Edge Of Evil

by J. A. Jance

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Farris from the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. Dave Holman suggested I give you a call. I understand from him that you and Ms. Bernard were good friends.”

  “Yes,” Ali said. “From high school on.”

  “Dave also mentioned that she had been in touch with you shortly before her death and that you thought that communication might have some bearing on the case. What was it, a phone call, letter, e-mail?”

  “A greeting card,” Ali said. “Reenie liked to send greeting cards.”

  “And what did it say exactly?”

  Ali retrieved her purse. Ignoring the Glock which had somehow managed to rise to the surface, Ali pawed through the purse’s contents until she located Reenie’s card. “Here it is: ‘I think I’m in for a very bumpy ride, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I’ll call you next week. R.”

  “That’s all?” Farris asked.

  “Yes,” Ali answered.

  “And what is it about this card that makes you doubt the authenticity of the suicide note we found in the wreckage of Reenie Bernard’s vehicle?”

  “It’s just that Reenie was a friend of mine,” Ali said quickly. “Sending a typed suicide note just isn’t like her. She wouldn’t do it.”

  “You’re saying your friend would commit suicide, but instead of typing the note, she’d write it out longhand?”

  “I didn’t say…” Ali began.

  “Look,” Detective Farris said. “I don’t mean any disrespect, and I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Reynolds, but Mrs. Bernard’s secretary over at the YWCA tried to tell me the same thing, that when we did find a note, it would be on some kind of greeting card, something with a pretty picture on it.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I’m a detective, Ms. Reynolds,” he said. “A homicide detective. I’ve investigated any number of suicides over the years, and I have to say that as far as notes are concerned the results are about fifty-fifty, half typed and half handwritten. A few were done on typewriters. Most of the typed ones were computer generated and without benefit of a valid signature, but that didn’t mean the notes weren’t valid. And none of them—not a single, solitary one—ever showed up on a greeting card of any kind.

  “Just to set your mind at rest, we’ve examined the printers from Ms. Bernard’s office as well as the one they have at home. We’re reasonably sure the note wasn’t typed on either one of those. The truth is, however, Ms. Bernard was in the Phoenix area that day. She could easily have gone to a Kinko’s somewhere to write and print the note.”

  “But…”

  Farris went on without pausing long enough to listen to Ali’s objection. “I know losing a loved one is difficult,” he continued, “and the fact that someone has taken his or her own life is often particularly difficult to accept, but so far I’ve found nothing at all that doesn’t point to the fact that Reenie Bernard committed suicide. We’ve been unable to find any legitimate reason for Ms. Bernard to be coming down Schnebly Hill Road in the middle of a snowy night. She was from around here. When she opened the gate at the top of the hill, I’m sure she knew how dangerous it was. I think she also knew exactly what she was doing.

  “I’m probably saying more than I should, but I want you to understand where we are on this, Ms. Reynolds. The autopsy findings also bear out what I’m telling you. Her injuries are consistent with that plunge down the side of the mountain. There’s nothing at all that indicates foul play.”

  “What about her trip to the bank?” Ali asked.

  “Her intended trip to the bank,” Farris corrected. “No banking slips or receipts were found in her vehicle or at the scene. We’ve already ascertained that there was no activity on any of the Bernard accounts that day. Now, if you have something more substantial to add, some kind of additional information, I’ll be happy to look into it, but until then…”

  The call-waiting signal beeped in Ali’s ear.

  “I have another call coming in and I need to take it,” she said. “Thanks for being in touch. If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Hi, Ali,” Bree Cowan said when Ali clicked over to the other call. “I just talked to my mother. She and Dad are having a few people over tonight, but there’s so much food at the house that they’d like more people to stop by and eat it. It’ll mostly be friends and relatives from out of town, and you certainly qualify on that score. They could use the company, and so could the kids. I thought maybe…”

  Going to visit the Holzers made a lot more sense than sitting around at home wondering what Watching might or might not be doing. “What time?” Ali asked at once.

  “Sixish.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Once off the phone with Bree Cowan, Ali sat there holding Reenie’s friendship card and letting the anger she felt toward Detective Farris wash over her. He had dismissed her concerns out of hand. He had given her the same kind of brush-off he had given Andrea Rogers.

  His mind’s made up, Ali thought bitterly. Don’t confuse the issue by asking him questions that don’t necessarily agree with his pet theory.

  Still looking at the card she realized that, for the rest of her life, whenever she saw one of those particular cards, she’d think of Reenie. And then she realized something else. Just because Detective Farris wasn’t interested in her questions didn’t mean she should stop asking them. Alison Reynolds was a journalist after all, someone trained to ask questions, and ask she would.

  With that in mind, and with a whole new sense of purpose, Ali reached for her computer.

  Chapter 13

  It took hardly any time for Ali’s search engine to track down Jasmine Wright—Jasmine and Timothy Wright, to be exact—with an address on N. Verde Street in Flagstaff. In other words, Howard’s prize pupil and key-carrying side-dish was married—or had been—a short enough time ago that the phone company database had yet to catch up with any possible changes in address or marital status. Opening a new file on her computer, in a document she labeled simply REENIE, Ali pasted in both the address and the telephone number.

