“I already thought of that, and the answer is no,” Stuart said. “Nobody followed him. Sanders walked out the main entrance, hailed a cab, and went straight back to the Mission. I got the cab’s number from the security tapes. I already checked the cabbie’s records.”
“So he leaves the casino with three hundred thousand bucks, and in the next several days, he drops five thousand. Less than a week later, Sanders turns up dead. So where’s the rest of the money? Did somebody search his room?”
“Yes,” Stuart said. “He stayed in a one-bedroom unit at the Mission. Room and board were part of the paycheck. His unit was searched by the North Las Vegas police department, who executed a warrant at the request of investigators from Yavapai County. No money was found on the premises, and neither were any gambling chips.”
“You know all this how?” Ali asked.
“A good buddy of mine works for them,” Stuart answered.
In Ali’s estimation, Stuart Ramey had “good buddies” almost everywhere.
“What about the strongbox?” Ali asked. “Did they find that?”
“Nope. Nada.”
“We know he picked up the money,” Ali mused. “He evidently preferred having chips rather than cash. How come?”
“He sure as hell didn’t put it in the bank,” Stuart said, “at least not into any of the accounts I’ve been able to find.”
“So if James Sanders was still carrying the chips around, maybe his death was a straight-out armed robbery. That scenario makes it less likely that his case had anything to do with Gemma Ralston’s death, even with the geographical proximity.”
“Would you like me to keep following up on the money situation?” Stuart asked.
“Yes,” Ali answered. “I’m guessing we’re late to the party. We’re probably not the first ones to learn about those gambling chips, and we’re not the first ones who are asking what happened to them, either. A reporter from the Las Vegas Examiner was down here in Phoenix yesterday, asking questions about James Sanders. Her name is Betty Noonan. See what you can find out about her. It might be helpful if we knew what her angle is.”
“I’ll look into it,” Stuart said. “Anything else?”
“Also see what else you can find out about Sanders’s pal Ballentine,” Ali said. “You said Gemma Ralston’s Hearts Afire profile said she was looking for a high-end meaningless relationship. With a boatful of new money, Ballentine or even Sanders could be likely targets for someone like her.”
“You’re right,” Stuart agreed. “Could be.”
“Sorry, Stuart,” Ali said. “I’ve got another call.” She switched over to find Paula Urban on the line, in a state of high umbrage.
“Did anyone ever mention that Cap Horning is a complete jackass?”
It seemed to Ali that Sheriff Maxwell had come close, without using that exact word. “What’s he done now?” she asked.
“I’d like him to quit waffling on the deal Chip Ralston proposed. Either Horning takes it and lets Lynn Martinson walk, or else we go after her defense full-bore. The problem is, he has a while to go on that seventy-two-hour deadline, where he’ll either have to charge them or let them go. Do you have anything for me?”
Ali brought Paula up to date with what she had learned from Stuart.
“All right, then,” Paula said when Ali finished. “I think you’re right. With that much money involved, robbery is far more likely. So let’s step away from the Sanders situation and leave that one up to the cops while we concentrate on Gemma et al.”
“Okay,” Ali agreed. “I’ll be tracking Valerie Sloan as soon as I get showered and dressed and have some breakfast.”
“You stayed in Phoenix last night?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the Ritz,” Ali said.
“The Ritz! You’re not expecting to bill Beatrice Hart for that hotel room, are you?” Paula asked.
“No,” Ali said, grinning at B. “I’m pretty sure the hotel bill will be on someone else’s nickel.”
21
Valerie Baker Sloan lived in a condo development on the far side of Scottsdale Road that would have been considered a low-rent district by Paradise Valley standards. She was a blue-eyed blonde, but one in need of hair color. She had the nut-brown sun-damaged skin of a woman who spent much of her time in the great outdoors. In November, when visitors from the Midwest were all sporting shorts, she opened the door and showed her Arizona roots in her manner of dress-a jogging suit topped by a cardigan sweater knotted around her neck.
Ali had called ahead, so she was expected.
“You’re the writer?”
Ali nodded.
“Come on in,” Valerie said without bothering to ask for ID. “Please pardon the mess.”
She led the way into a spacious living room dominated by an immense rear-projection television set and an equally huge treadmill, along with a gym-worthy collection of high-end weight-lifting equipment. She shifted a pile of grimy clothing onto the floor behind the couch. Moving the clothing uncovered a pair of football jerseys with two and a half pairs of dusty cleats. She pushed those onto the floor in front of the couch, where they bounced off an accumulation of empty soda cans and dirty paper plates, some with pizza crusts attached.
“Twins,” Valerie explained, motioning Ali into a relatively clean easy chair. “Before the divorce, the boys had a separate room for all this junk and a housekeeper to pick up after them. Now we have this room, and I’m the unpaid housekeeper. I spend most of my time in the master, while I count the days until they leave for school next September. Once they do, they’ll be fully qualified to live in any frat house on the planet. Then I’ll be able to muck the place out and have a life again.”
Ali looked around what could best be categorized as an upscale pigsty and compared it to Sylvia Sanders’s far more humble but compulsively neat living room. Ali suspected the same would be true for Valerie’s twins-that they wouldn’t compare very favorably with Sylvia’s son, A.J.
“You’re here to talk about Gemma?” Valerie asked. She had perched herself on one arm of the sofa in a none too subtle hint that she didn’t expect Ali to stay long.
“Yes,” Ali said. “I’m a freelancer doing a research project on the investigation into Gemma’s homicide.” That little white lie was getting easier to say every time she repeated it.
“I’ve already told the cops everything I know,” Valerie said. “Couldn’t you talk to them?”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend, but I’d rather talk to you,” Ali said placatingly.
“All right,” Valerie said, giving in. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Tuesday. I understand you’re the person who reported Gemma Ralston missing.”
Valerie nodded. Her eyes misted over briefly, then she shrugged off the sadness in the same determined way she had shifted the stack of clothing from the couch to the floor, as though she didn’t have either the time or energy to give way to an overly emotional response. “When Gemma didn’t show up for our tennis date and didn’t answer my calls, I went to her place to check on her. She wasn’t there, but her stuff was-her purse, keys, and car. The front door was unlocked and open. I called the cops. They took over from there. End of story.”
“You’ve been friends a long time?”
“Since college,” Valerie replied. “Gemma, Molly, and I ended up as roommates our freshman year at ASU. I was dirt-poor. Gemma’s parents were gone; she had been raised by her grandparents. They had a fair amount of money. Molly’s family was absolutely loaded but judgmental. In spades. Since Molly was at odds with her family most of the time, she dragged Gemma and me along to family get-togethers and used us as human shields to keep her parents off her back. That’s how we ended up at a Christmas party at their house our freshman year, when Chip came home for the holidays.
“Gemma had told us at the beginning of the year that she was going to find a good-looking guy who was going to be a doctor, preferably a surgeon, to marry. We thought she was kidding. Molly had told Gemma that her brother was doing premed at USC, but she didn’t pay much attention. That changed as soon as Gemma saw Chip in the flesh. Once that happened, it was like she flipped a switch and turned into a heat-seeking missile. After that, no matter how long it took to land him, Chip Ralston was the only guy she was interested in. She never dated anyone else.”