“Have a seat. Would you care for a drink?”
A glass containing a half-consumed cocktail sat in front of Ralph Ames, along with a leather-bound menu and a thin file folder that he had closed as the hostess approached the table.
When in Rome… Brandon thought. “Sure,” he said, taking the indicated chair. “Campari and soda will be fine.”
Brandon wasted no time. He waited only as long as it took the hostess to go confer with a member of the wait-staff. If this was something he wanted no part of, it would be easier to leave after accepting a single drink than it would be after an entire lunch.
“What’s this all about, Mr. Ames?” he demanded.
The man handed over a business card that said “Ralph Ames, Attorney at Law.” The card listed two separate office addresses, one in Seattle and one in Scottsdale. So not a televangelist then but an attorney, which in Brandon Walker’s opinion, was probably worse.
“Do you ever play Powerball?” Ralph Ames asked.
“You mean as in the multistate lottery?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
A waiter arrived with Brandon’s Campari. He dropped off the drink and backed away, while a courteous busboy delivered a basket of fresh bread.
Brandon sipped his drink and considered his answer. “I spent too many years being a cop to be into legalized gambling. I know a few Indian tribes are making a killing at it. The income is helping change economic outlooks on some of the reservations, but no, lotteries aren’t for me.”
Ralph Ames smiled. “Nor for me,” he agreed. “But one of my clients was-in a big way. Her name was Hedda Brinker. She was German. Her husband, Toby, was Dutch, both of them Jews. They managed to escape Europe just ahead of the Nazis. They met on the boat coming over and married within weeks of arriving in New York. They came to Arizona and bought a dairy farm in what’s now pretty much downtown Scottsdale. Toby’s been gone for years, but he was cagey. He hung on to the land long enough to make money hand over fist in real estate.”
“The widow had all the money she needed, but she still played Lotto?” Brandon asked.
“That’s right. You may have read about her in the papers. She hit it big-a $178 million jackpot-and hers was the only winning ticket.”
Their waiter made a tentative approach. Ralph Ames waved him away.
“So the lady was loaded twice over. What does this have to do with me?” Brandon asked.
“I’m coming to that. Hedda and Toby Brinker had a single daughter-an only child named Ursula-who was born in 1938. Ursula was bright, outgoing, and popular. She was a cheerleader, student-body treasurer, and valedictorian of her class. She was murdered by person or persons unknown during spring break of her junior year at Arizona State University in Tempe.”
Brandon shifted uneasily in his chair. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Having money isn’t everything.” He paused and then asked, “The case was never solved?”
Ralph Ames shook his head. “Never. It’s still open even now.”
“That’s too bad.”
“According to Hedda, Toby always believed that whoever did it was well connected-better connected than they were-and that the reason the killer was never caught was due to some kind of cover-up, but even the private investigators Toby hired-and he hired several-were never able to come up with an answer or even with a viable suspect. And they didn’t find any evidence of a cover-up, either.”
“If the father’s own investigators couldn’t solve it, you sure as hell don’t expect me to do it more than forty years later,” Brandon put in. “If that’s what you’re after, it’s wishful thinking.”
“Not you personally,” Ralph Ames agreed, “but it’s possible the case will be solved eventually. Stranger things have happened. But to get back on track-as you can well imagine, Ursula’s death haunted Toby. According to Hedda, he never got over it. The Brinkers were my father’s clients. When Dad retired, they came to me. After Toby’s death, and since they had no living heirs, Hedda talked to me several times about the Vidocq Society. Ever heard of it?”
“Sure,” Brandon returned. “They’re someplace back east-Philadelphia, I think. As I remember, it’s a group made up mostly of retired cops and FBI agents and forensics folks who get together occasionally and decide whether or not to follow up on some cold case or other.”
Ralph Ames nodded. “That’s right. Hedda saw a television program about them, and she was really interested. She tried to get them to take on Ursula’s case. They took a pass.”
“So?”
“She asked if I thought she had enough money to start the same kind of thing on this side of the country-on the West Coast, actually from the Mississippi on,” Ames replied. “I told her I didn’t think she had sufficient funds to attempt such a major undertaking.”
“And then she won the jackpot.”
“That’s right. She didn’t collect the first proceeds until after she had gone to the trouble of creating a 501 C nonprofit for the money to be paid into. It’s called The Last Chance. Membership in TLC is by invitation only. We search out and encourage participation by mostly retired police investigators and forensics experts-people we believe will be motivated by the idea of helping fix the unfixable. We choose people we think share our goals and objectives.
“Investigators volunteer their services and expertise, although TLC handles their expenses, pays for laboratory facilities and analyses. TLC also supplies clerical and other support personnel. There are monthly meetings-mostly in Phoenix but sometimes in Denver-where people come and make presentations about their particular cold cases. The presenters are usually family members who understand that their local law enforcement agencies are either unwilling or unable to invest additional assets on what they regard as a dead-end investigation. Sometimes two or three TLC members will tackle a case. Other times, the group will vote to approach it en masse.
“G. T. Farrell was a young campus cop at Arizona State University when Ursula Brinker was murdered. Over the years he stayed in touch with Hedda and Toby. He’s one of our founding members, and he wanted to know if you-”
Brandon Walker could barely believe his ears. Here was someone offering him a hand off the scrap heap of life-someone who thought Brandon Walker still had what it took in terms of experience and expertise to make a difference.
“Don’t say another word,” Brandon Walker said, finishing off his Campari. “I’m in. Next time you see Geet Farrell, tell him I owe him big.”
“Tell him yourself,” Ralph Ames replied. “The next meeting is two weeks from now at the Westin in Denver. I’ll have the TLC travel agent contact you about flight arrangements.”
Ames picked up his menu and drew a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket. “Since that’s out of the way,” he added, perusing the selections, “how about some lunch?”
Of course it had been a snap decision, and Brandon had beaten himself up about it later on. He had lunged at Ralph Ames’s ego-salvaging proposal like a drowning sailor grabbing for a lifeline, and later wondered if he’d appeared too desperate. Brandon doubted Ralph Ames had even the dimmest concept of being cast off and ignored-how living a forgotten half-life made you second-guess everything you’d ever done.
But six months later, Brandon Walker knew that, snap decision or not, hooking up with Ralph Ames and TLC hadn’t been wrong. It had given him his life back-his life and purpose, both. And now, thanks to Fat Crack Ortiz, Brandon Walker had the responsibility for a case that needed to be shepherded into and through The Last Chance.
He was surprised by how excited he felt and, at the same time, how guilty. As he carried the iced-tea-laden tray back into the living room, he was only too aware that his own rush of newfound happiness came as a direct result of someone else’s long-term hurt and heartbreak.
Brandon Walker suddenly had a job to do and a case to work on-a real case. Emma Ortiz and Hedda Brinker had nothing in common but their two murdered daughters. And because of them, Brandon Walker had returned from the dead.
Maria Elena Dominguez lay naked on the bed and waited, drowning in despair. She had no way to tell time. In
