Web of Evil

by J. A. Jance

  “And what exactly is your relationship to the perpetrator—or your mother’s, for that matter?”

  Ali sighed. “April Gaddis is my dead husband’s mistress. My dead husband’s pregnant mistress. They were supposed to get married yesterday, but he was murdered early Friday morning and died before our divorce became final.”

  The young man frowned. Concentrating as he wrote, he made no comment about Ali’s very complicated life, and Ali greatly appreciated his lack of editorial input.

  “And the cause of the difficulty between April and your mother?” he continued.

  “Mom tried to tell April she shouldn’t be smoking when she’s pregnant.”

  “Makes sense to me,” the young cop said. His name was Rich Green, and maybe he really was an Eagle Scout.

  Officer Green took the information from both Ali and Dave in a methodical manner. He was thorough. He was patient. He was also slow as Christmas. By the time he finally finished, Ali was ready to strangle him.

  “So where did they take April?” Ali asked when the ordeal was finally over. “And what about my mother?”

  “They were both supposed to be transported to Cedars-Sinai,” Officer Green told them. “But I believe your mother decided against going at the last moment. Said she had a perfectly good hotel room and that would be fine. All she wanted was to see her husband and get a good night’s sleep.”

  That sounded like Edie.

  “And April?” Ali asked.

  “She went to the hospital.”

  “Cedars-Sinai? They have a psych ward there?” Ali asked.

  “I’m not sure about a psych ward,” Officer Green returned. “I believe one of the EMTs said something about her going into labor.”

  Ali’s heart constricted in her chest. “But I just told you. April Gaddis was holding both my mother and me at gunpoint. She’s been waving a pistol around and threatening suicide. She should be on a suicide watch.”

  “I’m sure the EMTs who transported her conferred with the supervisor on the scene before they took her anywhere. Do you want me to call and check?”

  Ali could imagine how long it would take Officer Green to navigate through any kind of bureaucratic roadblock.

  “No, thanks,” Ali said. “Don’t bother. I’ll find out for myself.”

  “The hospital?” Dave asked, following Ali out to where his car was parked directly behind hers.

  “You don’t have to come,” Ali said.

  “I’m coming,” Dave declared.

  “All right then,” Ali agreed. “The hospital.”

  It was after two A.M. when both vehicles pulled into the hospital parking lot. The hospital was locked down tight. A security guard met them at the main door and led them to a lobby counter.

  “We’re here to see a patient,” Ali said to the clerk seated in front of a computer screen. “She’s on the maternity ward. Her name is April Gaddis.”

  The clerk typed something into her keyboard then looked back at Ali with a frown. “Are you a relative?” she asked.

  Clearly the clerk was less than prepared to hand out any information. And with the new federal privacy rules, Ali knew she was fighting an uphill battle. She tried to lighten the mood.

  “Not a relative,” Ali said breezily. “Just a good friend. I’m going to be the baby’s godmother.”

  “Excuse me,” the clerk said, rising. “If you’ll just wait here. I need to check with a supervisor.”

  “Not good,” Dave said under his breath. “When they have to go check with a supervisor, it’s never a good sign.”

  A few minutes later a formidable black woman emerged from a closed door behind the desk. “I’m a supervisor, Audrey Barker. May I help you?” she asked.

  “I came to see April Gaddis,” Ali said. “She’s a patient here—a maternity patient. She was brought here by ambulance a couple of hours ago.”

  “And what is your relationship to Ms. Gaddis?” Audrey Barker asked. “Are you a relative?”

  “As I already told the other woman, I’m not a relative—just a good friend.”

  “Would you happen to know the names of any of Ms. Gaddis’s relatives? She told us her mother is deceased.”

  “Monique Ragsdale is deceased,” Ali answered. She was starting to get a bad feeling from all the questions. Surely coming to visit a patient didn’t usually result in the visitors being given this kind of third degree.

  “Do you know of any others or how we could contact them?”

  “I never met her father,” Ali said. “And as far as I know, April is an only child. She used to have a stepbrother, but not anymore. Why?”

  “But you and she are good friends?”

  “Yes,” Ali said at once, carefully avoiding meeting Dave’s eye as she said so. “Why?”

  “Because,” Audrey Barker said kindly, “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

  CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM

  Monday, September 19, 2005

  First of all, my mother is safe. She was found a few hours after I posted that last message. She was slightly hurt in the process but not enough that she required either treatment or hospitalization. Thanks so much to those of you who wrote to express your concern.

  This has been a dreadful week. My husband is dead. So is his girlfriend and so is their unborn baby. My husband was found murdered late last week and I remain a “person of interest” in that homicide. April Gaddis, his girlfriend and the mother of his unborn child, committed suicide after being admitted to the maternity ward of Cedars-Sinai Hospital. I’m able to report her name here because April’s next of kin, her long-estranged father, has now been located and notified.

  Overwhelmed by events, April suffered some kind of breakdown. In the process she not only murdered her own mother, she ended up holding two other people at gunpoint. My mother was one of the two. I was the other. When officers finally arrived at the second scene, April was taken into custody and transported by ambulance to the hospital after convincing EMTs she was about to give birth. Once there, she went into the bathroom of her hospital room, supposedly to change clothes. Instead, she somehow managed to hang herself.

