by J. A. Jance
"Let's go then," Ali said, opening her door. "I know Clemencia. At least I've met her. Maybe she'll talk to me."
Dave Holman didn't budge. "Are you coming or not?" Ali asked.
"You and Eddie go on ahead," Dave said. "And you'd better make it quick. If Hubbard and Martin come back with a warrant, this may be your only chance."
"And what are you going to do?" Ali asked.
"I'll let you know if it works," Dave replied.
Ali scrambled out of the Nissan and motioned for Eddie Duarte to join her. A moment later, they were standing on the porch in front of a sun-bleached mahogany door. Ali pressed the doorbell, but there was no answering ring from inside. While she waited, Ali edged over to one of the windows. The curtains had been pulled shut, but there was enough of a space left between them that Ali was able to see into the living room, where a stack of taped cardboard boxes and a collection of mismatched luggage gave evidence of hurried packing. Apparently Jesus and Clemencia Sanchez were headed out of Dodge.
Convinced the doorbell wasn't in working order, Ali tried knocking instead. Nothing happened then, either.
"Her name is Clemencia," Ali told Eddie. "Call out to her. Tell her we know she's inside. Tell her I'm here. Say I need to talk to her and that we aren't going away until I dothat we'll stay here all afternoon if necessary. Tell her that the neighbors already saw the cops come and go, and they're watching us now."
It was several long minutes before Clemencia Sanchez finally came to the door. She pulled it open slightly and then slipped outside. The look she leveled in Ali's direction was nothing short of venomous.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"Where's Jesus?" Ali returned. "I need to talk to him."
Ali knew for sure that Clemencia understood that much English, but the woman deliberately turned away from her, looking instead to Eddie as though she expected understanding from him rather than a translation, which he nonetheless provided.
"He's gone," Clemencia answered. "He went away."
"Gone where?" Ali asked.
Clemencia shrugged. "It doesn't matter. He isn't coming back."
"But I want to give him his job back," Ali said. "He should never have been fired in the first place. It was a mistake."
Unimpressed, Clemencia shrugged again. Ali tried another tack.
"The cops that were here before. What did they want?"
Clemencia's dark eyes sparked with sudden fury. Her nostrils flared. "Jesus knew they would come for him, and they did. That's why he left, thank God. He went away before they got here."
"But why would they come for him?" Ali asked.
"Because that awful woman fired him," Clemencia said in a barrage of angry Spanish. "You wanted him gone, but she was the one who did the dirty work for you. And when he was ready to leave and went to turn in his keys, there she wasat the bottom of the stairs."
"Monique had already fallen before Jesus left? Why didn't he call for help?"
"Because he thought she was already dead," Clemencia answered. "It looked to him like she was dead. And Jesus knew what the cops would thinkthat since she fired him, he killed her. He dropped his key ring, and he's sure they found it. They'll find his fingerprints there, too, and they'll blame him." For the first time, Clemencia's fury seemed to dissolve into something closer to despair. She stopped speaking and blinked back tears.
At the time the EMTs had been moving Monique to the gurney, Ali had been too busy to pay any attention to the key ring. She had been focused instead on the phone. But she remembered it now. And she knew, just as the detectives had, that the keys had belonged to Jesus Sanchez because his name had been on the ring as well. Paul Grayson had been a great one for wielding his P-Touch labeler. Everyone who had access to the house or the grounds, Ali included, had been issued appropriate sets of keys with their names clearly visible.
She also understood why Jesus had chosen to disappear. She knew full well that the U.S. Constitution aside, all men are not created equal. Hispanics or blacks accused of crimes often found themselves on an entirely different legal track than Anglos didone with an automatic presumption of guilt rather than innocence. In fact, she thought wryly, the same thing held true when media babes ended up accused of crimes they may not have committed.
"I'd like to help," Ali said quietly.
Without needing or waiting for Eddie to translate, Clemencia replied, "Why?"
"Because I know what it feels like to be suspected of doing something you haven't done," Ali said. She scrounged in her purse until she found one of Victor's cards. She handed it over. "If Jesus wants an attorney, have him call this man."
