by J. A. Jance
“I don’t know much about guns,” A.J. admitted. “It’s a revolver, I think, and not very big.”
“A snub-nose, maybe?”
“I guess,” A.J. said. “Whoever put the gun there did it because they’re trying to frame me for my father’s death. Mom told me last night that the cops said my dad was carrying a large amount of money at the time he died, and now it’s gone. She also said he was shot at close range. I’ll bet the gun I found this morning is the murder weapon. As for the money?” He paused and didn’t continue.
“What about the money?” Ali urged.
A.J. took a deep breath. “I have it,” he croaked.
“You have it?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t take it. All two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth. My father gave it to me.”
“He gave it to you in person? You mean you saw him, met with him? What?”
“No. He left it for me and sent me directions so I could find it. Sent them through the mail. He wanted me to have the money, Ms. Reynolds. He wanted me to use it to go to school. I didn’t kill him to get it. Honest.”
A.J. seemed like a nice enough kid, and Ali wanted to believe him, but how many times on COPS had she heard dim-bulb crooks swear that the drugs or drug paraphernalia found in a purse or backpack didn’t belong to them and that they had no idea how the illicit goods might have gotten there. This sounded a little too close to the same thing. Before she could respond, A.J. plunged on.
“The problem is, as soon as they check my fingerprints, they’ll know I was there—at the crime scene.”
“What fingerprints?” Ali asked.
“The ones on the woman’s phone and on the shovel.”
“What shovel and what phone are we talking about?”
“I brought the shovel from home, and the phone is one I found near that woman, the one who died. I used it to call 911. At least I tried to call 911, but there wasn’t enough signal. A regular call wouldn’t go through. I had to text them instead.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ali said. “You’re saying you’re the one who called in the report about Gemma Ralston?”
“Right. The green-eyed woman. I went to the place my dad told me to, expecting to find the money, but I found her instead. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was hurt pretty bad, but I didn’t know she was dying. That’s why I tried to call 911.”
“So Gemma Ralston was alive when you got there.”
“She was for a little while, but not very long. I went back to the car to get some water for her, and when I came back, she was almost gone.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“A couple of words is all. It was hard for her to talk. I think she was talking about her boyfriend, or maybe a husband. Someone named Dennis. That’s all. It was awful, and I didn’t know what to do. There were ants and bugs and blood. It was like she was paralyzed or something. I mean, the phone was right there beside her, but she must not have been able to reach it.
“Anyway, when I came back from the car with the water, she was almost gone. A few minutes later she stopped breathing, and her eyes just glazed over. I’ve never been around someone dead like that. I panicked, I guess, and that’s when I took off. I was ditching school, and all I could think of was that I didn’t want to get caught.”
A.J. stopped talking as if he suddenly realized he had said too much. Ali realized that A. J. Sanders was the person of interest Dave Holman had been looking for in relation to Gemma Ralston’s death. Now, with the revelation about having his father’s missing money, A.J. would move into the prime-suspect column.
“Where was the money?” Ali asked.
“He hid it behind a boulder. Buried it. I dug it up.”
“And how did you know exactly where to dig?”
“He gave me directions. Six tenths of a mile from the turnoff; walk due north; find the rock with the heart on it,” A.J. recited. “So that’s where it was, just like he said, but I didn’t find it the same day I found the woman. That day I just got the hell out of there. Sasha and I went back yesterday after school and dug it up.”
“You’re going to need an attorney,” Ali said.
“Why?”
“Think about it. You were at the crime scene—twice—and investigators will be able to prove it. You have your father’s missing money. That looks bad. Now the gun thing. If there’s the slightest chance this is the murder weapon, you have to turn it in. You’re not allowed to withhold evidence. If the gun you found turns out to be the murder weapon, it’s going to be that much worse. Believe me, you will need an attorney.”
“How do we pay for an attorney? My mom can’t afford to hire one. I suppose I could use some of the money my father gave me.”
“No,” Ali said. “As soon as the homicide cops hear about that money, they’re going to consider it evidence. You won’t be able to touch it, but the court will appoint an attorney for you.”
“Am I going to end up in jail? If that happens, I probably won’t even graduate.” The poor kid sounded close to tears.
“Okay, okay,” Ali told him soothingly. “I can tell you’re upset. Where are you?”
“At school. I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot at North High on East Thomas.”
“Where’s the money?”
“It’s in the trunk. I took it into the house yesterday evening, but I was afraid my mom would be suspicious, so I smuggled it back out to the car. I barely slept all night, worrying that someone might steal it. We don’t have a garage, only a carport, and Camrys get stolen all the time. I have one of those steering-wheel locks, the Club, but I don’t know how well they work.”
“What about the gun you found? Where’s that?”
“It’s in the trunk, too.”
“Is it loaded or not?”
“I’ll go check. How do I tell?”
“Wait, wait,” Ali cautioned. “Whatever you do, do not open the trunk. Do not touch the gun.”
Shades of the terrible massacre at Columbine High flashed through Ali’s head. She knew that if she called for assistance and reported the presence of a gun at a high school, there would be an emergency response out of all proportion to the actual danger.
