Deadly Stakes

by J. A. Jance

  “Did you stay in touch with any of those guys afterward?”

  “Are you kidding?” Sylvia replied. “Why would I? After my husband went to prison, I barely stayed in touch with him. The other three of them all walked away and hung James out to dry. I wouldn’t cross the road to see any of them, not ever.”

  “I watched the security tape from the casino,” Ali said. “Ballentine turned over three hundred thousand in gambling chips to James Sanders, who loaded them into a strongbox and walked away. Four days later, James was dead. Your son admitted to being in possession of two hundred and fifty grand of that money. We’ve accounted for another five thousand. So where’s the other forty-five thousand? Do you know?”

  “Wait,” Sylvia said, her cheeks reddening. “You’re asking me if I have it?”

  “Do you?” Ali asked. “If James slipped money to his son without your knowledge, the reverse might also be true. Maybe he gave you some of it, too.”

  “No,” Sylvia declared. “He didn’t, and even if he had, I wouldn’t have accepted it.”

  “Tell me about the reporter,” Ali said. “The one who came to see you yesterday.”

  “Betty Noonan?”

  Ali nodded. “What did she look like?”

  “Tall,” Sylvia said at once. “About your height. Light reddish-brown hair. Curly.”

  “Did you see what kind of vehicle she was driving?”

  “An SUV, I think—a little white SUV—but I can’t tell you which kind,” Sylvia said. “I’ve never been particularly interested in cars, and I’m not very good at telling one make and model from another.”

  “Did anything she said strike you as odd?”

  Sylvia frowned. “Not then,” she said, “but now I realize she seemed to be under the impression that we had seen James sometime very recently. I told her that wasn’t true. That the last time we’d seen him was when he gave A.J. the car on his sixteenth birthday, but that was over a year ago.”

  Looking out the window beyond Sylvia’s shoulder, Ali watched as a pair of unmarked Phoenix PD patrol cars nosed into the parking lot. One stopped directly behind Sylvia’s Passat and stayed there, making it impossible for the vehicle to drive away. Two plainclothes detectives got out of the first vehicle and walked into the office building.

  “Oops,” Ali said. “It looks to me like you’ve got company. A pair of cops just went into your office.”

  Sylvia turned around and stared out the window. “They blocked my car,” she said.

  “Yes,” Ali agreed. “I’m pretty sure they want to talk to you in person.”

  “What should I tell them?”

  “The truth,” Ali answered. “You don’t know where A.J. got the gun. You may be tempted to give him an alibi by claiming he was home the whole time, but save your breath. Pretending it’s impossible for A.J. to sneak out of the house at night without your knowledge is a joke. I know for a fact that he did it at least once yesterday.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw him. He came out of the house after my interview with you. He was carrying a backpack loaded with the strongbox containing all those gambling tokens. He put it in the trunk of the car and went back inside without your ever being the wiser.”

  Sylvia said nothing. “He’s been playing me,” she said finally, making no effort to hide her disappointment.

  “It certainly sounds like it,” Ali agreed, “but that makes him a kid, not a killer. You need to go talk to the cops now. Don’t make them come into the restaurant looking for you. It’ll be better if you show up voluntarily. You’ll look less like you’ve got something to hide.”

  “What’s going to happen to A.J.?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ali answered. “For the next little while, he’s going to be a jurisdictional football. Phoenix PD will want to charge him on the unlawful possession of a firearm. Right now he’s a person of interest in Yavapai County. If the weapon they found on him turns out to be the murder weapon, the county prosecutor will be the one lodging possible homicide charges against him. My best guess is that Yavapai will ultimately win the toss. The chief detective there, Dave Holman, is a friend of mine. He can be a jerk on occasion, especially when he’s shorthanded and dealing with two separate homicides, but he’s also a straight shooter. I’m not sure the same can be said for Cap Horning, the Yavapai County prosecutor. Make sure A.J. gets a court-appointed attorney before he talks to anyone.”

