Hand of Evil ar-3

by J. A. Jance

  “What?” Ali asked.

  The phone rang. Ali jumped and so did Arabella. Before Ali could move toward the phone, Arabella had reached into the still-opened briefcase and retrieved a handgun that she pointed in Ali’s direction.

  “Answer it,” Arabella ordered.

  “Hello,” Ali managed.

  “Why are you still at home?” Chris wanted to know. “You should be here. Everybody else is. Grandma and Athena are dishing up.”

  “I’m on my way,” Ali managed. “I’ll be there in a little while.” She put down the phone.

  “Good girl,” Arabella said with a smile. “You are on your way. In fact, I think the two of us are on our way.”

  “On our way where?” Ali asked.

  “Just a little trip together,” Arabella said. “We’ll know when we get there. As you have so kindly pointed out, I’ve had a bit too much to drink. That being the case, you should probably drive.”

  Holding the gun with one hand, Arabella tucked the flask into her bra. Then she used the other hand to return the jar to the briefcase, which she clicked shut.

  “Shouldn’t you have wrapped that?” Ali asked.

  Arabella picked up the briefcase and rattled the contents. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’ll be fine. Let’s go. We’ll take the Rolls. Get in on the passenger side and then slide over. I’ll sit in the back.”

  As they moved toward the front door, Ali once again considered making a break for it. When she opened the door, though, her ears were assailed by the pneumatic blat, blat, blat of a bouncing basketball. That meant that Gabe, the eighth-grader who lived down the street, was out in the driveway dribbling endlessly and shooting baskets. Ali couldn’t do anything that would endanger him or anyone else. And once behind the wheel, Ali realized she wouldn’t be able to risk driving erratically and provoking a traffic stop, either. No telling what Arabella would do if an officer approached the vehicle. Without a cell phone or any way to summon help, all Ali could do was play a waiting game and hope that eventually the booze would do its work.

  Ali complied wth her marching orders while Arabella, puffing slightly, clambered into the back. Ali cringed as the briefcase landed heavily on the floor behind her with the jar rattling loosely around inside it.

  “Here,” Arabella said. “Put this on. It’ll look better.” She dropped Leland Brooks’s short-billed cap into the front seat. “And the key is there in the ignition.”

  Only someone who wasn’t used to driving would make that kind of mistake with a Rolls, Ali thought. When she turned the key, the perfectly tuned engine purred to life. It took a moment to fasten her belt, adjust the seat, and locate the headlight switch. Nothing was familiar.

  “Where to?” Ali said finally, pulling out of the driveway.

  She caught a hint of gin as Arabella took another hit from the flask. “When you get to the bottom, turn left.”

  As soon as Ali turned onto the highway, she saw the Sugarloaf Rock and below it the cafe. The lights were out, but there were several cars still in the parking lot. She caught a glimpse of her father’s Bronco, somehow repaired and returned from the garage in a surprisingly timely fashion. She saw her mother’s Alero, Chris’s silver Prius, Dave’s battered Nissan, and two more vehicles Ali couldn’t quite identify. Earlier she had dreaded going there and having to tell Dave the latest piece of Crystal’s bad news.

  Now, though, Ali could easily imagine the crowded living room of her parents’ cramped house, and that was exactly where Ali Reynolds wanted to be, seated along with everyone else in a humble living room masquerading as a dining room and breaking bread with people she loved. That wasn’t to be. Instead of being there and being able to meet the young woman who might become Chris’s wife, Ali was stuck in a bright yellow Rolls-Royce, being held captive by an armed old woman who was certifiably crazy.

  Just like Detective Marsh said, she thought ruefully. Definitely inserted and definitely in danger.

  “Where are we going?” Ali said.

  “Just drive out to the freeway,” Arabella told her. “I’ll tell you what to do once we get there.”

  When the two detectives arrived in Sedona, it was well after dark. There were lights on deep in the interior of Arabella Ashcroft’s house, but no one was home.

  “What do we do now?” Hank asked.

