Unfinished Business

by J. A. Jance

  “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed. “Some of my past involvements with the media have been problematic at best.”

  When I finally got off the phone, I had no clue what Chloe would do, but I was pretty sure she was going to do something. By then it was nine thirty. Was that too late to call Ali back? After a moment’s hesitation, I decided it wasn’t. She answered after only one ring.

  “Sorry to be calling so late,” I said after identifying myself, “but I’ve managed to unearth some pretty important evidence that may be enough to exonerate Mateo Vega.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious,” I told her. “Someone named Chloe Bannerman will be calling you. She’s with a wrongful-conviction organization called Justice for All. Years ago I worked with JFA, although not with Chloe herself, on another case. When she asked for Mateo’s contact information, I advised her she’d need to go through you.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Beaumont,” Ali said. “I’ll look forward to her call.”

  “Call me Beau,” I said. “That’s what my friends call me.”

  By the time that call ended, it was getting on toward ten and time to make good on my promise to Mel—to no avail. I tried Scotty first. It turned out JonJon had an ear infection, so seeing them the next day was out. As for Naomi? She was tied up with midterms. So what did I do? I headed home to Bellingham. The penthouse at Belltown Terrace is nice as far as it goes, but without Mel it’s just… well… a penthouse.

  The good thing about traveling on I-5 at that hour of the night was zero traffic. And despite my not having seen the kids, I was pretty sure Mel would be happy to see me, to say nothing of the rest of those Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  |CHAPTER 59|

  SEDONA, ARIZONA

  Writing usually came easily for Ali, but not that afternoon. She struggled with her father’s obituary for more than two hours before she’d finally refined it to the point where she was willing to share it with her mother. Once Edie heard it and gave her stamp of approval, Ali sent it along to Althea at the mortuary.

  The whole time Ali had been working on the obituary, her phone and computer had continued to explode with a brand-new round of incoming texts and e-mails. Before facing her next writing assignment—her father’s eulogy—she decided to tackle at least some of that electronic correspondence. The number of messages alone was downright daunting—almost the same-size deluge as the day before, but once Ali started reading them, she found subtle differences from the ones that had come in the previous day.

  She’d known all along that her father was generous in nature, but it wasn’t until that afternoon, reading through the countless e-mails expressing both condolences and gratitude, that Ali began to understand the full extent of it.

  First came the individuals from the group of vets in the homeless encampment up on the Mogollon Rim. Ali knew about them because she had often been involved in delivering holiday meals, warm clothing, and blankets to the unfortunate folks living there. But Ali hadn’t known about any of the three separate women who wrote to say that when they were struggling single mothers, Bob Larson had stepped up to do extensive repairs on the broken-down vehicles that had been their only means of transportation, at a time when the repairs in question would have been totally beyond their means. Several people described the loads of wood he had dropped off to fuel the wood-burning stoves that were their only source of winter heat. And any number of middle-agers told how, as kids, their damaged bicycles had been rehabbed in Bob Larson’s backyard workshop.

  The message that really struck Ali was from a woman, a single mom, whose home had been washed away during a sudden winter flash flood shortly before Christmas. With her whole existence wiped out, someone had found her a place to live in what was mostly an empty shell of a mobile home. On Christmas Eve, Bob organized a group of his pals. They showed up at her new place with a pre-decorated Christmas tree, along with trucks and cars loaded with furniture and household goods, to say nothing of toys and clothing for her three young children.

  Bob had always been the public face in these efforts—delivering various goods and services—but Ali realized now that he hadn’t done it all on his own. Those acts of kindness had been made possible with the full cooperation and understanding of her mother, Bob’s partner in both life and work.

  After answering some of those touching notes, Ali took a step back. Rather than simply replying, she printed off each of the missives as well as her responses. Once transformed into hard copies, these were no longer ephemeral messages that came in and disappeared into cyberspace. Watching the stack grow, Ali decided she would use them to create a small chapbook—something physical that long after the funeral her mother would be able to read at her leisure.

  Ali was still at work on that at six o’clock in the evening when she heard the garage door open. Surprised, she and Bella headed for the kitchen, where they met up with B. as he entered.

  “What are you doing here?” Ali asked. “I thought you were going to stay over.”

  “So did I,” B. said, “but I was outvoted. Under the circumstances Lance and Stu both thought my place was here with you. Either we can stay home or, if you want, we can drive over to Cornville and check on Cami.”

  Ali was more than ready to get out of the house. “Alonzo made a batch of lasagna for her today,” she said. “I was planning on dropping it off tomorrow, but why don’t we go now? At this point we know way more about Harvey McCluskey than we did before, and I doubt Cami has heard any of it.”

  With that decided, they packed up the lasagna and Bella and headed out. On the drive over, Ali told B. about the ongoing investigations surrounding Harvey McCluskey, but she didn’t mention her conversation with J.P. Beaumont concerning Mateo. Why get someone’s hopes up if nothing ever came of it? Instead she spent the remainder of their drive time regaling B. with all the things she’d learned about her father in the course of the afternoon.

  When they arrived at Cami’s house in Cornville, Sister Anselm answered the door. “How’s the patient?” Ali asked.

