J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent (21 page)

“That’s none of your business,” Tracy said. “I want you to leave now, before I have to call the cops.”

“I already told you,” Dave said. “I am a cop.”

“More cops then,” Tracy said.

“By all means, call away,” Ali said. “With everything that’s gone on the past few days, I think they’ll be interested in hearing what we all have to say.”

Without another word, Tracy McLaughlin returned to his RV, slamming the door shut behind him.

“The DNA thing certainly got a reaction,” Dave observed. “Now what? Back to the hotel?”

“Sure,” Ali said, but once she was behind the wheel, she steered away from the entrance to the parking lot and tucked the Cayenne in among the vehicles parked near the front of the store.

“What now?” Dave asked.

“Let’s just watch for a while and see if he stays put,” Ali answered. “It worked once with Jake Maxwell. Maybe it’ll work again with Tracy.”

And it did. Less than twenty minutes later, a dark-colored Ford Windstar minivan pulled into the lot. It stopped next to Tracy’s RV. The Cayenne was parked too far away for Ali and Dave to be able to make out exactly what was happening.

“Stay here,” Dave said. “I’ll try to get closer.”

While he was out of the car, Ali’s cell phone rang. “Any sign of your mother?” Bob Larson asked. Ali heard the edge of panic in her father’s voice.

“Not so far,” Ali returned.

“Damn,” Bob muttered. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

Ali did, too, but she didn’t want to say so. “We’ll find her,” Ali told her father with far more confidence than she felt.
We’ve got to!

As the call ended Dave ducked into the passenger seat and then leaned back, breathing a sigh of apparent relief. “Thank God they didn’t see me,” he said, “but now we know how they do it.”

“Do what?”

“How Sumo Sudoku can support all those very expensive RVs.”

“What are you talking about?” Ali asked.

“The sudoku thing is probably nothing but an elaborate cover. I’m guessing they’re really using the RVs as part of a drug distribution network, transporting drugs up and down the West Coast with their cargoholds full of something besides those round granite rocks. I’m guessing they’re moving heroin or else coke. They just unloaded a bunch of stuff from Tracy’s RV and stuck it in the minivan. My guess is that Jake Maxwell came racing over here tonight to let Tracy know that we had been nosing around and that they needed to make arrangements to get rid of the goods sooner rather than later.”

“Are you telling me Jake Maxwell and Paul got involved in some kind of drug-smuggling group?” Ali asked.

“That’s how it looks.”

By then the load transfer was finished and the van was pulling away from Tracy’s RV. “They’re leaving,” Ali said. “Shouldn’t we follow them?”

As Ali reached for the key, Dave caught her hand in midair and kept her from turning the key in the ignition.

“Absolutely not!” he declared. “There were three of them at least. Four counting McLaughlin. That means we’d be outmanned—no offense—and probably outgunned, too. This is way more than you and I can handle on our own.”

“We call the cops then?”

“No,” Dave said.

Ali was exasperated. “You mean we’re just going to let them get away?”

“For right now,” Dave answered. “If we’ve stumbled onto a big-time drug-smuggling program, you’ve got to understand—these people aren’t to be trifled with. You try bluffing guys like that or crossing them, and they’ll blow you away without a second thought. From the looks of it, this could be a very big operation, which means we’re going to have to go higher up the food chain than the local LAPD cop shop.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once I get back to the hotel, I’ll call in the Marines.”

“The Marines?” Ali repeated.

“One Marine in particular—Ezekiel Washington, if I can find him. ‘Easy’ for short,” Dave added. “When he’s not deployed with the reserves, he works for the DEA here in L.A. Once they get wind of this, they’re going to want to take down the whole thing—not just Tracy McLaughlin and the guys loading the van.”

They were on the 101 by then. For a while Ali drove in thoughtful silence. What Dave had said about drug dealers killing people without compunction had hit her hard. “Do you think my mother’s somehow mixed up with this drug business?” she asked finally.

“She may have blundered into it the same way we did,” Dave replied somberly.

Ali felt her stomach clutch. “We’ll be lucky to see her alive, won’t we?”

As the hours had worn on, Ali had managed to keep her worst fear at bay. Now, having spoken it aloud, she felt like she was drowning in self-reproach. Whatever befell Edie Larson would be all Ali’s fault. If she hadn’t let herself be bamboozled into marrying Paul Grayson in the first place, none of this would have happened. It was bad enough to learn that he’d been unfaithful to her. That much she had somehow suspected, and having it verified hadn’t been all that much of a shock. But for him to have been involved in the drug trade, too? That was way beyond anything she had ever thought Paul capable of, but then she guessed she hadn’t known him nearly as well as she thought she had.

But blaming herself and agonizing about her mother accomplished nothing. She forced herself to turn back to the McLaughlin interview.

“What about the Pink Swan?” she asked.

“If it’s a topless place with illegal gambling and they don’t do surveillance tapes, that means they appeal to a clientele with plenty to hide.”

“It’s also the place where Jake hosted Paul’s bachelor party.”

“I’ll turn Easy on to that, too. But from the sound of it, the Pink Swan is probably already on the DEA’s radar.”

“And then there’s Roseanne,” Ali added thoughtfully. “I wonder about her.”

“Maxwell’s wife?”

Ali nodded. “If I didn’t know what was going on, I wonder if Roseanne did.”

“Too bad we don’t know where to find her.”

“Maybe somebody does,” Ali said determinedly. She passed Dave her phone. “Punch the green button. That’ll give you my list of made calls. Look for Helga Myerhoff.”