  Larry Marsh sighed. “I hate to mention it, but I guess we’d better look up Ali Reynolds after all.”

  “Do we know where she lives?”

  Larry was already pulling the cell phone out of his pocket. “We will in a minute.”

  Twenty minutes later they arrived at a mobile home at the top of Sedona’s Andante Drive. There were several vehicles parked in the driveway with people milling around inside and out. Somewhere in the background the slap of a basketball pounded on pavement.

  “What’s going on?” Larry asked an older woman standing outside, talking animatedly on her phone.

  “It’s my daughter, Ali,” she said. “She’s missing. Are you cops? Dave was just now calling. How did you get here so fast?”

  “We are cops,” Larry said, pulling out his badge. “But probably not the ones who were called. Your daughter is Alison Reynolds? What’s your name, and how long has she been gone?”

  “Edie, Edie Larson. My grandson talked to his mother right at six-thirty. We were putting dinner on the table, and she was already supposed to be there by then. She told him she was on her way, but she never showed. Finally we came up the hill to check. Her car is here and so are her keys, but no purse and no cell phone. I’ve tried calling that-but she doesn’t answer.”

  Larry Marsh knew exactly where the missing phone and purse were-back in Phoenix in the evidence room. No wonder she hadn’t answered.

  A man showed up and looked anxiously from Edie to Larry. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “Detective Marsh,” Edie told him. “From Phoenix.”

  The guy held out his hand. “I’m Dave Holman,” he said. “Detective Dave Holman, Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. What brings you here?”

  “We’re investigating the death of a man named William Ashcroft. We wanted to speak to Ms. Reynolds about Mr. Ashcroft’s aunt, Arabella.”

  Just then a young man came jogging back up the hill. “I talked to Gabe down the street,” he said. “He was out shooting baskets and saw Mom leave. She was driving a big old yellow car. He didn’t know what kind exactly, and he said there was someone sitting in the backseat.”

  “That would be Arabella Ashcroft’s Rolls,” Larry Marsh said.

  “Why would Ali be driving Arabella’s Rolls?” Dave asked. “Where’s her driver-what’s his name?”

  “Brooks,” Larry supplied. “Leland Brooks.”

  A pair of squad cars nosed their way up the street and stopped behind the Phoenix PD Crown Victoria. As uniformed officers converged on the scene and began trying to assess the situation, Larry pulled his partner aside.

  “Once we get an APB put out on that Rolls, we’ll leave the locals to work this scene,” Larry said. “And while they’re busy with that, we’ll head back over to Arabella’s house. Maybe we missed them in transit.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Which way?” Ali asked when they reached the freeway. Her hands were sticky with sweat. She knew now that Arabella Ashcroft was completely nuts. She was also armed and dangerous.

  “South,” Arabella said. “Get off again at Camp Verde.”

  Make conversation, Ali counseled herself. Try to make things seem normal. “You still haven’t said where we’re going,” she added.

  “I’m going to say good-bye,” Arabella said.

  “Good-bye to what?”

  “We’re going to a place I loved,” Arabella explained. “Mother called it her ‘cabin in the woods.’ It’s on a piece of private land in the middle of the wilderness. It’s very peaceful there. Once they lock me up, I’ll never see it again. And when I die, they’ll knock it down and turn it back into wilderness. It’ll be gone
forever.”

  Back at the house Arabella had seemed defiant-giggly and almost gleeful. Now her mood shifted. She sounded morose and brooding. Ali sensed that this subtle change, booze induced or not, made Arabella more dangerous to deal with rather than less. And if her intention was to go somewhere to say good-bye, what were the chances that she intended to take Ali with her?

  “Did you do what I told you?” Ali asked. “Did you contact a defense attorney?”

  In the course of their long, rambling conversation, Arabella Ashcroft had admitted to committing two homicides. She had also hinted that she might be involved in two more. It occurred to Ali that if and when the woman was taken into custody, even the most effective representation might not be enough to save her. Arabella seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t see any point. Why waste the money? They’re going to send me to jail or somewhere else. Either way, I’m not coming back here. This is over.”

