suit topped by a cardigan sweater knotted around her neck.
Ali had called ahead, so she was expected.
“You’re the writer?”
Ali nodded.
“Come on in,” Valerie said without bothering to ask for ID. “Please pardon the mess.”
She led the way into a spacious living room dominated by an immense rear-projection television set and an equally huge treadmill, along with a gym-worthy collection of high-end weight-lifting equipment. She shifted a pile of grimy clothing onto the floor behind the couch. Moving the clothing uncovered a pair of football jerseys with two and a half pairs of dusty cleats. She pushed those onto the floor in front of the couch, where they bounced off an accumulation of empty soda cans and dirty paper plates, some with pizza crusts attached.
“Twins,” Valerie explained, motioning Ali into a relatively clean easy chair. “Before the divorce, the boys had a separate room for all this junk and a housekeeper to pick up after them. Now we have this room, and I’m the