  She did a public records search and found no references to either Jasmine or Timothy that included anything concerning divorce proceedings. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed their number. Her heart skipped a beat when a male voice answered the phone on the third ring.

  “Mr. Wright?” Ali asked that much but she had no concept whatsoever of what she would say next.

  “Yes.”

  Ali’s mind raced. “My name is Larson,” she said, reverting to her maiden name. “Ali Larson. I hate to bother you. I’m sure you remember that terrible snowstorm we had a week ago. My car was parked on a street near campus. Someone skidded in the snow and creamed my poor Camry—took out all three panels on the passenger side. The problem is, it was a hit and run. I’ve been told that your wife sometimes parks in that same area, and I was wondering if she might have seen—”

  “Jasmine’s not here,” Timothy interrupted. “She moved out months ago.”

  “Do you have any idea where I could reach her?”

  “No,” he answered. “None at all. Sorry.” And he hung up.

  Ali thought about Alan, the poor guy who had written to cutloose to express his devastation after learning that his wife was screwing around with her professor. Poor Timothy, Ali thought and meant it. The Wrights’ divorce might not be final, but it was definitely in the works. And if Jasmine was clearing the marital decks to make way for Howie, was it possible Howie had been doing the same thing?

  It would have taken a year or two, or maybe even longer, for Reenie to die of ALS. A divorce took six months to a year, depending. Murder was a whole lot quicker. So where had Jasmine and Howie been on Thursday night? Did they have an alibi for the time when Reenie was flying off the cliff? Detective Farris probably knew the answers to those questions, but he wasn’t going to tell. Ali would have to find out about that on her own.

  So who would b
e her allies in this project? Andrea Rogers, for sure. Bree and Jack Cowan. The Holzers. As for the cops? Not a chance. Knowing the Cowans and the Holzers would be otherwise occupied, Ali picked up the phone and called Andrea.

  “Can you do me a favor?” Ali asked.

  “Sure,” Andrea said. “What?”

  “Jasmine Wright has split with her husband. Could you try to find out where she’s living?”

  “How come?”

  “I talked to Detective Farris,” Ali said. “He gave me the same treatment he gave you. As far as he’s concerned, the typed suicide note stands. Case closed.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “No,” Ali said. “I don’t.”

  “And it’s not an accident?”

  “No.”

  Andrea sighed. “Murder then,” she said. “Who?”

  “Since the cops don’t suspect anybody, my position is to suspect everybody,” Ali answered. “Starting with Howie and Jasmine Wright.”

  “I see,” Andrea said. “In that case, I could just as well tell you that I’ve been doing some nosing around on my own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know Reenie,” Andrea said. “She wasn’t one for scrimping when it came to spending money on services or programs, but as far as the office was concerned…Six years ago, somebody donated a dozen or so computers. We used two of them, and Reenie put the rest of them away to use later. They’re all dinosaurs now and not worth fixing, but they’re perfectly reliable, right up until one of them quits.”

  “So?”

  “The first one I used was the first one that croaked, and I didn’t have all my files backed up the way they should have been. We installed flash cards so we could back up on a daily basis, but when we moved into the new office and set up a network, our IT guy fixed it so that Reenie’s computer backed up to mine each day and mine backed up to hers as well. Sort of a fail-safe system.”

  “You’re saying you have her files?”

  “Yes,” Andrea said. “All of them.”

  “Does Detective Farris know about that?”

  “He didn’t ask so I didn’t tell him,” Andrea answered. “And I know it’s snooping and probably none of my business, but I’ve been going through her files anyway. I’m sure the police have been doing the same thing.”

  “And?”

  “The last file Reenie worked on was a spreadsheet,” Andrea said. “The file was saved on Wednesday night at eight o’clock. So she came back into the office after I left for the day.”

  “What kind of spreadsheet?”

  “It lays out all her death benefits,” Andrea said. “It lists all the insurance policies—group and individual.”

  “How much?” Ali asked.

  “Almost five hundred thousand,” Andrea answered. “There’s twenty-five thousand of group insurance from here, an additional hundred in group insurance through Howie’s work, a hundred from an individual policy. The rest is from their bank—one that will pay off the outstanding mortgage on their house. Then there’s an additional twelve hundred a month from Social Security until Matt and Julie each reach their eighteenth birthdays.”

  Ali did some mental calculations. On the one hand, $500,000 sounded like a lot of money, but if you subtracted out $80,000 for the protocol and then whatever hospital expenses Reenie’s final illness might have entailed, that money could have been eaten up in no time.

  “So she was definitely putting her financial house in order,” Andrea was saying. “I’m sure Detective Farris sees that as something else pointing to suicide, but I think she was trying to get a clear idea of how things would work once she was gone. I think she was just being responsible.”

  “What about her Internet account,” Ali asked. “Can you access that? If we knew who she was e-mailing and what about, it might give us a big leg up.”