  “What’s over?” Ali asked in an effort to keep Arabella talking.

  “Everything,” Arabella said. “I’ve lived my whole life, and I’ve never done anything worthwhile.”

  “What about those little girls you wanted to help? Did you mean what you said about helping them?”

  “Yes, I meant it. Of course I meant it!” Arabella’s anger briefly resurfaced. “But once everything that’s happened is made public no one is going to pay any attention to anything I say.”

  “I know a girl like that,” Ali said quietly.

  “A girl like what?”

  “One like you were, only she’s a couple of years older. She’s someone who has been abused and who has decided to use her body for whatever it’ll buy.”

  “Your friend’s daughter?” Arabella asked. “The one who ran away?”

  Of course, Ali thought. Arabella reads cutloose. “What would you say to her?” Ali returned, without answering Arabella’s question one way or the other.

  They were approaching Camp Verde by then. “Turn here,” Arabella said. “I’m hungry. Stop at the McDonald’s-at the drive-up.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Ali said. “I didn’t bring my purse.” Or my driver’s license, she thought.

  “I have money,” Arabella said. “Stop with the back window at the drive-up. I’ll take care of it. And don’t try anything.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ali said. “I won’t.”

  Back at Arabella Ashcroft’s house for the second time, Larry and Hank found an older 4 x 4 Mazda pickup truck parked in the driveway. A man, bent under the weight of a heavy box, was hurrying from the truck toward the front door.

  Hank stopped the car and Larry jumped out. “Mr. Brooks? Mr. Leland Brooks?”

  With his white hair glowing in the headlights, the man turned to look at them. He was dressed in full rhinestone cowboy regalia, from the sequined cowboy shirt to the tips of his snakeskin boots. The box in his arms, full to the brim, was one of the three-side produce boxes used to pack groceries at Costco.

  “Yes, I’m Leland Brooks,” he said. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

  “Police,” Larry said. “We need to talk to you. Put down the box and then get on the ground.”

  “Get on the ground? Are you joking?”

  “Not at all. Get on the ground.”

  With some difficulty Brooks tried to comply. He stooped over and let go of the box. Groceries spilled out through the opening, rolling in all directions. He dropped stiffly onto one knee, groaning with pain. “My knees aren’t what they used to be,” he said. “If you want me on the ground, you’re going to have to help me.”

  He’s an old man for Chrissake, Larry thought guiltily. Give the guy a break.

  By then, Hank was out of the car. Instead of pushing Brooks to the ground, Larry grabbed him by his upper arm and hauled him to his feet. “Hands behind your back, then.”

  “Behind my back? You’re handcuffing me? What have I done? I had two beers in Prescott, but that was hours ago. If you want a sobriety test…”

  “You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of William Cowan Ashcroft the third.” As Larry fastened the cuffs, he automatically recited the Miranda warning.

  “Wait a minute,” Brooks said when Larry finished. “You think I murdered Billy? Are you kidding? Why would I? Where did you get such a crazy idea?”

  “Where’s Arabella?” Larry asked.

  “Where would she be? Inside and asleep, I’m sure. I gave her all her medication before I left. She should be sleeping through the night. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Because she’s taken off somewhere, and she’s taken a woman named Alison Reynolds with her.”

  “Ms. Reynolds is missing?” Brooks asked. “Whatever may have happened, I can’t imagine that Miss Arabella has anything to do with it, and I’m sure you’ll find the Rolls is right here in the garage where it belongs.”

  “Do you mind showing us?”

  “Of course not. The clicker’s in my pocket. You’ll have to get it out.”

  “Which pocket?”

  “The front one.”

  “Do you have anything dangerous in here-anything that will hurt me?”

  “You mean like a needle or something? Certainly not!” Brooks said. “I’m not some kind of druggie, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  With some difficulty Hank emptied Brooks’s pockets, extracting a wallet, a set of keys, and a small plastic clicker. When he punched the button the heavy garage door rolled up and a light came on revealing an expanse of shiny concrete polished to a high gloss.