  “Grumpy,” was the nun’s glum answer, “but come on in. Cami doesn’t seem to think she’s in need of my assistance, but until those bandages come off her hands and she can use a pair of crutches, I’m afraid she’s stuck with me and that wheelchair. The damage on her hands is close to what you’d get from second- or third-degree burns. Those aren’t going to miraculously heal themselves overnight, and the bandages must be changed on a daily basis.”

  Sister Anselm’s face brightened when she caught sight of the foil-topped baking dish B. was carrying. “From Alonzo?” she asked.

  B. nodded. “Lasagna.”

  “Good,” Sister Anselm said, taking the dish and leading the way inside. “When it comes to cooking, I can manage, but I’m not in Alonzo’s league.”

  Furniture had been pushed aside to make room for maneuvering Cami’s wheelchair. Dressed in a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting sweatshirt, she sat with her leg extended straight out in front of her. Her cast stretched from halfway up her thigh to the tips of her toes. The bandages on her hands looked like white boxing gloves. Her face was still bruised and battered, but her swollen ear had shrunk back to almost its normal size. As advertised, she was not a happy camper.

  “I hate this,” Cami grumbled. “I can’t stand having people fussing over me.”

  “At least we brought food,” B. said cheerfully. “Alonzo sent along some lasagna.”

  Cami held up her bandaged hands. “Great,” she said, “but how am I supposed to eat it?”

  “The same way you ate your lunch,” Sister Anselm growled. “I’ll feed it to you—like it or lump it.”

  Had there been a door available, Sister Anselm probably would have slammed it behind her as she stomped her way over to the kitchen area. In Cami’s newly designed open floor plan, however, her only option was to disappear around a corner with the baking dish in hand.

  “How are you?” Ali
asked.

  “Better, I guess,” Cami replied. “But I have no idea how long it’ll be before I can come back to work.”

  “Going back to work is the least of your worries right now,” B. assured her. “For the time being, we’re all pitching in and holding things together.”

  “How’s Mateo working out?”

  “Better than expected,” B. answered.

  “Have you two eaten?” Sister Anselm called from the kitchen.

  “No,” Ali said, “but—”

  “There’s plenty here. I’ll heat it up, and we’ll all have some.”

  “I never knew she was so bossy,” Cami muttered under her breath.

  “Yes,” Ali said. “It’s her way or the highway, so you’d better get used to it. Now, if you’re up to it, we’d like to fill you in on what we’ve managed to learn about Harvey McCluskey while you’ve been lounging around in a hospital bed and generally taking life easy.”

  That comment elicited the slightest hint of a smile on Cami’s face. “By all means,” she said. “Tell me.”

  * * *

  Back home in Sedona, Ali handed B. the stack of condolence messages she’d received, answered, and printed out.

  “There must be over a hundred of these,” he said, shaking his head.

  Ali nodded. “And these are only the ones I worked on today. Almost as many came in yesterday.”

  “How big is Smithson’s funeral chapel?” B. asked.

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “Because if all these people turn up for the service, a lot of them will end up being sent away.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Find a bigger venue.”

  “Like what?” Ali wondered.

  “What about the high school auditorium?” B. responded. “That holds six hundred or so, and I’m guessing Chris and Athena would have some pull on that score.”

  “Okay,” Ali agreed. “I’ll look into it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Later, as they were about to head to bed, Ali’s phone rang. “Just let it go to voice mail,” B. advised. “You can deal with it in the morning.”

  With the 206 area-code number showing on caller ID, however, Ali went ahead and answered. “Sorry to be calling so late,” said a now-familiar voice, “but I’ve managed to unearth some pretty important evidence that may be enough to exonerate Mateo Vega.”

  Ali caught her breath. “Are you serious?” she whispered, barely believing her ears. By the time the call ended, B. was frowning at her.

  “Beau?” he asked. “Who’s that?”

  “Someone calling with some very good news,” Ali answered, but before she could go into any more detail, the phone rang again.

  “Is this Ali Reynolds?” a woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Chloe Bannerman. I hope it isn’t too late to call.”

  “Not at all,” Ali said, “but do you mind if I put the phone on speaker? My husband is here, and I’d like him to hear what you have to say.”

  “Your husband would be Mr. Simpson, the man who hired Mr. Vega?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then by all means put him on speaker. That way I won’t have to say this more than once. I work with an organization called Justice for All. JFA’s sole focus is sorting out wrongful convictions,” Chloe explained. “Due to the evidence Mr. Beaumont has supplied, I believe there’s a good chance that if we were to take on Mateo Vega’s case, we might be able to achieve a satisfactory outcome. Do you think Mr. Vega would be interested in speaking with me?”

  “Absolutely,” Ali said.

  “Can you give me his number?”

  “I can, but he’s not available right now. Could I have him call you sometime tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Chloe said. “Have him do so at his convenience.”

  By the time that conversation ended some twenty minutes later, B. might have been every bit as thrilled as Ali, but he was still in the dark about a lot of it.

