J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent (40 page)

Ali knew this wasn’t the first time one of Bob Larson’s human rehab projects had gone sour on him. She also knew her mother wouldn’t be out of line for pointing it out or for being upset about it, either. Driving back toward the freeway, it seemed like a good idea to change the subject.

“Your friend said that there’s nothing wrong with the Bronco,” she said.

“It has a flat tire.”

“But it hasn’t been wrecked or anything?”

“Not as far as I know,” her father answered. “Maybe it’s out of gas. The gas gauge stopped working years ago. Who knows? Just drive,” he answered with a sigh. “There’s no way to tell how bad it’ll be until we get there.”

Crystal Holman crouched on the toilet in the locked bathroom stall for the better part of an hour, shivering and hoping the guys with the bats wouldn’t come looking for her there. She had no idea where Curt had gone. The last she had seen of him, he was using a pay phone in the parking lot.

A woman came into the restroom and tried the stall door. A few minutes later, she returned and tried again. Finally a man came in and pounded on the door. “You’ve gotta get out of there. Other people need to use it.”

Crystal peeked out through the crack. The man was wearing a uniform of some kind—a blue shirt with the name
Jimmy
sewed on the pocket.

Finally, Crystal opened the door and walked out past Jimmy. Past the woman. Out in the mini-mart, she looked around for Curt, but he wasn’t there and neither was anyone else she recognized. Pulling her lightweight jacket close, Crystal darted outside and surveyed the deserted gas pump area. In the sallow glow of the overhead lights, there was no sign of Curt or his SUV. Thankfully, there was no sign of the guys with the bats, either.

Out of the corner of her eye, Crystal caught sight of Jimmy emerging from the restroom area. Before he could spot her, she rounded the corner of the building and melted into the darkness. All Crystal Holman wanted right then was to find a place to hide.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Ali was relieved to see the Bronco sitting awash in sickly yellow light at the far end of the row reserved for passenger cars. At first glance it seemed unharmed. As Jack Riggs had reported, the right rear tire was flat. Closer examination revealed that Bob’s tool chest, gas can, and spare tire had been lifted. As for the flat tire? It was much more than flat—it was in tatters. Bob squatted down to check on it.

“Looks like he drove on it flat for a long time,” he muttered. “So the rim’s ruined, too. That means it’ll have to be towed,” he said resignedly. “Thank God we belong to Triple A. A wrecked rim, no spare, a stolen gas can, and a stolen set of tools—that’s bad enough. If we had to pay extra for towing, your mother would really have my hide.”

She may still,
Ali thought.

Bob hauled out his cell phone and his wallet. As he made the call, Ali walked around the Bronco looking for and not finding any sign of additional damage. “What are all those boxes in the back?” she asked once Bob was off the phone.

He placed his hands against the back window and peered inside. “So he didn’t even make the delivery,” Bob muttered.

“What delivery?”

“On Tuesdays he goes to Basha’s and collects some of their throw-aways—outdated food they can no longer sell—and takes it up the mountain.”

“Where people are still living,” Ali confirmed.

Bob nodded. “Nobody makes too big a deal about it. He just goes by, picks it up, loads it into the Bronco, and drops it off. The food’s still usable. This way it doesn’t go to waste and people who would otherwise go hungry have something to eat. He takes along any blankets and clothing that have come in during the week. That was what was on the schedule for today—your credenza and his run up the mountain.”

Ali nodded. “I had expected him this morning, but he didn’t drop off the credenza until after lunch. I told him I thought he did a beautiful job, by the way.”

“He did,” Bob agreed. “Fat lot of good it does any of us, though,” he added bleakly. “I taught him a useful skill, but if he’s back on the sauce it’ll all go to waste.”

Ali shivered against the cold. “What did Triple A say?” she asked.

“They’re sending a truck. Should be here in less than an hour. You don’t have to wait with me. Go on back,” Bob said. “I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Ali told him. “You won’t be fine. I’ll wait, too. We both will—in the car. It’s too cold to stand around out here. If you catch pneumonia, Mom will come looking for me with a club and a skinning knife.”