“Your divorce lawyer?” Dave asked. “How come?”

“She specializes in high-profile divorce cases. If Roseanne and Jake are splitting the sheets, you can figure there’s a lawyer involved—or a whole bevy of them. Helga’s more likely than anyone else to know which ones.”

Dave found the number, pressed it, and then handed the phone to Ali.

“I didn’t know they were getting a divorce,” Helga said, once Ali had said her piece. “But I can’t say I’d be surprised.”

“Because Jake’s involved with another woman?” Ali asked.

“Because they’re broke,” Helga returned. “Relatively speaking, of course.”

Jake Maxwell hadn’t looked broke earlier that evening. Anything but.

“Even in somewhat straitened circumstances, however,” Helga continued, “everyone I know would have been panting after Roseanne Maxwell and hoping to land her as a client.”

“How can Jake Maxwell be broke?” Ali asked.

“Lost his job, bad investments, gambling?” Helga said. “Take your pick. There are lots of ways to go broke in this town.”

“You’re saying Jake lost his job?” Ali asked.

“You didn’t know that? It happened several months ago now—some kind of corporate job consolidation move. Paul and Jake ended up going head-to-head for the same job. Paul got the job—Jake Maxwell got a golden handshake. That’s why I was a little surprised when he showed up at court on Friday to be in Paul’s corner, but then sometimes people turn out to be better than you think they are.”

Or worse,
Ali thought.

“Getting back to Roseanne,” Helga finished. “I do have some connections. If she’s holed up somewhere, someone I know will know where to find her.”

“Thanks.”

“Victor wanted you to call. Have you talked to him yet?”

“No.”

“If you’re driving all over hell and gone, you should probably let him know from you exactly what you’re up to.”

Ali knew what Victor would say—stay put; don’t talk to anyone; let the cops look for her mother.

“I’ll call him,” Ali agreed.
Eventually.

Once off the phone, she recounted to Dave everything that had been said. “Makes sense,” he said. “If Jake was needing to make some quick cash, someone may have made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“But Paul wasn’t broke,” Ali returned. “Why would he be mixed up in it?”

Dave shook his head. “I have no idea.”

By then they were pulling into the hotel entrance. “Do you want me to come up?” Dave asked.

“No,” she said. “Dad and Chris will be here soon. I’m going to take a shower and put my feet up for a few minutes. I may even try closing my eyes.”

“Good idea,” Dave said. He hopped out of the Cayenne and headed for his own car.

Ali handed her car keys over to the parking valet and headed straight into the lobby. If there were reporters waiting there, she’d tough her way through them.

Opening the door to her room Ali hoped, through some miracle, Edie would be there waiting for her, but of course she wasn’t. The room was empty—dark and empty. Ali slipped off her shoes, sank onto the couch, and, as promised, rested her feet on the coffee table. She had spent the last hours busily doing something—playing detective and trying to find her mother. Now, in the quiet stillness, the awful reality began to sink in. Perhaps Edie really was lost to her—lost to all of them. Perhaps there would be no more of Edie’s steaming, soft-centered homemade sweet rolls at Sedona’s Sugar Loaf Café. Perhaps Ali would never again sit over a hot cup of coffee, listening to and often disregarding her mother’s good advice. Perhaps she would never again witness one of her parents’ never-ending rounds of good-natured teasing.

It was that realization—that losing her mother would be harder on Bob Larson than on anyone else—which finally goaded Ali to action. She picked up her computer and logged on.

CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Sunday, September 18, 2005

There was far more she wanted to say, would have said, but this was a case where less was more. She deliberately made no mention of Edie’s encounter with Tracy McLaughlin. If, as Dave suspected, this whole thing was tied to a drug-smuggling ring, it was better to leave that out. Ali stripped off her clothes and was about to step into the shower when her cell phone rang. Grabbing it off the counter, she was amazed to see her mother’s name in the caller ID readout.

Sick with relief, Ali shouted into the phone, “Mom! Is that you? Are you all right? Where are you?”

Except there was no answer. Ali could hear a rustling sound and distant voices, but no one was talking directly to her. Maybe it was just a bad connection. Frustrated, Ali punched the volume button on the side of her phone. “Mom. Can you hear me?” she called again.

There was more rustling and then she heard her mother’s voice. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to talk to you,” Ali answered. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

Someone else—another woman—was speaking in the background. Alice could hear the voice but not clear enough to make out any of the individual words.

“You need to let me go,” Edie said clearly and firmly. “This is stupid. It makes no sense.”

That’s when Ali realized she was listening in on what people at the Sugar Loaf called Edie’s infamous “bra calls.” Because that’s where Edie Larson always carried her phone—in her bra. At work her apron pockets usually overflowed with order pads and pencils. When she had added a cell phone into the mix, it hadn’t worked, so she had opted for stowing her phone in the only other available spot—tucked inside her bra. Because Edie didn’t always remember to activate her key guard, she occasionally made accidental calls, burning up minutes and inadvertently revealing all kinds of mundane details of life in a restaurant to several different hapless recipients.

Ali knew at once, however, that this call was no accident. Whoever was with Edie had no idea she was in possession of a cell phone. They also had no idea she had figured out a way to signal for help. And instead of dialing 911, Edie had simply punched “send.”

There was a murmured answer in response to her mother’s comment, but nothing Ali could make out.

“Why are you doing this?” Edie demanded, sounding more agitated. “Where are we? In a basement somewhere?”