J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent

by Jance, J. A.

  “When will you be back?” Edie asked her daughter.

  “Tuesday or Wednesday,” Ali replied. “The divorce hearing is tomorrow. Then on Monday or Tuesday there’s supposed to be a deposition in the wrongful dismissal suit. It didn’t make sense to do two trips when one would work. So I’ll stay over however long it takes to give the deposition.”

  “Good,” Edie agreed. “It’s always better to kill two birds with one stone. More coffee?”

  Ali let her mother refill her cup. Initially she had blamed her tardy departure on Sam. Now Ali realized that she was stalling even more all on her own—and she knew why. Months after the fact, there was part of her that dreaded getting on I-17 and heading down to Phoenix. Ali Reynolds had almost died on one particularly dangerous stretch of that freeway when someone had tried to push her off the highway and over the edge of a sheer cliff. Being the target of an attempted murder is something that lingers, and even though Ali had driven that same route several times between then and now, she was still skittish. Just thinking about driving past the Sunset Point rest area and heading down the steep grade into the valley was enough to make Ali’s hands go clammy.

  Her face must have betrayed some of the concern she was feeling.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some company?” Edie Larson asked solicitously. “And some moral support once you get there and have to go to court? I’m sure your father could manage without me for a day or two. He wouldn’t like it, but having to get up early enough to make the rolls wouldn’t kill him.”

  Touched by the offer, Ali smiled. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “And you’ll call and let us know how it’s going?”

  “I promise.”

  Kip returned with her car keys, and Ali took her leave. She stopped by the bank and picked up some cash. She had a particular pet charity that she wanted to help along while she was in L.A., and she knew a cash gift would be most welcome.

  A little less than an hour after leaving the bank, Ali was past the most worrisome stretch of the Black Canyon Freeway and headed into Scottsdale. At the time she had left her evening news gig in L.A., she had ditched her old newscasting wardrobe and her California persona like a snake shedding a cast-off skin. For as long as she’d been in Sedona, she’d worn her hair in a less than stylish ponytail and limited her wardrobe to what was comfortable—mostly sweatshirts and worn jeans. Now, though, facing courtroom appointments and the prospect of more than a little public notoriety, Ali understood that she needed to dress and look the part. Not only did she pick up several outfits, she stopped into one of Scottsdale’s upscale salons for some much needed pampering, including a haircut along with a spa-style mani/pedi.

  Properly attired, coiffed, and accessorized, Ali felt ready to face what she had come to think of as her California ordeal. She headed west in late-afternoon, rush-hour traffic and soon found herself stuck in a jam of speeding eighteen-wheelers, all of them driving blindly but hell-bent-for-election into the setting sun. Tired of trying to stay out of their way, Ali pulled off at the first rest area she saw. There, sitting at a shaded picnic table, she opened her cooler. Not only was her father’s carefully prepared food there, so was a collection of plastic utensils. With noisy traffic rushing by in the background, Ali savored her combination lunch/dinner of fried chicken and honey-slathered biscuits. Then, feeling fatigued and still not wanting to face into the blazing sunset, she returned to the Cayenne, locked the doors, lowered her seat back, and allowed herself the luxury of a nap.

  She slept far longer than she expected. It was dark when she woke up, but she felt refreshed. Once back on the road, Ali was relieved to realize that traffic was noticeably lighter, and she was grateful she’d had the good sense to wait out the setting sun rather than driving into it.

  Ali realized that that was one of the wonderful things about traveling on her own. She could eat when she was hungry, sleep when she was tired. It wasn’t necessary to take anyone else’s needs, wants, or opinions into consideration. Yes, being back on her own was definitely growing on Ali Reynolds.

  She took her mother’s advice to heart. When she stopped for gas in Blythe, she stopped at a roadside restaurant for coffee as well. She was halfway through the second cup when her phone rang.

  “Well,” Helga Myerhoff said in her distinctly gruff and smoky voice. “Have we girded our loins?”