  “What about you?” Sylvia asked, giving Ali an appraising look. “Are you a straight shooter?”

  “Yes,” Ali said. “I am, but I don’t have any way of proving it. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  “What’s your part in all of this?” Sylvia asked. “Why are you helping us? Why are you helping A.J.?”

  “I have a son whom I raised on my own a lot of the time. A.J. reminds me of him. They’re both good kids. From what I can tell, A.J. was an unwitting pawn in whatever was going on between you and his father. I’m sure he picked up on the idea that the only way he’d be able to accept this very generous gift from his father—a life-changing gift—was to try to keep it a secret from you. That might have worked for him if you hadn’t raised him to be a responsible kind of guy who, when the chips were down, would pick up a phone and try to help a dying woman by calling 911.”

  “That’s true,” Sylvia said. “He is a good kid.”

  “From what I’ve learned about James Sanders, he got sold down the river by his friends and by the criminal justice system for something that was very likely an ill-informed teenage prank. I’d like to see that his son gets a better deal. Wouldn’t you?”

  Sylvia nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Now get going,” Ali said, dismissing her. “And remember, when you talk to the cops, tell the truth, but the less you say, the better.”

  Sylvia sat for a moment longer, studying Ali. Then she seemed to pull herself together. “All right, then,” she said, standing up. “I guess I’d better go do this.”

  Watching her go, Ali couldn’t help but be astounded by the remarkable transformation between the panicked woman who had come into the restaurant and the resolute one leaving. Striding determinedly across the parking lot, Sylvia Sanders reminded Ali of a mama bear on the way to rescue her endangered cub.

  She would either succeed, or she’d die trying.

  24

  While Sylvia marched across the parking lot and into the office building, Ali’s phone rang.

  “Hey,” B. said. “Busy morning?”

  “Very,” Ali said without going into detail. “How about you?”

  “Checkout time is fast approaching. I’m on my way to the first of two meetings scheduled for this afternoon, then I need to head back to Sedona. Do you want me to pack up your stuff and check you out of the hotel, or do you want to keep the room for another night?”

  Ali had expected to be back from her meeting with Valerie Sloan in plenty of time to do her own packing. “Sorry,” she said. “I got held up, and I’m all the way out in Tempe. If you don’t mind grabbing my stuff, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mind at all,” B. said. “See you at home.”

  For the next ten minutes, Ali sat in the booth, sipping her drink, and watching the building into which Sylvia Sanders had disappeared. At last the glass doors opened. Sylvia emerged first, accompanied by one of the plainclothes detectives and followed by the second. The first one helped her into the back of one of the waiting unmarked patrol cars. Then he and his partner got into the car and drove out of the parking lot, followed closely by the vehicle with a uniformed officer that had been keeping Sylvia’s Passat blocked in its parking place.

  Still unsure what to do next, Ali was gathering her things to leave when Stuart Ramey called. “Any luck on the Dennis front?” she asked, subsiding back into the booth.

  “Nada,” Stuart said. “I’m unable to find any mention of someone named Dennis in Gemma’s e-mail history or in her contacts list. I checked both.”


  “Who was he, then?” Ali asked.

  “You’re sure the witness got the name right?”

  “Relatively,” Ali said. “I already checked with Gemma’s one tennis partner earlier today. She claimed they never discussed romantic entanglements. Maybe I should have another chat with the other one.” Ali stopped talking abruptly when she realized what she’d said. “Maybe that’s it,” she said.

  “Maybe what?” Stuart sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “Maybe Gemma said the word ‘tennis,’ not Dennis,” Ali explained excitedly. “Molly Handraker told me that she and Gemma played tennis on Monday afternoon. Maybe Gemma was talking about something that happened while they were playing or after they finished.” Calling up her notes, Ali read through them until she found what she was looking for. “Last night’s interview with Molly ended a little abruptly. I think I’ll go back to Paradise Valley and ask her about Dennis. And I’m going to need an address and phone number for a student at North High School in Phoenix. Sasha Miller.”

