building.
“Oops,” Ali said. “It looks to me like you’ve got company. A pair of cops just went into your office.”
Sylvia turned around and stared out the window. “They blocked my car,” she said.
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “I’m pretty sure they want to talk to you in person.”
“What should I tell them?”
“The truth,” Ali answered. “You don’t know where A.J. got the gun. You may be tempted to give him an alibi by claiming he was home the whole time, but save your breath. Pretending it’s impossible for A.J. to sneak out of the house at night without your knowledge is a joke. I know for a fact that he did it at least once yesterday.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him. He came out of the house after my interview with you. He was carrying a backpack loaded with the strongbox containing all those gambling tokens. He put it in the trunk of the car and went back inside without your ever being the wiser.”
Sylvia said nothing. “He’s been playing me,” she said finally, making no effort to hide her disappointment.
“It certainly sounds like it,” Ali agreed, “but that makes him a kid, not a killer. You need to go talk to the cops now. Don’t make them come into the restaurant looking for you. It’ll be better if you show up voluntarily. You’ll look less like you’ve got something to hide.”
“What’s going to happen to A.J.?”
“I’m not sure,” Ali answered. “For the next little while, he’s going to be a jurisdictional football. Phoenix PD will want to charge him on the unlawful possession of a firearm. Right now he’s a person of interest in Yavapai County. If the weapon they found on him turns out to be the murder weapon, the county prosecutor will be the one lodging possible homicide charges against him. My best guess is that Yavapai will ultimately win the toss. The chief detective there, Dave Holman, is a friend of mine. He can be a jerk on occasion, especially when he’s shorthanded and dealing with two separate homicides, but he’s also a straight shooter. I’m not sure the same can be said for Cap Horning, the Yavapai County prosecutor. Make sure A.J. gets a court-appointed attorney before he talks to anyone.”
“What about you?” Sylvia asked, giving Ali an appraising look. “Are you a straight shooter?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “I am, but I don’t have any way of proving it. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“What’s your part in all of this?” Sylvia asked. “Why are you helping us? Why are you helping A.J.?”
“I have a son whom I raised on my own a lot of the time. A.J. reminds me of him. They’re both good kids. From what I can tell, A.J. was an unwitting pawn in whatever was going on between you and his father. I’m sure he picked up on the idea that the only way he’d be able to accept this very generous gift from his father-a life-changing gift-was to try to keep it a secret from you. That might have worked for him if you hadn’t raised him to be a responsible kind of guy who, when the chips were down, would pick up a phone and try to help a dying woman by calling 911.”
“That’s true,” Sylvia said. “He is a good kid.”
“From what I’ve learned about James Sanders, he got sold down the river by his friends and by the criminal justice system for something that was very likely an ill-informed teenage prank. I’d like to see that his son gets a better deal. Wouldn’t you?”
Sylvia nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
“Now get going,” Ali said, dismissing her. “And remember, when you talk to the cops, tell the truth, but the less you say, the better.”
Sylvia sat for a moment longer, studying Ali. Then she seemed to pull herself together. “All right, then,” she said, standing up. “I guess I’d better go do this.”
Watching her go, Ali couldn’t help but be astounded by the remarkable transformation between the panicked woman who had come into the restaurant and the resolute one leaving. Striding determinedly across the parking lot, Sylvia Sanders reminded Ali of a mama bear on the way to rescue her endangered cub.
She would either succeed, or she’d die trying.
24
While Sylvia marched across the parking lot and into the office building, Ali’s phone rang.
“Hey,” B. said. “Busy morning?”
“Very,” Ali said without going into detail. “How about you?”
“Checkout time is fast approaching. I’m on my way to the first of two meetings scheduled for this afternoon, then I need to head back to Sedona. Do you want me to pack up your stuff and check you out of the hotel, or do you want to keep the room for another night?”
Ali had expected to be back from her meeting with Valerie Sloan in plenty of time to do her own packing. “Sorry,” she said. “I got held up, and I’m all the way out in Tempe. If you don’t mind grabbing my stuff, I’d appreciate it.”
“Don’t mind at all,” B. said. “See you at home.”
For the next ten minutes, Ali sat in the booth, sipping her drink, and watching the building into which Sylvia Sanders had disappeared. At last the glass doors opened. Sylvia emerged first, accompanied by one of the plainclothes detectives and followed by the second. The first one helped her into the back of one of the waiting unmarked patrol cars. Then he and his partner got into the car and drove out of the parking lot, followed closely by the vehicle with a uniformed officer that had been keeping Sylvia’s Passat blocked in its parking place.
Still unsure what to do next, Ali was gathering her things to leave when Stuart Ramey called. “Any luck on the Dennis front?” she asked, subsiding back into the booth.
“Who was he, then?” Ali asked.
“You’re sure the witness got the name right?”
“Relatively,” Ali said. “I already checked with Gemma’s one tennis partner earlier today. She claimed they never discussed romantic entanglements. Maybe I should have another chat with the other one.” Ali stopped talking abruptly when she realized what she’d said. “Maybe that’s it,” she said.
“Maybe what?” Stuart sounded genuinely puzzled.
“Maybe Gemma said the word ‘tennis,’ not Dennis,” Ali explained excitedly. “Molly Handraker told me that she and Gemma played tennis on Monday afternoon. Maybe Gemma was talking about something that happened while they were playing or after they finished.” Calling up her notes, Ali read through them until she found what she was looking for. “Last night’s interview with Molly ended a little abruptly. I think I’ll go back to Paradise Valley and ask her about Dennis. And I’m going to need an address and phone number for a student at North High School in Phoenix. Sasha Miller.”
“Will do,” Stuart said.
Minutes later, feeling more like a commuter than anything else, Ali headed north on the 51. Whatever Gemma’s dying word had been, it was the best clue Ali had, and she was sure that everyone else involved in the case-especially Dave Holman-was currently too busy with other things to follow up on it. The jurisdictional wrangling over what to do about A.J. was going to keep any number of people completely occupied for the next several hours. Right that moment, Ali had a clear field, and she intended to use it.
Her first plan was to drive back to the Ralston place on Upper Glen Road, but as she turned off on Lincoln and saw the sign to the Paradise Valley Country Club, she changed her mind. The last time Molly Handraker had seen Gemma Ralston, she was sitting at the bar in the country club. With any luck, someone-the bartender, maybe? — had noticed Gemma leaving with someone else, maybe even the mysterious Dennis.
The country club was for members only, but Ali had a way around that. Pulling over on a side road, she found the number, called it, and asked to be connected to the dining room.
“This is Doris Ralston’s new PA,” she said. “She needs a reservation for lunch at twelve-thirty today, and she’s expecting a guest-Ali Reynolds. Got that?”
“Of course,” the hostess said. “I’m assuming she’d like her usual table? And Ms. Handraker will be there as