Knowing she was right, Bob headed toward the Cayenne without further argument. Ali had unlocked the doors and was about to climb inside when she heard the sound of a helicopter passing overhead. Months earlier, a low-flying helicopter had played a pivotal and almost fatal part in a Palm Springs area shoot-out. Before that, helicopters had come and gone overhead without Ali’s ever paying the slightest attention. Since then, however, the noise of approaching helicopter rotors sliced into her consciousness with hair-raising clarity.

Ali stopped dead and stared up into the star-studded sky until she located the flashing lights of the chopper. It was headed south, flying fairly low and fast, following the general path of the freeway and moving toward Phoenix. Bob paused with one foot in the Cayenne and followed his daughter’s troubled gaze.

“Medevac,” he explained. “Probably taking some poor sick bastard to one of the big hospitals in Phoenix.”

Despite her father’s reassurances, Ali noticed that when she reached to turn the key in the ignition, her hand was trembling. She knew for a fact that her involuntary tremor had nothing to do with the icy temperatures. Not looking at Bob, she quickly turned up the heater and switched on the heated seats.

“Where would Kip go?” Ali asked, more to take her mind off the rapidly disappearing helicopter than because she wanted to know the answer.

“You mean if he isn’t timed out in a bar someplace?” Clearly Bob Larson was still bent out of shape by his missing handyman. Just because his precious Bronco wasn’t irretrievably broken didn’t mean he was prepared to let Kip Hogan off the hook.

“I mean where did he come from before he ended up in that homeless encampment up on the Rim?” Ali asked. “He must have family somewhere.”

“Probably,” Bob agreed. “But I have no idea where. All in all I’d have to say Kip was a pretty close-mouthed son of a bitch.”

“But everybody’s from somewhere,” Ali objected.

Her father gave her a disparaging look. “You don’t understand, Ali. If you’re going to work with certain kinds of people—with the Kip Hogans of the world—you have to get used to taking them at face value. You have to go with what they tell you—with what they want to tell you. You can assume whatever they say is a bunch of baloney, but you have to treat it like it’s the truth, otherwise you lose them. Understand?”

“I think so,” Ali said, but she wasn’t at all sure she did.

They sat in the car in an extended period of silence while the heater gradually warmed up the SUV’s interior. “I’m going to miss him,” Bob said at last. “He was a big help around the place. Your mother can call me an old fool until hell freezes over, but even she would have to agree with me on that one. Kip Hogan was an excellent worker, and right up until today he was totally dependable.”

“At least you didn’t lose the Bronco,” Ali commented, hoping to lift his spirits.

It took a little over an hour for the tow truck to show up and another hour after that to get the Bronco hauled to the secured area of a local garage. By the time Ali dropped her father off at her parents’, it was after one in the morning. Back home, Ali parked next to Chris’s Prius. Glad he was there, she was happy to creep into her own room and tumble into bed, where she fell asleep immediately. It seemed as though she’d been sleeping for only a matter of minutes when the phone rang again. As she fumbled to answer it, the clock on her bedside radio showed it was four-fifteen.

“Hello.”

“Ali,” Dave Holman said quickly. “I’m so sorry to wake you, but you said I should call you day or night.”

Ali switched on her bedside lamp and sat up. “Where are you, and did you find Crystal?” she asked. “Is she okay?”

“I’m in Vegas,” Dave said. “I just checked into the hotel, and we sort of found Crystal. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“Sort of?” Ali repeated. “How can you sort of find her? Either you have or you haven’t.”

“She called me on my cell a little while ago and wanted me to come get her.”

“Great!” Ali exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

“Except she’s in Mund’s Park and I’m in Vegas,” Dave returned.

Mund’s Park was a way station on I-17, a few miles south of Flagstaff. It was forty miles and an hour’s drive from Sedona.