“Listen to me, A.J.,” Ali said. “I’m on my way there right now, coming from Scottsdale. At this time of day, it shouldn’t take long for me to get there. Tell me exactly where you are.”
“Like I said, I’m at school. In the student parking lot.”
“I’m from out of town,” Ali told him. “I need to know where the school is.”
“On Thomas, ten blocks east of Central, on the south side of the street.”
“Whereabouts in the parking lot?”
“The row closest to the street, three cars in. Why?”
“Because I want to know where to look for you. Once I get there, we’ll figure out what to do.”
By then Ali had already turned off Camelback and was headed south on Twenty-fourth. Just as she pulled into traffic, not one but five police cars—lights flashing and sirens screaming—came bearing down on her. She pulled over to the curb to let them roar past. There was a chance they might be going someplace else, but as she watched them race by, her intuition told her otherwise. She guessed they were headed the same place she was—the student parking lot at North High School. Last row. Third car in.
“Listen to me, A.J.,” she commanded urgently. “This is very important! Did you tell anyone at school that you had the gun?”
“Only my girlfriend, Sasha. Why?”
“A bunch of cops just went rolling past me, and I believe they’re headed your way. If they don’t come there, fine, we’re good. But if they’re coming for you, do not do anything to provoke them, do you understand? Step out of the car, put your phone on the ground, spread your feet, and stand with both hands on your car. Do not make any sudden moves, and whatever you do, don’t try to run!”
Ali pulled back into traffic in time to see the parade of speeding police cars slow down enoug
h to turn right on Thomas, convincing her that she had made the right call.
“Are they going to arrest me?” A.J. asked. He sounded scared, and she didn’t blame him.
“I can’t tell for sure,” Ali said, “but probably.”
She heard a choking sound like a stifled sob before A.J. managed to speak again. “What am I going to tell my mom?”
“I’ll tell her for you,” Ali offered. “Where is she? At home?”
“No. She went to work. Dr. Westmoreland’s office. He’s a dentist. His office is in Tempe, in the shopping center at the corner of Baseline and Rural roads.”
“Okay,” Ali said. “Now remember. If you’re taken into custody, all you say is ‘I want my lawyer.’ That’s it! After that, they can’t ask you anything else, and don’t tell them anything else. Nothing. Do not talk while you’re in the car, even with uniformed officers. Keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
In the background, Ali could already hear the wail of multiple police sirens. There could be no doubt. That was where they were going.
“No buts, A.J.,” Ali warned him. “Close your phone now. Get out of the car, put the phone on the ground, and then stand with both hands on the hood or the trunk of your car. If you make any sudden moves, you’re liable to end up dead.”
Afraid he would keep talking rather than following her directions, Ali punched the button to end the call in time to make her own right-hand turn onto Thomas. As soon as she did so, she could see a flock of emergency vehicles lined up across the street in front of her, creating a roadblock that diverted all westbound traffic off Thomas and either north or south on Sixteenth Street.
For A.J.’s sake, all Ali could hope was that he had heard what she’d said and done what she’d told him to do. If not, chances were, armed or not, in the next few minutes, a very promising young man might well be dead.
As for Dave Holman? Even though Ali knew what she had to do, she didn’t like it. When he found out about her phone call from A. J. Sanders, he was going to be even more bent out of shape. The problem was, A.J. had handed her a clue in Dave Holman’s homicide investigation, and as much as she might have wanted to, withholding that information wasn’t an option.
23
With westbound traffic already backing up, Ali executed a U-turn and made her way to the 51. While at a stop sign, she programmed Dr. Westmoreland’s Tempe address into her GPS. It would take a matter of minutes for the news of an armed confrontation at North High to spread through the city, and Ali felt compelled to make good on her promise to A.J. that she would be the one to let Sylvia Sanders know what was going on.
Once on the 51 and speeding southbound, she found Dave’s last call and punched send. “I wondered if you’d call me back and apologize,” he said.
“Look, Mr. Grumbly Bear,” she said, “I’m calling with some information for you. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep on hassling?”
“I’ll hear it,” he said grudgingly. “What information?”
“I believe someone you’re looking for is about to be taken into custody by Phoenix PD, at the North High School campus in Phoenix.”
“Who?”
“The person of interest in the Gemma Ralston case,” Ali answered. “The kid who summoned 911.”
“Who?” Dave repeated.
“His name is A. J. Sanders. You interviewed his mother, Sylvia, yesterday.”
“James Sanders’s son was at the crime scene? Why is he being taken into custody, and why don’t I know anything about it?”
“The answer to the first question would be because he showed up at school with a trunkful of gambling tokens and a weapon—most likely a revolver. And the reason you don’t know about it is that it’s happening as we speak.”
“We’re talking an armed standoff?”
“It’s no standoff. The gun is in the trunk of his Camry. I told him to turn himself in.” And to keep his mouth shut, Ali thought.
“You know all this how?” Dave demanded.
“Because he called me and told me,” Ali replied. “The uniformed response was happening as I ended the call. I dialed you next.”
