J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 2: Trial by Fire, Fatal Error, Left for Dead (38 page)

“Okay,” B. said. “I’ll do my best to keep our noses clean. By the way, I think I found your Mr. Yarnov, the Russian art collector. Mr. Vladimir Yarnov. If he’s done something bad, he won’t be easy to catch. He’s a former arms dealer who took his money and an extensive art collection and decamped to Venezuela before the Russian economy went south along with everyone else’s. I understand he lives like a king in a beachfront mansion
outside La Guaira, near Caracas. It turns out his private collection is thought to contain several Paul Klees.”

“You’re right,” Ali agreed. “Sounds like Vladimir is our guy.”

“Let me see what else I can find for you. Do you want me to call later tonight, or in the morning?”

“Morning,” Ali said. “I’m running on empty.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll work the night shift. You get some sleep.”

On the bed in the bedroom part of her suite, Ali found a Nordstrom bag that hadn’t been there before. Wrapped in tissue inside the box was a brand-new jogging suit—the same make and model as her pink one, but this one was navy blue.

A card was enclosed. “Hope this fills the bill. L.B.”

Leland Brooks rides again,
Ali thought.
That man is a wonder and a marvel.

She was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and she was dead to the world until the phone on her bedside table rang at 7 a.m.

“It’s not much of a breakfast,” Edie Larson grumbled, “but your father and I are here in the lounge. The coffee is good, and there’s plenty of it.”

When Ali tried to get out of bed, she discovered that the parts of her that had gone slipping and sliding down the wall of the gully the day before were stiff and sore, and when she looked at her face in the bathroom mirror, the scar, still accentuated by the sunburn, stood out on her face. B. had told her once that he thought the scar gave her character. She did what she could to fix her face, then peeled the price tags off the new blue tracksuit and wore that upstairs to breakfast.

In the club lounge Ali discovered that the pickings weren’t nearly as grim as Edie had implied. As far as Bob and Edie were concerned, anything less than a cooked-to-order breakfast was
something of a hardship. Ali helped herself to a bowl of fresh raspberries, a few slices of salmon, some cream cheese, and a bagel. Then she joined her parents at a small table, where her mother had already poured Ali a cup of coffee.

“I hope you had a better night’s sleep than we did,” Edie said. “Your father turned the air-conditioning down so low I was afraid we were going to freeze to death by morning.”

“I was hoping she’d cuddle up to get warm,” Bob said with a grin.

“I slept fine,” Ali said.
Fine, but not long.

“What’s on your agenda for today?” Edie asked. “Since we’re both here, your father and I plan to check out some of the restaurant supply places. I did what you said and asked him about that big-screen TV. What he really wants is a new stove in the restaurant.”

That sounded like even less of a gift than the outdoor barbecue, but Bob Larson was nodding enthusiastically.

“Some things you can order from a catalog,” Edie continued, “but with something as important as a stove, he likes to see it up close and personal before he forks over his credit card. You can join us if you want, but I don’t know how much fun it’ll be.”

Ali was glad to know the Father’s Day question was settled. As far as her going along? Ali had gone restaurant equipment shopping with her parents on other occasions. This was an invitation that didn’t require much thought.

“I’m working,” Ali said. “I need to stop by and find out if they’ve moved Sister Anselm out of the ICU so I can see her. After that I expect to pack, check out of the hotel, and head back home.”

Ali excused herself soon after that. Down in her room, Ali turned on her computer and logged on. A few moments later,
she was looking at the Web site for Winston Langley Galleries. It was interesting that even though the man was dead, his name was still a part of the company’s identity. There was a separate page for each of the several branches, and a group photo of the personnel at each. There, front and center in the photo from the Scottsdale office, was the smiling face of Donna Carson.

Ali had been upstairs with her parents when she realized that most of the time when Donna had been in the burn-unit waiting room, Sister Anselm had not. Bookmarking that page, Ali hurried down to the hotel business office and printed off a color copy. The resolution wasn’t perfect, but it was clear enough. Taking the printed photo as well as her computer, she called for her car with the full intention of showing the picture to Sister Anselm.