  During my years in the news business, I remember using the words “senseless violence” on occasion. And the words apply here as well. A whole family has been wiped out—one that would have been my husband’s second family. Four people are dead, including a baby who never had a chance to draw her first breath and a grandmother who never saw her granddaughter’s face.

  In the process, my own life has been threatened. So has my mother’s. I’ve also been accused of murder. In the course of all the turmoil, things became so complicated that I was told to avoid blogging entirely for fear I might end up saying something in my commentary that would be considered self-incriminating. (As you can see by this post, I’m not always good about taking advice from attorneys—even when I’m paying them big bucks to give me that selfsame advice.)

  Putting all that together, you can probably understand that when I came dragging back to my hotel this morning at a little past four, I was feeling more than a little shattered, to say nothing of exhausted. To top it all off, my faith in the human race was pretty much obliterated. My mother, who had been missing, had been found safe, but I was too tired to count that as a blessing right then. She had been endangered for no other reason than she is my mother, who had come to L.A. to help me with my mounting difficulties. I believe this can be filed under the heading of “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.”

  In other words, everything that had happened had been more than I could handle—and then some. So once I finally made it back to my hotel and dropped my car off with the valet, I staggered into the lobby intent on going straight up to my room to go to sleep. Halfway across the lobby I was waylaid and greeted by name by someone I knew but had never met in person.

  She was an older lady with bright blue eyes and a halo of thinning snow-white hair. She was sitting on a couch just inside the entrance. Parked next to her was a walker tha
t sported red, white, and blue tennis balls and a tiny American flag. She stood up the moment she saw me. “There you are, Babe,” she said. “How’s your mom?”

  Those of you who have been following cutloose for some time will recognize the name Velma T of Laguna. She had read my previous post, the one that said my mother was missing. She was so concerned about what was going on that she ended up doing some detective work of her own. She figured out where I must be staying, and came here—in a cab!!!! When I told her my mother was safe, she simply smiled and nodded. “I know,” she said. “I’ve been praying for her all night.”

  I offered to give Velma T a ride back home, but she turned me down. “You look tired, honey,” she said. “You’d better get some sleep. I got here under my own steam, and I’ll get home the same way.”

  And so, with my faith in humanity restored by an eighty-eight-year-old bundle of goodwill, I came up here to my room, stripped off my clothes, and slept like a baby. Without moving a muscle. When I woke up late this morning and logged on to my computer, there were 87 messages in my in-box, almost all of them expressing concern for my mother. (Please pardon me if I don’t respond to all of them.) A few of the ones from this morning were from people who had already learned from some other source that my mother had been found. I guess by now I should be accustomed to the amazing immediacy of the Internet community, but I’m still learning. And I’m still grateful.

  I have no idea when bodies will be released for burial or to whom, so I have no idea how long it will take for funeral arrangements to be made. As a consequence, I have no idea how much longer I’ll be in the area. But believe me, I’m more than ready to go back home to Arizona. Sedona is sounding pretty inviting to me about now.

  Posted 11:43 A.M., September 19, 2005 by Babe

  Ali had made arrangements to have brunch in the hotel dining room with her parents and Chris. To get there, she had to make her way through the lobby. Once again there was a gaggle of camera-and microphone-wielding reporters waiting for her.

  “Ms. Reynolds, Ms. Reynolds,” one of them shouted as Ali exited the elevator. “Are you all right? Is your mother okay?”

  Ali started to walk past without answering, but then, remembering they were only doing their jobs, she relented and decided to get it over with. She stopped and spoke directly into one of the cameras. “My mother is fine,” she said. “So am I.”

  “At the time April Gaddis was holding you and your mother at gunpoint, did either of you suspect that she intended to commit suicide?” another reporter wanted to know.

  “I did everything in my power to keep it from happening,” Ali answered. “A troubled young woman died unnecessarily. So did her baby. This is a very unfortunate situation for all concerned, including April Gaddis’s grieving family. I’d appreciate it if you’d all respect our privacy. I have no further comment. Neither does my mother.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Ali replied firmly and walked away, leaving a flurry of unanswered questions echoing behind her. She was relieved when she finally made it into the dining room, where the others were already gathered and where her father was perusing the menu.

  Edie took one look at her daughter’s face and was immediately on the alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Ali said. “Just that bunch of reporters outside.”

  Edie nodded. “Such pushy people,” she said. “You didn’t used to be like them, did you?”

  “I hope not,” Ali said, “but I probably was.”

  She sat down next to her father, who was still engrossed in the menu. “The prices here are higher than a cat’s back,” he announced. “This is highway robbery.”

  Bob’s customary grousing was exactly what Ali needed right then. It took her mind off the reporters milling in the lobby.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” Ali said. “You’re not paying.”

  “I don’t care,” her father returned. “It’s the principle of the thing. The food better be top drawer, or I’m going to have a long chat with the manager.”

  As it turned out, the food was fine.

  “So when can we go home?” Bob asked, settling in to mow his way through a plate of eggs Benedict that he pronounced almost as good as his.