“It would take hours for me to get back to where she is,” Dave continued. “I offered to have the sheriff’s department send a patrol car to pick her up, and she totally freaked—like I was trying to have her arrested or something. And that’s why I’m calling you. Would you go pick her up, Ali? If you could take her to your place long enough for me to get back there…”

“I’ll be glad to,” Ali responded. “Where is she again?”

“That’s the thing,” Dave answered. “She called on her cell phone. She said she’s all right, but she wouldn’t tell me exactly where she was until I promised I wouldn’t send a cop car for her. We finally settled on my calling you. She said you should call on her cell and she’ll give you directions about where to come to get her. Jeez, Ali! The idea that she’s out there in the dark and the cold all by herself…”

Dave’s final sentence faded away, but Ali had heard the hard edge of anger in his voice—anger and relief and frustration all mixed together. By then she was already scrambling out of bed.

“I’m on my way,” Ali said. “Just let me find a pencil so I can write down the number.” While Ali searched frantically through the debris on her bedside desk, a concerned Chris appeared in her doorway.

“Mom,” he said. “I heard the phone. Is something the matter?”

“It’s Dave,” Ali said, waving him aside. “Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Giving his mother a disapproving shake of his head, Chris disappeared back down the hallway.

“Okay,” Ali said. “I’ve got a pencil finally. Give me the number.”

She took it down. “All right,” she said. “I’ll call her as soon as you hang up.”

“I really appreciate this, Ali,” Dave said. “You have no idea how much.”

“Let’s just say it’s a little bit of payback,” she said with a laugh.

“I’m not going to cancel the Amber Alert or tell Roxie what’s happened until after I hear back from you and know for sure she’s in your car,” Dave continued. “Is that all right with you?”

“Sure,” Ali said. “That’s fine.”

“Thanks again,” Dave said. Then he hung up.

Ali immediately dialed the number he had given her. “Hello.” Ali could tell it was the voice of a young girl. “Who is this?”

“My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m a friend of Dave Holman’s. Is this Crystal?”

“Are you a cop?” the girl asked without answering.

“No, I’m not a cop,” Ali replied. “I’m a friend of Dave’s. Now tell me, is this Crystal Holman or not?”

“Yes,” a small voice answered.

“Where are you?”

“Mund’s Park.”

“I know you’re in Mund’s Park,” Ali said. “Your father already told me that much. Where in Mund’s Park?”

“The restaurant is closed right now,” Crystal said. “Just pull into the parking lot and wait there. I’ll come to you. What kind of a car will you be driving?”

“It’s an SUV,” Ali said. “A blue SUV.”

“Okay. Just pull into the restaurant parking lot and turn your lights off and on,” Crystal said. “I’ll be able to see them and come to you.”

Mund’s Park, a natural clearing in the forest of the Mogollon Rim, had once been the summer headquarters for a major cattle-grazing operation homesteaded by a guy named James Mund, but the cattle were long gone. Now Mund’s Park’s wintertime major claim to fame was as the only gas station stop on I-17 between Verde Valley and Flagstaff. There were a few hardy souls who lived there year-round, but many of the residents were of the “summer only” variety. That meant that during the winter months a lot of cabins and campers sat empty, and Ali knew that unoccupied homes were often attractive to certain segments of society.

“Did you break into someone’s house?” Ali asked.

Crystal said nothing, and that was answer enough. No wonder she didn’t want her father to send a cop car to pick her up.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Ali told her.

Ending that call, she redialed Dave’s number. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve talked to Crystal. She told me where to meet her.”

“Thank God,” Dave breathed.

The relief in his voice was heart-wrenchingly apparent. Ali could find no good reason to mention the breaking-and-entering part of the equation. As a law enforcement professional, Dave would probably figure that out on his own soon enough.

“Drive carefully,” he urged.

“Don’t worry,” Ali said. “I will.”

Before Ali left the house, though, she stopped in the hallway closet long enough to strap on her holstered Glock. Ali had a license to carry a concealed weapon. If she was going to go driving around by herself in the middle of the night, she was going to have her nine millimeter along—just in case.