Her phone rang as she walked through the lobby to pick up her car. “Hey,” B. said. “I think I’ve got something for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Donna Carson bought a condo in Paradise Valley five years ago. Paid minimum down. It’s currently listed for sale for fifteen thousand less than she paid for it originally. Which means she’s trying to sell it in a hurry.

“That’s not all,” B. continued. “I’ve come up with an ELF connection. Donna’s parents got a divorce when she was a sophomore in high school. Her mother got full custody, and the father disappeared into the great beyond. Then, during Donna’s junior year, her mother hooked up with some off-the-wall people and ended up getting arrested for arson. She was part of a group of people who torched a bunch of houses that were under construction on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. They didn’t call the organization ELF back then. That name came later.
The mother, Leah Lynette Carson, was sentenced to five to ten, but she never got out. She died of breast cancer while she was still in prison.”

“So maybe Donna stayed in touch with some of those folks from her mother’s past.”

“If you look at the ages, they work,” B. said. “It could be that Thomas McGregor and Donna’s mother were an item way back then. Here’s the real kicker,” he said. “I googled the location of phone calls placed to Thomas McGregor’s phone from the other one. Guess what? You can tell Bishop Gillespie for me that five of those calls originated through a cell phone tower three blocks from Donna Carson’s town house in Paradise Valley, and some of them came and went within blocks of Saint Gregory’s—when both phones were within blocks of the hospital.”

Ali felt goose bumps spring up on her leg. “We’ve got her, don’t we?”

“Maybe not close enough to cover all the probable-cause bases, but we’re close.”

“Thanks,” Ali said. “You have no idea.”

“You’re welcome,” B. said. “I’m going to grab a nap. I’ve got some meetings later today.”

He hung up as the parking valet handed Ali her key. She looked around, hoping to see the man who had told her about the red crossover. She wanted to show him the picture. Unfortunately today was his day off.

She climbed into the Cayenne, but instead of driving off, she sat there, thinking.

So Donna had connections to someone from ELF. She must have gotten him to set the fire, but why? What did she have against Mimi? And why burn up that valuable painting? What was the point in that?

Suddenly Ali knew. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. It all made sense. There had to be two paintings—the real one and a fake. The real one could be sold to the highest bidder, while insurance coverage would pay for the one destroyed in the fire. That meant that for someone, the Camp Verde fire was going to be a big win-win.

Ali knew that there were times when owners of valuable art made their own copies of various pieces, thus enabling them to display the copy while keeping the real work safely stored in a vault. She doubted that was what had happened here. Had Mimi taken that kind of precaution, surely she would have told her husband. That meant the switch had been done without Mimi’s knowledge or consent. So who was behind it? Was that big win for Donna alone, or was Mimi’s son or daughter also involved?

Bounding back out of the vehicle, Ali tossed the keys back to the valet, raced inside, and made straight for the nearest house phone.

“Hal Cooper, please,” she said when the operator picked up.

Ali was afraid she’d be told he had already checked out, but he hadn’t. “Hello,” Hal said. He sounded groggy, as though she had awakened him out of a sound sleep.

“It’s Ali,” she said urgently. “Ali Reynolds. We spoke last night. In the lobby.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. What time is it? Eight-thirty? I should have been up a long time ago.”

“I need to ask you something, Mr. Cooper. Tell me about your wife’s missing painting. When did Mimi have the reframing done?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Sometime last summer, I think. After we got married. Why?”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know that, either, but I’m sure I can find out. I believe Serenity handled the job. She has lots of connections with framers and the like. I seem to remember that she sent Donna over to pick it up. Why?”

So the reframing was done last summer,
Ali thought.
Now Donna Carson is beating a path out of town and taking a big loss on selling her condo in the process. Interesting.

“Tell me something else,” Ali said. “How long had Mimi had trouble with cataracts?”

“For a couple of years, I suppose,” Hal said. “Since before I met her. She didn’t want to have the surgery and kept putting it off. Why are you asking about Mimi’s cataracts? What’s this all about?”