  “Lucy,” he said, as she put the phone back on its charger, “I think you have some ’splaining to do!”

  |CHAPTER 60|

  COTTONWOOD, ARIZONA

  Even though it was past midnight when Mateo got into bed, he awakened long before his alarm went off. He lay there for a moment, savoring the idea that he had a queen-size bed with clean sheets and blankets all to himself. When he got out of bed, he walked barefoot to the bathroom, where there was a toilet that wasn’t stained with someone else’s dribbles. He took a shower that was long and hot and totally private, without a drunken roommate pounding on the door and yelling at him to hurry the hell up. Then he went a couple of steps—that’s all it took—to cover the distance to his tiny kitchen, where he started the coffee. The RV came totally furnished with linens, a toaster, dishes, silverware, and a well-used Mr. Coffee.

  Late the previous afternoon, Stu had given Mateo a lift to Walmart, where he purchased a couple changes of clothing and some food—coffee, bread, milk, tortillas, peanut butter, eggs. The tortillas were a disappointment. His mother’s tortillas had been so thin that you could almost see through them. These were much thicker and stiffer, but they were his, and with a generous layer of peanut butter they worked just fine. The real miracle of all this food was that he could put it away and not have someone else steal it.

  He ate his breakfast in front of the flat-screen TV, watching local news programming and switching channels with wild abandon. When breakfast was over, he slid his utensils and coffee cup into the single-drawer dishwasher, filled the proper container with detergent, and turned it on. That was pretty amazing, too. The house in Renton had a dishwasher all right, but it didn’t work, and, to a man, his roommates never in their lives bothered to clean up after themselves. The kitchen had always been a filthy mess. This one wouldn’t be.

  With that, Mateo set out to walk to work, a spring in his step. He’d walked to work in Renton, but this was different. This was in the desert with a clear blue sky overhead—a sky that reminded him of growing up in Yakima. In Renton the sodden gray skies for days and weeks on end had always left him feeling sad. And then there was the job—this job—doing something that was challenging and exciting. Sorting through other people’s discarded junk on the thrift store’s loading dock had been necessary work and vitally important for the impoverished people who shopped there, but it had never been very satisfying.

  Mateo understood that he’d arrived at High Noon when the company was in crisis mode. With Cami currently absent, he’d been put on a fast track to responsibility that was being delivered in a matter of hours rather than weeks or months. But he knew, too, that he was catching on, doing what was needed, and being paid more than he’d ever imagined possible. When he went shopping the day before, he’d been able to do so without worrying about having enough money to cover his purchases. Even after paying for the RV rental, his signing bonus was still serving him well.

  He approached the door to High Noon in good spirits and let himself in with the expectation of a busy day at work. Shirley greeted him with a warm smile. “Before you go back to the lab,” she said, “B. and Ali would like to have a word with you in Mr. Simpson’s office.”

  Mateo’s heart fell. In his experience, someone wanting to have “a word with you” was never a good thing. It reminded him of the grade school principal who’d wanted to have a word after a misfired baseball broke a classroom window or Detective Norton showing up on his doorstep in Lynnwood all those years ago saying he wanted to have a word with him and would Mateo mind riding along to police headquarters in downtown Seattle. Back then Mateo had minded, but he didn’t have any choice, and he didn’t have any choice now either. Had he done something wrong? Was he about to be sent packing?

  With a curtain of despair descending around him, Mateo started down the hallway. The door to B.’s office was open. When he poked his head inside, B. and Ali were clearly discussing Ali’s father’s upcoming funeral. “So the auditorium’s a go, th
en?” B. was asking.

  “Yes, it is. With both Chris and Athena teaching there, it was pretty much a done deal,” Ali replied. “And I’ve already let the mortuary know about the change in venue. They’ll be getting the word out, and so will I.”

  Just then B. noticed Mateo standing in the doorway. “Oh, there you are,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. Ali has some things she’d like to discuss with you.”

  The last thing Mateo wanted to do was sit. If someone was coming at you with a shank, you needed to be on your feet, ready to either take off or fight back. But Mateo sat anyway. What else could he do?

  He studied Ali. She was older and attractive, but it occurred to him that under the present circumstances she was probably dangerous as well. And the first words out of her mouth made his heart freeze.

  “We’ve been looking into your situation,” she said.

  This is it, Mateo thought. They’ve decided having an ex-con on the payroll is a bad idea after all. Knowing what was coming, he sat stock-still and waited.

  “Have you ever heard of an organization called Justice for All?”

  Stunned, Mateo had to think for a moment and regroup before he could answer. “No,” he said at last, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Before we hired you,” Ali explained, “we did a deep dive into your background. As part of that, Frigg obtained transcripts of all your parole-board hearings. The thing that stood out to me was that you always said the same thing. Your story never changed.”

  “That’s because what I was saying was true,” Mateo said defensively.

  “That’s what occurred to me as well,” Ali replied. “A friend of mine referred me to a guy named J.P. Beaumont from Washington State, who works with a group called TLC—The Last Chance. They’re an all-volunteer organization devoted to solving cold cases. Yesterday Beau uncovered information indicating discrepancies in how evidence from the Emily Tarrant crime scene was handled.”

  “What discrepancies?” Mateo asked.