  Helga, sometimes called Rottweiler Myerhoff, had a not-undeserved reputation for being one of the Hollywood elite’s premier divorce attorneys. With Helga’s help and with the added impetus of Paul wanting a fast divorce as opposed to a cheap one, Ali had a generous divorce settlement coming to her, one that gave her pretty much everything she wanted. Between them Helga and Ali had, in fact, taken Fang to the cleaners.

  Ali laughed. “They’re girded, all right. New duds, new haircut, killer nails. Believe me, I’m ready.”

  “Good,” Helga said. “And you’re staying at the Westwood on Wilshire?”

  “That’s right,” Ali answered. “I’m booked there through Tuesday. Marcella has a wrongful dismissal deposition coming up on either Monday or Tuesday. I’m staying over for that as well.”

  Marcella Johnson and Helga both worked for the same high-end legal firm, Weldon, Davis, and Reed, but the two women had wildly divergent styles and areas of expertise. Helga specialized in divorce cases. Marcella focused on employment issues. Ali counted herself fortunate to have not one but two dynamic attorneys on her team.

  “Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Helga said. “We’re in good shape on this and I’m pretty sure it’ll go through without a hitch. Still, though, until everything’s signed, sealed, and delivered, our agreement in principle could conceivably go south.”

  “Paul won’t let that happen,” Ali said with a laugh. “Not with his shotgun wedding set for Saturday. If something goes wrong with his walking April Gaddis down the aisle, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “You’re all right then?” Helga asked.

  Everyone seemed to be concerned about how Ali was holding up through all this. Why didn’t anyone believe her when she said she was fine? She said it again, one more time and for the record.

  “I’m fine, Helga. I wish people would stop worrying about me.”

  “Getting a divorce is stressful,” Helga said.

  “No,” Ali corrected. “Compared to being married to a jerk, getting a divorce is easy.”

  “All right,” Helga said. “See you in court, ten A.M. sharp. Judge Alice Tennant is very old-fashioned. She doesn’t brook tardiness from anybody—attorneys or plaintiffs.”

  “Ten sharp,” Ali repeated. “I’ll be there.”

  Leaving Blythe, Ali turned up the volume on her MP3 player and sang along with the tunes from one musical comedy after another, from A Connecticut Yankee to A Chorus Line. As she drove, only a bare sliver of rising moon was visible in the rearview mirror behind her, but the nighttime sky was clear enough that even by starlight she could see the hulking forms of distant mountain ranges jutting up out of the silvery desert floor.

  Crossing into California, Ali felt a strange disconnect. She had gone there years earlier with a new husband and a new job, following what had seemed then to be an American dream. Now, coming back to L.A. for the first time since that dream had exploded in her face, she realized that she was, literally, yesterday’s news. Her job and her connection to her prominent network-exec husband had made her part of the L.A. in crowd. This trip was the exact opposite. As an antidote, she turned up the music even louder.

  Sometime around midnight, shortly after passing the exit to Twentynine Palms, Ali saw a whole phalanx of emergency vehicles surging eastbound and toward her on the freeway. Worried that debris from some unseen accident might litter the road ahead, Ali slowed, but then, one by one, the approaching vehicles veered off on what she knew to be the Highway 111 exit angling toward Palm Springs.

  The emergency response was so massive that Ali found it worrisome. Won
dering if maybe a plane had gone down, Ali turned off her original cast recording of Camelot and scanned through the radio dial until she found one of L.A.’s twenty-four-hour all-news channels. It was another ten minutes, after bits about Iraq and the latest riots in France, before the announcer cut in with a local news flash.

  “The Riverside Sheriff’s Department is investigating a possible train/vehicle collision on the eastbound tracks approaching Palm Springs. Emergency vehicles have been dispatched to the area and a CALTrans spokesman is suggesting that the area be avoided until further notice.”

  Relieved to hear that whatever was wrong didn’t involve a problem on the freeway, Ali punched the “resume” button on her cruise control and took the Cayenne back up to speed. Then she switched off the news and went back to listening to King Arthur’s bored and disaffected knights singing their rousing rendition of “Fie on Goodness.”