“I’m not sure myself,” Ali said, “but right now I need to run. Please give me your cell phone number so I can reach you if I need to.”

She jotted down the number. Then, instead of going back to her car, she made her way to an empty couch in the far corner of the lobby. Once there, she pulled out her phone and called Dave Holman’s number.

“Good morning,” he said. “I hope we’re on better terms this morning.”

“Maybe,” Ali said. “I wasn’t at my best last night.”

“Are you feeling all right? Your dad said you got banged up pretty bad.”

On the one hand it was nice to know Dave cared enough to be checking with her parents. On the other hand, it was a little provoking.

“I’m fine, really,” Ali said. “I was about to go over to the hospital to check on Sister Anselm. She was in the ICU last night, and I didn’t see her.”

Had Ali been doing full disclosure, she might have mentioned Sister Anselm’s other visitor, Bishop Gillespie, and what he had asked of her, but she didn’t. Instead she got straight to the point about the painting.

“I have a question. Who’s handling the Camp Verde arson investigation?”

“ATF,” Dave said. “Who did you think?”

“Do you have a name and phone number?”

“Why? What’s going on?” Dave sounded suspicious.

“I’m working a hunch here. If it pans out, I’ll let you know. If it doesn’t, I won’t have to listen to your telling me you told me so.”

He laughed. “Am I that bad?”

“No,” she said. “Most of the time you’re not.”

“Hang on. Let me look through what’s come in so far.” He paused, then said, “Okay. Here it is. The chief arson investigator is a guy named Sam Torrance. I’ve got a phone number here. Do you want it?”

“Please.”

That was the next number Ali dialed. “Torrance here,” he said.

“Detective Holman gave me your number,” she said. “I’m Ali Reynolds with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department.”

That was true insofar as it went. She didn’t mention exactly what she
did
for the sheriff’s department, and Agent Torrance didn’t ask. The fact that she had his cell phone number seemed to lend her some credibility, but he didn’t care to hang around making small talk, either.

“Look,” he said. “I’m busy as hell right now. If you could call back—”

“I have a question,” Ali interrupted. “Just one—about that piece of charred picture frame stock you found in the ashes yesterday?”

“What about it?”

Ali knew from the sudden shift in his voice that she now had Sam Torrance’s undivided attention.

“I understand there were some scraps of paper found as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Torrance said. “I was told this was supposedly some supervaluable name-brand piece of art, right? Wrong. It’s nothing but a cheap copy. Done on old paper, so it looks real—until you see the pixels under a microscope, which one of my lab techs was able to do on one of the paper fragments this morning. I forget what they call that technique. Starts with the letter
G
. Just a minute. It’s right on the tip of my tongue. Giclée. That’s it. They do it with inkjet printers. My first guess would be that someone’s trying to rip off an insurance company.”

“That’s my guess, too,” Ali said, “and someone else besides.”

On that score they may have already succeeded,
she thought, but she didn’t say that aloud.

Ali understood in that moment that the switch most likely had been made months earlier, at a time when Mimi, the person who had loved the painting best, was being plagued with cataracts and was in no position to notice the difference. The person responsible must have known that once Mimi decided to put the picture up for sale, the jig would be up. By destroying the fake painting, the theft of the real one might never have been discovered.

“Thank you, Agent Torrance,” Ali said. “I have Agent Robson’s number right here. I believe I’ll give him a call.”

Before she could dial, though, her phone rang. The number in the readout wasn’t one she recognized.

“Kelly Green here,” he said. “Sorry to be calling so close to the wire.”

Ali looked at her watch. She had been so busy she hadn’t noticed that the nine o’clock deadline she had given Green was rapidly approaching.

“I just got off the phone with Devon. I managed to weasel the information out of him. You won’t tell him I told you, will you?”

That depends,
Ali thought,
but that doesn’t mean I won’t tell Sheriff Maxwell
. “Who is it?” she asked.

“His girlfriend,” Green said quickly.

“That’s impossible,” Ali said. “She’s not even working right now. How would she have access?”

“Beats me. All I know is, he said that Holly was keeping him in the know.”