  “It is gone,” Brooks said, confirming the obvious. “But someone else must have taken it. I’m sure Miss Arabella is asleep in her room exactly where I left her.”

  “Do you mind if we check?” Larry asked.

  “Of course not. Go into the kitchen, through the swinging doors, and then down the hall. Her room is the first one on the left, but I can tell you for sure. Miss Arabella wouldn’t be driving the car. She doesn’t even have a license.”

  “That doesn’t stop some people,” Larry observed.

  Hank set off without further urging. He was back in less than a minute. “No one’s there,” he said. “The place is empty.”

  “Oh, my,” Brooks said. Sounding genuinely dismayed, he staggered over to the front porch where, unassisted, he sank down on the top step. “How can this be?”

  “We thought maybe you could tell us something about that, Mr. Brooks,” Larry said. “When was the last time…”

  “Wait a minute,” Brooks interrupted. “You’ve read me my rights? Don’t tell me you think I had something to do with Mr. Ashcroft’s death. I can’t imagine why you’d think such a thing. It’s outrageous.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone named Arthur Reed?” Larry asked. “I believe he served in Korea about the same time you did?”

  “Of course, I remember Art Reed. United States Marine Corps. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “And he gave you his Silver Star?”

  “Yes, he did. I was really honored and touched. I saved his life once. Later when he was awarded a Silver Star, he decided to share the honor with me.”

  “What became of it?”

  “Of the star itself? I’m not sure. It wasn’t mine to wear, of course, since I hadn’t earned it. I treasured it, but I lost track of it years ago, shortly after it was given to me. How do you know about it, and why are you asking?”

  “How do you suppose your Silver Star would have turned up in William Ashcroft’s vehicle?” Larry asked. “Our CSI team found it under the floor mat after he was murdered.”

  “I have no idea where it’s been all this time or how it got there.”

  “You must.”

  Larry’s phone rang. “Detective Marsh? Dave Holman here. Your people down in Phoenix have brought us into the loop. I thought you’d want to know that when we put out the APB on that Rolls, we got a hit.”

  “You already found her then?”

  �
��No,” Holman answered, “but the Rolls was caught by a red-light camera making an illegal left turn in Scottsdale at Scottsdale and Camelback, just before midnight, Monday night. The citation went out in the mail today. Your records folks were able to scan through the video record and come up with the actual photo. It would appear that Arabella Ashcroft was at the wheel, and she was alone in the vehicle.”

  Larry closed his phone. “So where were you on Monday night, Mr. Brooks?” he asked.

  The butler shook his head. “I know that’s the night Mr. Ashcroft died,” he said. “But I was out the whole evening, from late afternoon on. It’s my day off.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Prescott.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”

  “You might want to reconsider,” Larry suggested. “I’ve just received word that the Rolls was cited for running a red light in Scottsdale on Monday night and the insurance company has you listed as the sole driver. We also know that property directly traceable to you was found at the scene of the crime. So if you happen to have a verifiable alibi for the time in question, Mr. Brooks, now might be a good time to mention it.”

  Leland Brooks sighed. “I was at Paddy’s,” he said after a pause. “Paddy O’Toole’s”

  “Where’s that?” Hank asked. “One of those bars on Prescott’s famed Whiskey Row?”

  Leland shook his head. “It’s a world away from Whiskey Row. It’s a private club. A gay private club out in the valley. Some of the people I saw there might not want to be connected to a homicide investigation.”

  “Name one,” Larry said.

  “There’s the bartender,” Brooks said reluctantly. “His name is Barry-Barry Stone.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Can you be discreet?” Leland asked.

  “That depends.”

  “Patrick Macey,” Leland said. “Judge Patrick Macey.”

  “What kind of judge?”

  Leland Brooks sighed. “Superior court. We’ve been involved for a dozen years. He’s married. His wife’s an Alzheimer’s patient. His kids don’t know about him. They don’t know about us.”