  “Will do,” Stuart said.

  Minutes later, feeling more like a commuter than anything else, Ali headed north on the 51. Whatever Gemma’s dying word had been, it was the best clue Ali had, and she was sure that everyone else involved in the case—especially Dave Holman—was currently too busy with other things to follow up on it. The jurisdictional wrangling over what to do about A.J. was going to keep any number of people completely occupied for the next several hours. Right that moment, Ali had a clear field, and she intended to use it.

  Her first plan was to drive back to the Ralston place on Upper Glen Road, but as she turned off on Lincoln and saw the sign to the Paradise Valley Country Club, she changed her mind. The last time Molly Handraker had seen Gemma Ralston, she was sitting at the bar in the country club. With any luck, someone—the bartender, maybe?—had noticed Gemma leaving with someone else, maybe even the mysterious Dennis.

  The country club was for members only, but Ali had a way around that. Pulling over on a side road, she found the number, called it, and asked to be connected to the dining room.

  “This is Doris Ralston’s new PA,” she said. “She needs a reservation for lunch at twelve-thirty today, and she’s expecting a guest—Ali Reynolds. Got that?”

  “Of course,” the hostess said. “I’m assuming she’d like her usual table? And Ms. Handraker will be there as well?”

  “Yes, a reservation for three,” Ali said with a smile. “That will be perfect.” As long as Doris and Molly don’t show up on their own, Ali thought.

  A glance at her watch told her she had a few minutes to kill. Since she was only a mile or so away from Gemma’s condo, Ali headed there. She spent the time canvassing Gemma’s near neighbors. It was late morning on a weekday. Mostly, no one was home, but as Ali walked through the neighborhood, she noted the addresses of any houses with obvious security cameras. They might be worth having Stuart Ramey check into later.

  At exactly twelve-fifteen, she presented herself at the gatehouse for the Paradise Valley Country Club. She nodded at the guard as he waved her through. Parking in the clubhouse lot, she scanned through her iPad notes until she located the name of the bartender. Luis, with no last name. Armed with nothing but the name Luis, Ali made her way into the clubhouse. The dining room was busy, and the harried hostess cast a worried glance first at her list and then in the direction of an occupied table by the far window.

  “The rest of your party isn’t here yet,” she said. “Would you mind waiting in the bar?”

  “Not at all,” Ali said graciously. And please don’t throw me in the briar patch. She turned back to the hostess. “Is Luis working today?”

  “Luis Cruz?” The hostess nodded. “He came on at eleven.”

  Better and better, Ali thought.

  She made her way into the bar. There were a number of people there, some of them watching CNN and the others glued to a golf tournament being played in some cold clime where the players and the few fans braving the edges of the fairways and the grandstands at the greens were bundled up to ward off wind and rain.

  Ali took a seat and waited for the bartender—a guy in his thirties with a buzz cut, a pencil-thin mustache, and a bull neck—to turn in her direction. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Just water,” she said. “I’m meeting Doris Ralston and her daughter, and they’re not here yet.”

  “Ice?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  The bartender brought the water and set it in front of her. “Not a good time for the Ralstons,” he said.

  “So you’ve heard?”

  “Everybody’s talking about it,” Luis said with a shrug. “First Molly’s father died a few months back; the mother is having health issues of some kind; and now her brother is accused of murder. From where I’m standing, Molly Handraker has her hands full.”

  “You know her then? Molly, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “Not well. I’ve only known her since she got back to town, but I’ve heard stories about her family. You know the type—the sons are the fair-haired boys and can do no wrong, and the girls are second-class citizens who are supposed to grow up and be wives and mothers and join the Junior League. When you’re playing that game, being beautiful helps. Molly’s not bad-looking, but taking care of her mother is wearing her down. I feel sorry for her.”

  “What can you tell me about Gemma Ralston?”

  Luis gave Ali a searching look, then shook his head. “Gemma’s another story,” he said, “and this would probably be an excellent time for me to keep my mouth shut. How about those Cardinals?”