  “Mom won’t be able to leave for a while,” Ali told him. “The three of us—Mom, Dave, and I—are going to need to be available for the next several days while the investigation continues. And I still have to give my deposition for the wrongful dismissal suit.”

  “You don’t need to hang around for any of that, Robert,” Edie said. “Someone should be home minding the store. I don’t like having the Sugar Loaf running on automatic with both of us out of town.”

  “You wouldn’t mind if I went home?” Bob asked his wife. Then he turned to Ali. “And what about Paul’s funeral? Won’t you need me here for that?”

  Ali was having a difficult time imagining how she was going to manage her estranged husband’s funeral, but having to do it under the watchful eyes of both her parents would make it that much harder.

  “You and Chris can go home, Dad,” Ali told him. “Mom and I will be fine.”

  “I’m not going,” Chris said. “Gramps and I already talked it over. I’ll stay here for a couple more days and drive home with Grandma.”

  “Good,” Edie said. “I’m glad that’s settled, as long as you promise you won’t drive the whole way without stopping to rest. You’re not a spring chicken, you know, Bob.”

  During breakfast, Dave seemed far quieter than usual. At the café in Sedona, he and Bob teased each other constantly, but this morning Dave didn’t participate in any of the hijinks. When Chris bugged out to go visit some friends and Bob and Edie went in search of the dessert buffet, Ali turned to Dave. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like being told to buzz off,” Dave replied.

  “Who told you that?” Ali asked.

  “My good friend Easy. According to him, it’s hands off at the Pink Swan. He says the DEA is involved in some kind of complicated, long-term investigation going on over there. That means the Feds will take a very dim view of anything that upsets their apple cart.”

  “But if they’re investigating the place, isn’t there a possibility that they might have surveillance records that would show exactly what happened the night Paul disappeared?” Ali asked.

  “They might,” Dave agreed. “But good luck laying hands on them. The Feds aren’t going to lift a finger to help anyone, including LAPD homicide, if they’re running an undercover operation and helping out would tip their hand prematurely.”

  “How can that be?” Ali objected. “Paul was murdered. It makes no sense that the DEA won’t help us.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Dave told her grimly. “The Feds don’t have to make sense.”

  By then Bob and Edie were returning to the table with their dessert plates piled high. When Helga Myerhoff called a few minutes later, Ali excused herself. Avoiding the hotel lobby, she ducked into the nearest restroom to take the call.

  “I heard all about what happened from Victor,” Helga said. “Thank God you and your mother are okay.”

  Ali couldn’t help wondering if Victor would be charging Ali for calling Helga and if Helga would be charging Ali for taking the call. As far as Ali could see, in this game the only ones coming out ahead were the lawyers.

  “Yes,” Ali agreed. “Thank God.”

  “As far as Roseanne Maxwell is concerned, I’ve been asking around,” Helga continued. “If there’s a divorce in the offing at the Maxwell household, nobody I know has heard word one about it. And nobody knows where Roseanne’s disappeared to, either. That includes her best friend, who hasn’t had a call from her. She says Roseanne isn’t answering her phone and that her voice mail message box is full.”

  To Ali’s way of thinking and with everything else that had happened, this sounded ominous. Especially for Roseanne.

  “Jake told us she was in New York shopping for cloth
es.”

  “That doesn’t compute,” Helga replied. “The friend I just told you about—the one who complained about not hearing from Roseanne—is also the friend Roseanne usually does her NYC shopping junkets with. Since Jake hasn’t done so, the friend is actually thinking of turning in a missing persons report.”

  “I hope she does,” Ali said.

  “Anything else you need from me right now?” Helga asked.

  “You’ll let me know if you hear anything?” Ali asked.

  “Definitely.”

  Ali ended the call and returned to the dining room, where she discovered her father had managed to pay for brunch after all.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she told him.

  “Thanks for letting me go home,” he said. “L.A. isn’t for me. It’s too big, too crowded, and way too expensive.”

  “Too expensive is right,” Edie agreed. “It doesn’t make a bit of sense for us to be staying at a place like this at whatever king’s ransom they charge per night when a perfectly good house is sitting empty just a few miles away.”

  “The house on Robert Lane is still considered a crime scene,” Dave pointed out.

  “But for how long?” Edie wanted to know. “With April dead and Ali and me both safe, I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

  “It’s a crime scene until LAPD releases it,” Dave told her. “The detectives need to determine exactly what happened to Monique Ragsdale and also what happened to you.”

  “But April told us what happened to her mother,” Edie objected. “That’s what I told that first detective who interviewed me this morning. I’m sure it’s what Ali told them as well.”

  “The problem,” Dave pointed out, “is that you happen to be Ali’s mother. As far as the investigators are concerned, one or both of you could be lying to protect the other. And until there’s some forensic evidence to back up the story that April is the one who pushed Monique down the stairs…”

  “What about the scratches I saw on April’s arms?” Edie asked. “Can’t they be matched up with scrapings taken from underneath Monique’s fingernails?”

  “They probably can,” Dave agreed. “But it’s going to take time.”