  As she drove past the Highway 111 interchange, the emergency vehicles had mostly stopped, forming a long, unbroken string of flashing red and yellow lights that erased the starlight and cast an eerie pulsing glow on the surrounding desert.

  Ali drove on, thinking about trains and cars and what happens when one crashes into the other. In her days as a newbie television reporter, Ali had seen plenty of incidents like that, ones where people seemingly determined to opt out of the gene pool had decided, for one incredibly stupid reason or another, to try to outrun a speeding train, leaving behind a trail of bloody carnage and shattered metal. Sometimes the incidents included groups of teenagers playing a deadly game of chicken. Others drove onto the tracks deliberately and with the full intention of ending it all. Regardless of their motivation, the people in the vehicles usually didn’t survive. Sometimes the engineers on the trains didn’t make it out alive, either. The ones who did often lived out their days with a lifelong burden of guilt.

  “At least this time it’s got nothing to do with me,” she breathed aloud as she headed west toward Banning and Beaumont and the sprawling city of Los Angeles glowing far in the distance. “And thank God I don’t have to report on it, either.”

  { CHAPTER 2 }

  Helga called the next morning at eight. “So you know where you’re going?” she asked.

  Ali had lived in California for years. She knew her way around Beverly Hills. “The West District Courthouse, right?”

  “Close, but no cigar,” Helga said. “Your husband wanted this divorce in a hell of a hurry. In California, if you don’t want to wait in line for court time, you can hire a private judge. I told him fine, as long as I got to choose the judge, which I did. Judge Alice Tennant’s court is a few blocks away from there in what used to be a private residence.”

  “I didn’t know there was any such thing as a private judge,” Ali muttered.

  “You do now,” Helga returned.

  Helga had referred to Alice Tennant’s courtroom as a private residence, but the term hadn’t done the place justice. Mansion’s more like it, Ali thought an hour and a half later when she pulled up in front of the two-story porticoed edifice with lions guarding either side of a gated entrance complete with a circular drive. Helga was waiting on the front porch, pacing back and forth in front of a pair of Art Deco doors radiant with what looked like genuine Tiffany stained glass. Beyond the glass doors was a marbled foyer, its old-fashioned elegant ambience marred by the mundane and thoroughly modern presence of a wand-holding uniformed security guard and a metal detector.

  They were directed into an ornate room that had probably once served as a formal dining room. A magnificent, hand-carved sideboard at the far end was covered with a silver coffee service, plates, cups, saucers, and silverware, and a collection of breakfast pastries that would have put most self-respecting hotel buffets to shame. The display came complete with a uniformed butler who handled the pouring.

  Ali was sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and nibbling on a deliciously flaky croissant when Paul’s attorney, Ted Grantham, came rushing into the room.

  “Paul’s still not here?” Grantham demanded of Helga.

  “Not so far,” Helga returned with a tight smile.

  Ted Grantham was someone Ali knew slightly. He had been a guest at their Robert Lane home on several occasions, and he was a regular attendee at Paul’s daylong Super Bowl extravaganzas. Now, though, Ted barely acknowledged her. Refusing offers of coffee, he paced back and forth in the entryway, making one brief cell phone call after another. By five to ten, when Paul had yet to arrive, Ted was downright frantic.

  “So where’s his bad boy?” Helga muttered under her breath. “Hope he’s not planning on keeping the judge waiting.”

  But it turned out that was exactly what Paul seemed to have in mind. At three minutes after ten, a bailiff summoned all three of them into the judge’s chambers.

  Judge Alice Tennant was seated behind an immense partner desk that reminded Ali of one she’d seen in an antiques shop in the idyllic Cotswold town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Dwarfed by the desk, Judge Tennant was a sixty-something with flaming red hair and a temper to match.

  “My time’s very valuable, and you know I don’t like being kept waiting, Mr. Grantham,” she snapped as they filed into the room. “So where exactly is your client? Was he aware that he was expected here at ten this morning?”

  “Yes, of course he knew,” Grantham said hurriedly. “I’ve been trying to reach him all morning. He isn’t answering any of his phones. The calls keep going straight to voice mail, and he hasn’t called me back, either.”