  Turning his back, Luis walked away from Ali’s end of the bar. For the next few minutes, he made dutiful rounds of all the other customers, mixing cocktails and pouring drinks for them and for waitresses from the dining room, and providing another pitcher of beer for the guys watching the golf tournament. Finally, he returned to Ali.

  “I take it you didn’t like Gemma Ralston?” she asked.

  He gave her a baleful look. “What’s your deal in all this?”

  “I’m a freelancer,” Ali said, producing a business card and handing it over. “My name is Ali Reynolds, and I’m doing a writing project on early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

  She had noticed that the word “freelancer” prompted far fewer negative reactions than the word “reporter.” Maybe freelancing put people in mind less of out-of-control journalists and more of men out in armor, tilting at windmills and slaying the occasional dragon. What could be a more understandable dragon to slay than a dread disease that scared the hell out of everyone?

  “Luis Cruz,” he said, accepting both the card and the explanation. “I’ve never had a problem with any of the other Ralstons, but Gemma is another story. Let’s just say whoever took that woman out did the whole world a favor. And in case you’re interested, I told the cops the same thing.”

  “They talked to you?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t they? Gemma Ralston was here on Monday night, the same night she went missing. As a matter of fact, she and Molly Handraker were here together. I overheard them talking about a diamond necklace, Mrs. Ralston’s most likely. It had disappeared, and Gemma mentioned dropping by the next day to help look for it. Molly said something like ‘You don’t need to bother—she won’t even remember,’ and Gemma says, ‘I told your mother I’d come help, and I will.’ Molly stayed around a while longer after that, but when she left, I got the feeling that she was upset about something.”

  “Did Gemma leave then, too?” Ali asked.

  “It would have been great if she had, but she didn’t,” Luis continued. “As usual, she stayed on, drinking and throwing her weight around. As soon as Molly’s back was turned, Gemma started bad-mouthing the woman who was supposed to be her best friend. That didn’t sit too well with me. Snobs don’t bother me—there are plenty of those around here—but I don’t like two-faced snobs.”

  “Did she leave with anyone?”

  L
uis shook his head. “The cops asked the same question. She left by herself around nine or so. Not quite drunk but getting there. She raised hell when I cut her off and suggested she call a taxi. She threw a fit and went screaming to my manager about it. She wanted him to fire me on the spot.”

  “I guess that didn’t work,” Ali observed with a smile.

  “No, it didn’t, but no thanks to her,” Luis replied. “Even though I was in the right for cutting her off, I still ended up getting a write-up. Customer complaints are a big deal around here, so pardon me if I say good riddance. By the way, she evidently disregarded my advice and drove herself home after all. So don’t bother asking where I was on Monday night, because I was here working until two A.M. You can check the time clock. I’m sure the cops already did. And after I left work, I went straight home. There’s a security camera on the parking garage of my building. It’ll show that I was home safe and sound at two-thirty. They’re welcome to check that for themselves, and so are you.”

  Two more golfers, one of them in an ordinary polo shirt and chinos and the other in vivid yellow-and-orange-checked pants with a matching orange shirt, bellied up to the bar and ordered Bloody Marys. While Luis mixed their drinks, Ali considered her next move.

  “When Gemma left, did she say where she was going?”

  “It was hard to tell. She was so busy screeching at me and telling me to go to hell for eighty-sixing her that I don’t believe she mentioned any destination in particular. And let me tell you, as long as she wasn’t in my bar, I didn’t care where she was going.”

  “So if you were going to make a wild guess about who might have wanted her dead . . .”

  “Besides me, you mean.”

  “Right,” Ali said with a smile. “Who else besides you?”

  “My money’s on the guy in jail,” Luis replied. “Doris Ralston’s son, the ex-husband. I, for one, don’t blame him a bit.”

  “Was Chip Ralston here on Monday?”

  “Hardly,” Luis said. “He’s not a member anymore. From what I can tell, when he and Gemma divorced, he got the shaft, and she got the membership.”