  “I know her e-mail address,” Andrea said. “It’sR. Bernard@FlagYWCA.org, but I have no idea what her password is.”

  “Do what you can,” Ali told her. “And if you figure it out, let me know. What about her calendar. Is that there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does it show for Thursday?”

  “One appointment: two P.M., Dr. Clyde Mason, Mayo Clinic, Scottsdale.”

  “Phone number and address?”

  Andrea gave it to her and Ali put that information into the Reenie file as well, and as soon as she got off the phone with Andrea, she dialed Dr. Mason’s office. It wasn’t easy talking her way around the gate-keepers—first the office receptionist and then the nurse—but eventually Ali prevailed. By the time Dr. Mason came on the line, he sounded none too happy.

  “I’ve already spoken to the authorities on this matter,” he complained. “As I told them, privacy rules limit my ability to comment on a patient’s condition including whether or not someone is one of my patients. Who are you again?”

  “Alison,” she said. “Alison Larson. I’m a reporter with…”

  “A reporter!” he bristled.

  “And I was also Reenie Bernard’s best friend,” Ali put in quickly. “But my questions aren’t about her. I’m assuming she wasn’t your only ALS patient.”

  “I have several,” Dr. Mason said.

  “Supposing one of your patients, not Reenie, of course, happened to have heard about some new course of ALS treatment down in Mexico, would you advise them to try it?”

  “No,” Dr. Mason barked. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’ve been told that this supposed course of treatment is expensive—in the neighborhood of eighty-thousand dollars or so. I also understand that after Reenie left your office, she planned on visiting a bank.”

  “I advised her not to have anything to do with those crooks,” Dr. Mason blurted. “I told her to go home and spend whatever time she had—whatever quality time she had—with her family, and not to waste financial and emotional resources on some kind of scam.”

  “So you think this treatment, whatever it is, is a scam?”

  “No question.” Mason quieted suddenly and Ali knew he had said more than he intended. She was afraid he might hang up on her.

  “One more thing,” she hurried on. “And this is strictly theoretical. From what I’ve been able to learn, some ALS patients, faced with what has to be a very dire future, choose to go out on their own terms.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Mason agreed. “Some of them do, but not within the first week of getting their final diagnosis,” he added. “Hardly anyone ever does that.”

  It took Ali a moment to assimilate what had happened. It sounded as though Dr. Mason had answered the question she hadn’t asked, but she had to be sure.

  “So you don’t think Reenie committed suicide?”

  Dr. Mason hesitated for so long that Ali thought he wasn’t going to, but then he did. “In my experience,” he said, “that would seem unlikely.”

  “Thank you,” Ali managed, pushing her voice past the sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “And please accept my condolences on the loss of your friend. From everything I learned about her through my dealings with her, Reenie Bernard struck me as a wonderful person.”

  “Yes,” Ali managed. “She was certainly that.”

  Once Ali was off the phone, it took several minutes before she reached for her computer and turned her attention to the New Mail section of cutlooseblog.com.

  * * *

  Dear Babe,

  And in my opinion, you are one. As far as I’m concerned, Melissa G. is walking around with a bag over her brain. Obviously her daddy never taught her the lesson Thumper’s father passed along to his little ones. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all!”

  I miss seeing you on the news, but I think you’re doing good work.

  Randy

  * * *

  Dear Ali,

  Why are some people so mean? They need to get a life.

  Donna

  * * *<
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  Dear Babe,

  From what you’ve said, it sounds as though you’ve never experienced domestic violence. Lucky for you. I have, and I really related to what’s going on with Watching’s wife. I spent eighteen years in an abusive relationship. My husband was a physician. He didn’t beat me up physically, but he did mentally. He told everyone in town that I was a mental case and he told me that if I ever tried to leave, he’d kill me in a way that no one would ever detect. I’m thinking now of your friend’s suicide. He also said that if I ever did get away, he’d track me to the ends of the earth and put me out of my misery.

  My husband was an influential person in town—you’ll notice I’m not saying which one. He made sure I didn’t have money of my own and no credit cards, either. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how. Then I heard about an organization called Angel Flight. Most of the time, they fly patients back and forth across long distances for chemo or dialysis treatments. But now they’ve started doing domestic violence escape flights as well.

  Two years ago next month, I walked out of my house with nothing but the clothes on my back. A friend gave me a ride to the airport. A private plane met me there and away I went. If I’d had to pay for a ticket, I couldn’t have afforded one, and since there were no tickets to buy, there were also no credit card receipts that he could use to find me.

  I live somewhere else now. People here helped me establish a new identity. Starting over isn’t easy. I’m waiting tables now, too, and I’m glad to do it. At least I’m safe. At least I’m alive. My parents and my sister know I made it out, but they don’t know where I am because I’m afraid my ex-husband might browbeat or threaten them into revealing my location. I love them and miss them, but for right now this is what I have to do for me. I’m better off safe and alone than dead.

  I’m unwilling to come out of hiding. For that reason alone, I haven’t divorced my husband and, as far as I know, he has yet to divorce me.