Ali more than half expected Paula Urban to take exception to Beatrice’s dismissive remark about court-appointed attorneys, but she didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Ali said, jumping into the uncomfortable silence. “Even though I’d like to help, I can’t. As I just told Ms. Urban, I’m not a licensed detective.”
“But you’re a journalist, aren’t you?” Beatrice Hart asked.
“Was,” Ali said. “As in used to be. I’m not anymore.”
“I want you to do what Brenda did for Lynn and all those other poor women. I want to hire you to tell the story of what’s going on in Lynn’s life right now, and if you happen to pass along what you learn to Ms. Urban, so be it.”
“Are you hearing this, Ms. Urban?” Ali asked, expecting the attorney to object.
“Works for me,” Paula said.
“As I said before,” Ali insisted, “I’m not a licensed private investigator. It’s very generous for you to offer to pay me, but I can’t take your money. It’s out of the question.”
“How about if I make a voluntary donation to your scholarship fund?” Beatrice offered. “Surely you couldn’t object to that. And if you happen to report your findings to Ms. Urban before you get around to writing whatever it is you’re going to write for me, then it would be all to the good, don’t you think?”
Across the room, B. was saying nothing, but he was grinning into his cup.
“What kind of investigative help do you need, Ms. Urban?” Ali asked, saying yes without really meaning to.
“You’re aware that another homicide victim was found near the first one?” Paula asked. “Near where Gemma Ralston was found?”
“Yes,” Ali answered.
“So far, all I’ve been able to learn is the man’s name,” Paula said. “James Mason Sanders. I need to do a complete background check on him to see if we can find out whether he had any possible connections to Gemma Ralston or Dr. Ralston. Lynn claims she’s never heard the name. I also need to know everything there is to know about Charles and Gemma Ralston. I’ve been told that they were involved in long, drawn-out, and very messy divorce proceedings, but I don’t know any of the details. I need complete background information on them as well, individually and as a couple.”
Ali glanced in B.’s direction. At the mention of background checks, he nodded. Can do, he mouthed silently.
“All right,” Ali said into the phone. “Providing three sets of background checks sounds pretty doable. I’m assuming that whatever I find should be turned over to you?”
There was a pause during which Beatrice Hart was evidently considering Ali’s question. “I’m not very computer-literate,” she said. “I have a cell, but I hardly use it. Would it be all right if Ms. Reynolds interacted with you, Ms. Urban? Then you could collect the material and send it along to me.”
“That would probably work,” Paula Urban agreed.
The faux-journalist story gave all of them a thin veneer of cover; enough, Ali hoped, that should she be found operating as a private investigator without appropriate state licensing, she’d be able to dodge any resulting class-one misdemeanor charges.
“What’s the situation with Chip Ralston?” Ali asked. “Any word on whether he intends to turn state’s evidence?” Ali knew if that happened, it would be a game changer as far as Lynn’s situation was concerned.
“No word so far,” Paula said. “I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad news.”
Beatrice’s voice came back on the line. “I don’t know how to thank you enough,” she said. “Should we draw up some kind of official contract for the article or story or whatever it is you’re writing?”
“No,” Ali said. “That’s not necessary. We’ll consider this a handshake agreement. If I end up doing anything helpful, I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you’re going to make a contribution to the fund and how much that should be. But I’ll need complete contact information for both of you. And, as suggested, I’ll send my progress reports to Ms. Urban, with the understanding that she’ll forward them on to you.”
When Paula Urban ended the call, Ali turned back to B., who was still grinning.
“What’s so funny?”
“To quote George Bernard Shaw, ‘We’ve established what you are, now we’re merely haggling over the price.’”
“Right. What happens if I go to jail for operating without a license?”
“Then I guess I show up, checkbook in hand, to bail you out,” B. said with a smile. “I’m also willing to put Stuart Ramey at your disposal.”
“Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind,” B. said. “He’s gotten a real kick out of back-stopping some of your escapades in the past, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to do it again.”
“But why-” Ali began.
“Because I heard you tell Beatrice Hart last night that I’m your partner. How about if I start acting like it?”
“Are you sure?” Ali asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I am. As your mother is so fond of saying, ‘Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’ And speaking of sauce, Leland was close to putting breakfast on the table when I picked up the coffee. You’d better get a move on.”
12
As soon as breakfast was over, Ali headed for High Noon’s corporate offices in Cottonwood. Having been given a warning call by B., Stuart Ramey conducted her into a conference room and left her to read the mountain of material he had already accumulated, including the fact that for the past five years James Mason Sanders had lived and worked at a halfway house in North Las Vegas called the Mission, where people fresh out of jail could get three hots and a cot. According to the Mission’s fund-raising newsletter, Sanders was the facility’s on-site manager.
The back story on James Mason Sanders, as culled from newspaper articles, related the tragedy of a bright kid pulled into a college-age prank that went awry. A group of Arizona State University fraternity brothers had decided to see if it was possible to use their newly honed computer skills to print their own money. With Sanders doing most of the artwork and one of the other guys laying hands on a ready supply of the right kind of paper, they had printed up and spent a considerable amount of phony twenty-dollar bills. Had they been serious about the project, they probably would have moved on to printing hundreds.
Once the students were caught, the feds didn’t see anything funny about it. The four perpetrators were tried separately. Two, Robert McDowell and Kevin Owens, were found innocent of all charges. It was clear from reading the articles that the two who got off came from families who had been able to pay for name-brand defense attorneys. The two who took the fall, James Sanders and Scott Ballentine, were represented by court-appointed attorneys. Scott, who procured the paper, got off with a five-thousand-dollar fine after agreeing to testify against James Sanders, who was considered the creative genius behind the project.
Sounds familiar, Ali thought, thinking about Lynn Martinson and Chip Ralston.
At the end of one article, Ali discovered a nugget of information:
At the conclusion of the sentencing hearing, where Sanders was given a sentence of twelve to fifteen years, he was led stony-faced from Judge Mathison’s courtroom without exchanging so much as a nod with his weeping wife and their infant child.
Ali picked up the phone and dialed Stuart Ramey. “What became of Sanders’s wife and child?”