  “I was given to understand there was some urgency about our doing this today,” Judge Tennant observed. “About Mr. Grayson wanting to have his divorce finalized in a timely fashion.”

  Grantham looked uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said. “There is something of a deadline.”

  “Because?”

  Grantham glanced briefly in Ali’s direction before he answered. “Well,” he said reluctantly. “Actually, Mr. Grayson is due to be married tomorrow.”

  “I presume that would be to someone other than the wife who happens to be here right at the moment?” Judge Tennant asked. Her sharp blue eyes focused fully on the squirming attorney, whose forehead, by then, had popped out in a very unlawyerly sweat.

  “Yes,” Grantham muttered. “That would be correct. To someone else. I’m sure I’ll be able to locate my client in the next little while. If you could find a spot for us in this afternoon’s calendar—”

  Alice Tennant’s reply was brisk. “There is no afternoon calendar. As it happens, I’m leaving town right after lunch,” she said with a cold smile. “You’ll have to check with my clerk to see if it’s possible to reschedule for sometime next week—if that’s all right with you, Ms. Reynolds. I understand you’ve driven all the way over from Arizona.”

  “Of course,” Ali said quickly. “Next week will be fine. I want to stay on until this is sorted out.”

  “Excellent,” Judge Tennant said.

  “Perhaps you could see your way clear to hand this off to another judge—” Grantham began.

  Helga started to object, but Judge Tennant silenced both attorneys with a single wave of her hand. “I was contracted to deal with this case,” she said severely. “I have no intention of handing it off to anyone. Once the next court date is set, I trust you’ll notify your client that he will be present on the appointed day and at the appointed hour. Please remind him that I may be a private judge, but I can nonetheless cite him for contempt of court. Is that clear, Mr. Grantham?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Grantham replied contritely. “Quite clear.”

  “Just for the record,” she added. “If I hear that any kind of marriage ceremony is performed tomorrow without your client being properly divorced from Ms. Reynolds beforehand, I’ll see to it that he’s charged with bigamy, which happens to be a criminal offense. Is that also clear?”

  “Yes,” Grantham said. “Very.”

  “All right then. See my clerk.”

  Ali couldn’t help feeling a bi
t giddy at the idea that Paul’s absence at the hearing had left Twink’s lavish plans for her wedding day in utter shambles. Hurrying out into the corridor to wait while Helga Myerhoff and Ted Grantham dealt with the court clerk, she almost collided with a man rushing toward her from the security checkpoint.

  “Ali!” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me the hearing’s finished already.”

  Ali recognized the new arrival as Jake Maxwell, one of Paul’s fellow network execs. She was surprised to see him there; surprised to think he’d squander some of his precious time on Paul’s legal issues. Jake and his ditzy wife, Roseanne, weren’t high on Ali’s list of social acquaintances any more than Ted Grantham was.

  “Hi, Jake,” she said. “We’re done for today. What brings you here?”

  At least he had the good grace to look sheepish. “You know, moral support and all that.”

  “Well, you missed on that one,” Ali said. “Paul didn’t show.”

  Helga emerged from the courtroom wearing a grim smile. “Thursday morning. Ten A.M. again.” Then, looking at Jake, she added derisively, “Oh, Mr. Maxwell, you must be Mr. Grayson’s cheering section. I’m afraid the match has been rescheduled for next week—same time, same station. See you then.” Dismissing Jake, Helga turned back to Ali. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Thursday is fine,” Ali said. “I can stay that long if I have to.”

  Ted Grantham entered the hallway. Jake quickly gravitated in his direction.

  “Why isn’t Paul here?” he asked.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Grantham replied heatedly. “He blew off our court appearance, and now the judge is pissed at me.”

  “Did you check with April?”

  “Of course I checked with April. She has no idea where Paul is. He never came home last night.”

  The glass doors closed behind the two men, taking the rest of the conversation outside with them.

  “So he didn’t come home last night,” Helga observed. “Not good. Not good.”

  “It sounds amazingly familiar to me,” Ali said.