Clemencia studied the gold-embossed card then handed it back. "We could not afford someone like this," she said.
Just then Ali remembered Velma T's nephew. Maybe Jesus and Clemencia wouldn't find him quite as daunting. "There's another man I could recommend then," Ali said. "I'll forward his information to your niece, Andrea."
"But still amp;" Clemencia objected. "We can't afford to pay for any attorney."
"I can afford it," Ali said. "And I will. Be sure to tell Jesus that when you talk to him. And be sure he knows that if he wants it, he still has a job."
With that, she turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 12
Eddie Duarte stayed on the porch for several minutes after Ali returned to the car and while she was giving Dave a brief summary of what had transpired.
"You gave Jesus Sanchez Victor Angeleri's card?" he asked incredulously. "Who's going to pay the bill? I'd hate to think what his hourly billable rate is."
"She didn't take it," Ali said. "But I'll pay for whatever attorney they do hire."
"So now you're setting out to save the world?"
"Only the parts of it I've screwed up," Ali responded.
"Excuse me," Dave returned. "As far as I can tell, you had nothing at all to do with the fact that Monique Ragsdale took a header down those stairs."
"No, but if it turns out she was pushed"
"She was," Dave interjected.
"You know that for sure?" Ali asked.
Dave nodded. "I have a source who confirmed it as a suspected homicide while you were busy with Clemencia."
"Then whoever's responsible is probably connected to me as well," Ali asserted. "And if Jesus is being wrongly blamed for what happened to her? Well, I'm connected to him, too."
"I hope your husband left you a ton of money then," Dave said. "It sounds like you're going to need it."
Eddie Duarte approached Ali's side of the car and tapped on the window. She rolled it down.
"What did Clemencia say after I left?" Ali asked.
Eddie frowned. "She told me that you're as evil as your husband."
That revelation hurt Ali's feelings. Personally, she had to agree about Paulhe was evilbut Ali didn't like being tarred with the same brush.
"I told her I knew you were a good person," Eddie continued. "And that if you said you would do something, you would do it. I'm not sure she believed me, though."
Why would she? Ali thought. "Thank you for saying that, Eddie, and thank you for coming," she added. "I really appreciate your help."
"Not that it did much good," Eddie said dejectedly and, offering a good-bye, returned to his car.
"Where to now?" Dave asked. "Back to the hotel?"
Ali nodded.
"How did you find out Monique's death is now classified as a homicide?" Ali asked. "Who told you?"
"Ken Nickerson is one of my good old buddies from the Marines. We served together in Iraq. Now he works for LAPD."
"Ken's the one who got you Andrea Morales's address information?" Ali asked.
"That's right. While you were talking to Clemencia, I called him up and asked him straight out if they had autopsy results back on Monique Ragsdale, and they did."
"Already?" Ali asked.
Dave nodded. "Preliminary," he said. "It may be Sunday, but since it's a high-profile case, the guys over on Nort
h Mission Road really got their rears in gear on this one."
"And?" Ali asked.
"Bruising on her arms and on her back. Defensive wounds and definite signs of a struggle. No sexual assault. They took scrapings from under her nails. There could be identifiable DNA found in those. The real problem for Jesus Sanchez is that the cops found something at the crime scene that links him to Monique's death."
"I know," Ali said. "Keys with his name on them. I saw them, too. According to what Jesus told Clemencia, after he was let go, he came to the house to turn in his keys. That's when he found Monique at the bottom of the stairs. I'm sure he was upset at seeing her like that, and I don't blame him. I know how I felt when we found her later on. He must have panicked and dropped his keys. Later on, when he realized what had happened, he knew the cops would find them and come looking for himwhich they did. That's probably why he took off."
"The big question is, were the keys under the victim or were they beside her?" Dave asked. "If they were under, it means the keys and Jesus were probably there either before she fell or at the same time. In that case, things are looking pretty grim for poor old Jesus. If the keys were found nearby, they could have been dropped at the same time or either before or after the fact."