“But I don’t understand how—”
“Look,” Ali interrupted, “do you want to argue about this, or do you want me to tell you what I think you’re going to want to know?”
“Tell me.”
“Assuming A.J. is taken into custody and gets booked, you’ll most likely find his fingerprints on the cell phone that was used to send the 911 text from the Ralston homicide scene. A.J. also said something about a shovel that may have been left at the scene. He claims Gemma Ralston was alive when he got there, and he said that before she died, she mentioned someone’s name. Dennis.”
“Last name?” Dave asked.
“First name only. A.J. said he went back to his car to get her some water, and shortly after that, she was dead.”
“All right,” Dave said. “Thanks. It happens that I’m at Anthem, heading south, so I’ll be able to go to work on this right away. I have a feeling it’s going to be a jurisdictional nightmare, but thanks, Ali. I owe you one.”
This time Dave was the one who ended the call.
The Baseline exit came up fast. Before Ali made it onto the arterial, her phone rang again. Stuart Ramey was on the line. Ali quickly brought him up to date on the morning’s events.
“Okay,” Stuart said. “I’ll go looking for somebody named Dennis in Gemma’s e-mail correspondence. He’ll turn up either there or in her contacts list.”
“Which you have somehow accessed,” Ali said.
“Exactly,” Stuart returned. “Do you need anything else?”
“Yes, I want to know how somebody bringing home minimum wage can afford to give away most of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar payday. Why so generous? And did you come up with anything on that reporter, Betty Noonan?”
“Nothing,” Stuart replied. “As far as I can tell, there’s no such animal, unless you want to count the Elizabeth Louise Noonan, aka Betty, who is eighty-six years old and living in Rapid City, South Dakota. I’ve checked with the Examiner. They don’t have anyone by that name working for them and never have.”
“But someone claiming to be Betty Noonan stopped by to see Sylvia Sanders yesterday.”
“I believe ‘claiming’ is the operant word,” Stuart said. “Did Sylvia see what kind of vehicle the faux reporter was driving? Did she give you any kind of description?”
“I didn’t ask for one,” Ali said. “It didn’t seem all that important at the time, but I’m on my way to see Sylvia right now. I can ask for more details when I see her, and I’ll check with the folks at the Mission in Vegas as well. Since our intrepid reporter claimed to be from the Las Vegas Examiner, maybe she’s been in touch with the folks there, too. If you have time, you might give the Mission a call. If you can’t reach Abigail Mattson, check with her assistant. Her name’s Regina.”
By then Ali was pulling into the parking lot at the corner of Baseline and Rural. The shopping center was on one side of the parking lot, with a string of professional offices on the other. Ali pulled into a parking place just in time to see Sylvia Sanders come racing into the lot. Ali knew from the panicked expression on her face that she was too late. The breaking-news alert about the situation at North High School must have landed. Ali scrambled out of the Cayenne and ran to head the woman off.
“Sylvia,” Ali called, chasing after her. “Stop, please. I need to speak to you.”
Sylvia didn’t pause until she reached her car. “I’ve got to go,” she said desperately. “There’s a problem at A.J.’s high school. They’re reporting a possible shooter on campus. I tried calling his cell, but he isn’t picking up. I’ve got to make sure he’s all right.”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” Ali insisted. “A.J. wanted me to be the one to tell you. That’s why I’m here.”
Sylvia froze with her hand on the door handle. “Tell m
e what?”
“About what’s really going on. This is important, Sylvia. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Sylvia looked back at the door to her office. Then, without a word, she walked away from her Passat, leading the way to a small taqueria at the far end of the development.
“What?” she said once they were seated. “Tell me what’s going on.”
In answer, Ali pulled out her iPad and hit a local news feed, playing it for Sylvia to hear. “Phoenix PD authorities are telling us that the situation at North High School has been resolved and that the alleged shooter has been taken into custody without incident.”
“He may not be answering his phone, but that probably also means he’s okay,” Ali said.
“Wait,” Sylvia said, looking aghast. “Are you saying A.J. was the shooter?”
“He’s not a shooter,” Ali said, “because there was no shooter, but he did take a gun to school. It was in the trunk of his car.”
“That’s impossible,” Sylvia Sanders insisted, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My son doesn’t own a gun. I don’t own a gun. I don’t allow guns in my house. And if A.J. is the one who’s been arrested, I need to go there—to the jail or the police department or wherever he is—to see what I can do to help.”
She started to get up out of the booth, but Ali took hold of Sylvia’s arm and bodily pulled her back down. “Right now the best thing you can do to help your son is sit here and talk to me. I told A.J. that the first thing he needs to do once he’s taken into custody is to ask for an attorney. Appointing attorneys takes time, especially since two different jurisdictions are involved—Phoenix PD, where the alleged gun incident happened, and the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department, where your son is a possible suspect in one homicide and a person of interest in another.”
“This can’t be happening!” Sylvia exclaimed. “A.J. is a suspect in a homicide?”
“Are you going to listen or not?” Ali asked.
“I’ll listen.”
