“Thank you for that, too,” Beatrice said. “I may just do that.”
Back in the house, Ali discovered that B. and Dave had moseyed into the kitchen, where B. was ladling the last of the evening’s stew into a bowl.
“For Dave,” B. explained. “He missed dinner at home.”
“Thanks for the help,” Dave said, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs.
“It doesn’t sound as though Beatrice is convinced her daughter had anything to do with what happened,” Ali said.
Dave nodded. “Mothers are always the last ones to realize their little darlings have gone off the reservation.”
“Lynn didn’t strike me as the murderous type, either,” Ali said.
“You’ve met her?”
Ali nodded. “Once. Last summer. We were at the same television station to tape a segment for a program based on Brenda’s book. I told you about that.”
“I don’t know about types,” Dave said grimly. “What I know is that when the CSI people sprayed her trunk and back bumper with BlueStar, they lit up like Christmas trees. And we found Lynn’s supposedly missing phone at the crime scene. But all of that is strictly circumstantial. In all honesty, I think Cap Horning is jumping the gun here. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I’ve heard rumors that he may be gearing up to run for the state attorney general slot. If that’s the case, a confession from Martinson or Ralston will sew this one up in a hurry and make his life so much simpler.”
“So the plea deal is a way for Horning to keep from having to work so hard?” Ali asked.
Dave nodded, but Ali could tell he wasn’t happy about it. “That’s about the size of it. My take is that Horning is smart but lazy. He wants to get the job done with the least amount of effort.”
“What about the 911 caller?” Ali asked.
“There’s always a chance that the perp had a change of heart and came back in hopes of changing the outcome,” Dave said. “Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.”
Placing a steaming bowl of stew on the table in front of Dave, B. sat down across from the detective as he dug in. “What’s the ex-con’s connection to all this?” B. asked.
“Remains to be seen,” Dave said. “Once James Sanders finished his parole, he went off the grid. The car he was found in was licensed in Nevada. He bought it last week off Craigslist; paid cash. Not cash, actually. The guy who sold it said the victim paid for the car with two thousand-dollar gambling tokens from the MGM Grand, and once he drove off in it, he didn’t bother changing the registration. No ID or driver’s license was found on the body, and we’re unable to locate a current driver’s license for Sanders there or anywhere else. No credit cards, although he does have a checking account. We found a blank check in his wallet.”
“You’re thinking Sanders may have been involved in some kind of criminal enterprise,” B. suggested.
Dave nodded. “Something that’s long on cash and short on credit cards. And it must have been working for him right up until someone blew out his brains at close range.”
“So he was shot,” Ali surmised. “What about Gemma Ralston?”
“Stabbed,” Dave said, “but with no defensive wounds on her body and with nothing under her nails. There were no signs that she was restrained in any way. The ME is running a tox screen, which will take time, but he’s operating under the theory that Gemma was incapacitated in some way before she was stabbed.”
“Is it possible these are two entirely unrelated incidents?” Ali asked.
“Possible,” Dave agreed. “Just not very likely.”
He bolted his stew and took off for home while Ali and B. finished putting Leland’s kitchen back to rights.
“If Leland was counting on serving stew for lunch tomorrow,” B. said, “he’s in for a surprise. Now, about that partner bonus? Jet lag just hit big-time.”
10
Lynn Martinson lay in her jail cell with her head on her arm and tried to imagine how any of this could have happened to her. Her attorney, who was nice enough but very young, had outlined the terms of the county attorney’s offer. All Lynn had to do was finger Chip for Gemma’s murder, and Lynn herself would probably skate.
There was only one problem. Lynn couldn’t bring herself to believe that any of it was true. She couldn’t believe that a man who had dedicated his life to doing no harm would have taken anyone’s life, including Gemma’s. Yes, the woman had been a pain in the ass. Yes, paying her alimony and buying out her share of the medical practice and their joint real estate holdings was putting a crimp in Chip’s bottom line. He had lost a bundle in real estate, and he’d turned over a big part of his pension, but Lynn refused to believe that money meant so much to him. After all, hadn’t that been one of Gemma’s major gripes about him? That he had backed away from the big-bucks medical practices in favor of shepherding the families of Alzheimer’s patients? Was that the kind of man who would stoop to murder? Lynn didn’t want to believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be. Could it?
Lynn had been on her way home from Chip’s place early that morning when an unmarked patrol car had pulled her over on Shea Boulevard as she made her way toward the 101. Since she hadn’t been speeding, she almost didn’t stop. What if this was one of those times when the guy pulling her over turned out to be a bad guy masquerading as a cop?
“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” she had asked through the open window when she pulled over and Detective Holman walked up to the driver’s window. “Was I doing something wrong?”
“Would you please step out of the vehicle, Ms. Martinson? I need to ask you a few questions.”
It surprised her that he already knew her name, even though he hadn’t asked to see her license or registration. It struck Lynn as odd, but she complied with her hands shaking and knees quaking. The badge and ID he showed her turned out to be from Yavapai County rather than one of the local jurisdictions.
“Where were you night before last?” he asked as she handed him back his ID.
“I was at my boyfriend’s house,” she said. “I spent the night.”
“Your boyfriend would be Dr. Charles Ralston, right?”
“Yes,” Lynn said hurriedly, “but what’s this about? Does it have anything to do with my telephone?”
“What about your telephone?”
“I know my cell turned up at the scene of a homicide, but like I told the officer who came by the house yesterday, I evidently misplaced it sometime earlier. I have no idea how it could have made its way to a crime scene near Camp Verde. I’ve never even been there.”
“Never?” he asked.
The way he looked at her when he said that was disquieting-as if he didn’t believe her. Lynn’s knees shook that much more. It was sounding much more serious than some kind of minor traffic violation. People going by on the street were rubbernecking, peering at her and trying to see what was going on. Fortunately, she was far enough from Surprise that it seemed unlikely any of the gawkers would know either her or her mother. Still it was embarrassing.
“Do we have to do this here?” she asked. “Couldn’t we have our discussion somewhere more private?”
“Sure,” Detective Holman agreed. “There’s a Denny’s just off Scottsdale Road. How about if we go there to talk? I can follow you.”
It seemed like a reasonable enough request, so that was what they did. Lynn was grateful that he turned off the flashers on his light bar. When they pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, she was relieved to see that it was relatively full.
They went inside. Detective Holman ordered a Grand Slam. All Lynn wanted was coffee, and it was frustrating to see how much her hand shook as she raised the mug to her lips. She was nervous about talking to this guy. She couldn’t help it.
“So let’s go back to the night before last. What time did you arrive at Dr. Ralston’s place?”
“Ten or so.”
“You left there when?”
“About this time, maybe a little earlier.”