Ali thought about that. "I don't know," she said finally. "I don't remember seeing them until after the EMTs put Monique on the stretcher. It could be they were right there in plain sight the whole time, and we just didn't notice them."
"One way or the other, why is it you think it's your responsibility to hire a defense attorney for Mr. Sanchez?"
"Shut up and drive," Ali returned.
The fact that Dave Holman did so made Ali like him better.
"And that's not all," he said a few minutes later.
"There's more?"
"Actually, yes. It turns out your Sumo Sudoku pal's Web site bio didn't tell the whole story."
"What did he leave out?"
"That when he was eighteen he went to prison for grand theft auto. It's not the kind of thing somebody puts on a resume when he's out trolling for well-heeled investors."
"What if Paul suspected something was going on between April and Tracy? What if he started looking into McLaughlin's background and found out some of this stuff?" Ali asked.
"Sounds like possible motive to me," Dave said.
"Except the cops aren't looking in that direction."
"Not yet," Dave said. "But there's no reason we can't point them that way."
Without missing the critical merge, it didn't take nearly as long to get back to the hotel as it had taken to drive to Pico Gardens. "Are you coming up?" Ali asked, as they drove up to the entrance.
"I think I'll take a pass," Dave said. "I want to go back to my place and call my kids. I try to talk to them on Sunday afternoons."
"Just drop me at the front door then," Ali said. "At this point I don't care if the lobby is teeming with reporters. I'm tired of sneaking around. I'll just brazen it out."
"Good girl," Dave said. "I'm glad to hear it. Maybe you can afford to keep handing over those terrific tips. I can't."
The hotel lobby was completely devoid of reporters as Ali made her way upstairs, leading her to conclude that something more interesting must have turned up as fodder for that evening's news broadcasts. Back in the room she was surprised to find her mother wasn't there. Ali tried calling Edie's cell phone. When the call went to voice mail, Ali hung up. Maybe Edie had decided to take advantage of being in L.A. by going to a movie. Edie preferred what her husband called "arty" films to his shoot-'em-ups, but the former seldom made it to the screens of Sedona's single multiplex.
Kicking off her tennies, Ali returned her Glock to the safe and raided the honor bar for a Diet Sprite. While there she noticed something odd. Her mother carried her daily allocation of vitamins in a series of ziplock sandwich bags, which she carefully saved each day, packing them away for future use. One of those plastic bags lay in the armoire next to the TV remote. It contained a single cigarette butt.
Ali picked up the bag and examined the contents. The filtered stub was unremarkable in every way. There was no lipstick residue that might indicate that whoever had smoked it was a female. For Edie, a lifelong vociferous nonsmoker, to see fit to keep the remains of a cigarette in what was a clearly designated nonsmoking room could only mean Edie was playing detective in her own right.
Replacing the bag, Ali took her soda to the couch, sat down, picked up her computer, logged on, and googled Richard Dahlgood, Velma T's nephew. There were several hits, all of them concerning appearances in state and federal courts on behalf of various clients. From everything Ali was able to glean from those reports, Dahlgood seemed like the real deal.
The first e-mail she sent was to Velma T in Laguna.
Dear Velma,
A friend of mine may well be in need of your nephew's services. Please let him know that if he is contacted in regard to defending someone named Jesus Sanchez, he should be in touch with me so arrangements can be made for handling any necessary retainer. My contact phone number is listed below.
ALI
Next Ali wrote to Andrea Morales.
Dear Andrea,
I spoke to your aunt, Clemencia Sanchez, earlier today. It seems likely that your uncle, Jesus, may require the services of a defense attorney. A friend of mine has recommended someone named Richard Dahlgood. Although I don't know the man personally, he does appear to have a considerable defense practice here in the L.A. area. His contact information is listed below.
If your aunt and uncle are interested in engaging Mr. Dahlgood's services, please let me know so I can make arrangements for payment of any required retainer. Also, please let your uncle know that he is back on my payroll at the moment regardless of whether or not he is able to return to work. Also tell him the house on Robert Lane is currently off-limits to all of us due to the ongoing police investigation. I will need to know where his pay envelopes should be delivered.
Also, if he has any information concerning the whereabouts of Henrietta Jackson, the cook who was fired along with him, or of my former cook, Elvira Jimenez, I would appreciate knowing how to reach them. I'm concerned that Elvira may have been let go under circumstances similar to what happened to your uncle.
REGARDS,
ALI REYNOLDS
Several readers weighed in on Ali's legal issues. Those she responded to briefly and let go. Several others addressed her earlier post about her mother.
Dear Babe,
I read several blogs a day and have been a fan of yours for some time. Not all mothers are created equal. You're lucky. Your mother sounds wonderful. Mine was poison. I'm glad she's dead.
ALMA
That one Ali posted. As she kept reading, she found that the people who had written in were divided almost fifty-fifty on either side of the good mother/bad mother spectrum. By the time she had worked her way through that set of correspondence and added several more posts, Ali found herself agreeing with Alma's assessment. Ali Reynolds really was lucky.
As the afternoon waned, Ali realized she was hungry. Edie had not yet returned. Ali tried calling her mother's cell againto no avail. Once again the call went straight to voice mail. Just to be sure, Ali checked her own phone to see if she had missed receiving a message. She hadn't. She checked the room phone for messages as well. No luck. Finally she called down to the desk. Edie hadn't left a note there, either. And then, just to cover all the bases, she tried April's phones, too, both her room and her cell. Again, no answer.
Feeling the first inkling of concern, Ali transferred over to the bell captain. "This is Ali Reynolds," she said.
Her reputation for generous tipping had preceded her. For Ali Reynolds no ticket number was required. "Right, Ms. Reynolds," the bell captain said at once. "Would you like me to have your vehicle brought around to the back?"
"No," she said. "I'm actually calling about my mother's vehicle. Is it there?"
"Do you have the valet number for t
hat one?"
"No," Ali replied. "It's a white Oldsmobile Alero with Arizona plates."
"Oh, that one," he said. "It was self-parked. She left like she was headed to a fire sometime right around one. It was busy, and we were totally backed up here. She was in such a hurry that she almost ran down one of my guys."
"Was she alone?"
"As far as I know."
Off the phone, Ali tried to imagine where Edie would have been going in such a hurry. As an out-of-town driver, she wasn't familiar with the L.A. area. Wherever it was, it was likely she would have needed detailed directions. If she hadn't asked one of the parking valets for help, maybe she had done so online.
Ali returned to her computer and checked out the search page, looking for the most recent searches. She expected to find a listing for MapQuest or one of the other online map providers. What she found instead was a list of several Iowa-based searches, including one for the Des Moines Register. Iowa. Tracy McLaughlin had been sent up for grand theft auto in Iowa.
Ali grabbed her phone and dialed Dave.
"What's up?" he asked.
"We may have a problem," Ali said. "I can't find my mother, and I'm pretty sure she's been playing detective. While I was gone, she was looking up something in the Des Moines Register."
"Smart woman," Dave said. "She must have been tracking Tracy McLaughlin, too."
"She may be smart, but she's also not here," Ali said. "At the hotel."
"Where'd she go?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you. I have no idea. The parking valet said she left in a hell of a hurry, but she didn't leave a note, and she's not answering her cell."
"How long has she been gone?"
"She left the hotel a little after one," Ali replied.
"Have you called your dad?" Dave asked. "Maybe she's called him."
"I can check," Ali said.
"Good. You do that," Dave said. "In the meantime, I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Ali was waiting at the hotel entrance when Dave pulled into the driveway in his Nissan. "Well?" he asked as she settled into the passenger seat.
"Dad hasn't heard from her," Ali reported. "His first thought was that she'd probably gone to see a bargain matinee. That was my idea, too, but the movie would be over by now. Dad's worried, and so am I. Should I call the cops and report her missing?"
