by J. A. Jance
“I’m not sure how he knew to come here,” Leland went on, sounding aggrieved.
That was easy. Jacky was the one who had set up the Home & Garden TV gig. That meant he knew all about the house on Manzanita Hills Road. He probably also knew that Ali spent time there on a daily basis.
“What does he want?” Ali asked.
“Other than hinting it’s a matter of some urgency, he didn’t say,” Leland answered. “I gave him a cup of coffee and stowed him at the table outside. I used the excuse of making him an omelette to come inside and call you. If you’d like me to tell him you’re unavailable and send him on his way…”
“No,” Ali said with a laugh. “I’ll handle it. I’ll be there in a few.”
“Very well,” Leland said. “I’ll do my best to keep him occupied in the meantime.”
Putting down the phone, Ali closed her computer and threw on some clothes. After pulling her hair into a ponytail and without bothering to apply any makeup, she headed for Manzanita Hills Road. All the time she was getting dressed, she was trying to figure out what Jacky was doing here. After all, Sedona was a long way out of his natural habitat in southern California.
Although Jacky had been Ali’s agent for years, she was more than ready to be done with him. In the aftermath of her divorce from the network bigwig Paul Grayson, Jacky had distanced himself from her completely. Yes, he had come up with the home-remodel filming project, but Ali suspected he had done that more because it would be good for him than because it would be good for her. Ali really was interested in the process of bringing back and preserving architectural treasures that were in danger of being bulldozed. Jacky, on the other hand, was interested in Jacky.
Ali had considered leaving him on more than one occasion, especially now, when she had no intention of going back to work. But with only a few months left on her contract, she had decided to run out the clock rather than making a break. Letting their agreement simply disappear would be a lot less messy than going to the trouble of ending it prematurely. Had he somehow gotten wind of her possible defection? Had someone mentioned to him that Ali Reynolds was about to flee the Jacky Jackson coop?
That brought her back to her original question: What was Jacky doing here? Maybe he had ridden into town at the behest of Raymond and Robert, the camera guys. Was it possible the enterprising videographers had found someone willing to pay top dollar for the off-limits homicide-investigation portion of their film? Ali suspected it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to find someone willing and able to outbid Home & Garden TV’s lowball offer. If Raymond and Robert were hoping to transform their remodeling gig into something else, maybe Jacky had come to see her in hopes of convincing Ali to change her mind and let them run with it.
As usual, the lower part of Ali’s driveway was lined with pickup trucks, which meant that even without Bryan Forester, his work crew was on the scene. After threading her way up the hill to the top of the drive, Ali found a rented Lincoln Town Car in her accustomed parking spot. Count on Jacky to grab the prime spot, she thought as she made her way over to the covered picnic table where Jacky was seated. Wearing a down vest and huddled next to the roaring propane heater, her uninvited guest was polishing off the last few bites of what appeared to be one of Leland Brooks’s fluffy three-egg omelettes.
“My, my, my,” Jacky cooed as Ali approached. “Wherever did you find such a marvelous cook way out here in the sticks? I don’t think I’ve ever had a better omelette.” He handed his empty plate over to Leland, who took it with a stiffly polite nod and walked away. Jacky’s referring to Leland Brooks as a cook was a joke. He might as well have called a Kentucky Derby–winning thoroughbred a nag. Yes, Leland cooked on occasion, but he was far more than that. At a time when he might reasonably have put himself out to pasture, he had stayed on to help Ali with the complicated remodel and had morphed into a friend. She sometimes suspected that in helping her, Leland was also helping himself as he, too, tried to move beyond his own set of betrayals.
“If you ever want to unload him,” Jacky continued tactlessly, “I’m sure I could come up with a list of ten people who would be happy to snap him up.”
“Mr. Brooks is fully employed,” Ali said. “He’s not available.”
“Too bad,” Jacky said. Belatedly, he rose to greet her. After a peremptory kiss on each cheek, he held her at arm’s length and examined her. There was no disguising the dismay that registered on his face.
“My goodness, Ali!” he exclaimed. “Just because you’re stuck here in lovely, charming, perfect Sedona is no excuse for letting yourself go. What are you thinking? No makeup, bag-lady clothes, hair in a ponytail? Bad for your image, darling, very bad. What would people think?”
“They might think I was having to deal with company that hadn’t bothered calling in advance,” she said. “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, you don’t look all that great yourself.”
“Oh, that,” Jacky said with a dismissive wave. “That comes from flying at such an ungodly hour. Had to be at the Burbank airport at oh-dark-thirty this morning. I’m missing several critical hours of beauty sleep. And can you believe it? Even at that ungodly hour, the plane was totally packed. Not a single empty seat to be had. Squalling babies everywhere.”
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “I see what you mean. It’s always a shock to see how the other half lives.” It annoyed her to realize that Jacky somehow brought out the worst in her. It was as though his perpetual bitchiness were a communicable disease.
Leland returned from his trailer, poured Ali a cup of coffee, and handed it over. “Will you require anything else, madam?” he asked formally, nodding imperceptibly in Jacky’s direction.
Ali smiled at him. “We’re fine for now, Mr. Brooks,” she said.
As Leland headed back to his fifth wheel, Jacky watched him go with mouthwatering intensity. “Such a lovely man,” he said admiringly.
“Knock it off, Jacky,” Ali ordered. “I already told you Mr. Brooks is not available. He’s fully employed. He’s also taken.”
“Spoilsport,” Jacky said.
Ali was tired of small talk. “I’m pretty busy at the moment,” she told him. “What is it you want?”
“Don’t be so cross,” Jacky purred. “I’ve got this wonderful, wonderful opportunity for you, something you’d be utterly perfect for. And you know me. I never discuss important negotiations over the phone. I’m a face-to-face, belly-to-belly kind of guy. So that’s why I’m here: to offer you a golden opportunity to go back to work doing what you love—to get you back where you belong, in front of a television camera. Fortunately, the project is being put together by some very talented people who happen to have enough money at their disposal to do things right.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Ali said. “What project do you have in mind?”
“All right, so maybe it’s a bit of a knockoff—a second-generation America’s Most Wanted, if you will, but do you know how long that program has been on the air? Besides, as they say, imitation is the highest form of flattery. You’ve built up a bit of a crimefighting reputation since you’ve been off the air. It seems to me this would be a great fit.”
“What are you asking me to do?” Ali asked. “Host it?”
“Oh, no,” Jacky said too quickly. “Nothing like that. They’ve already lined up a man-type to do the actual hosting job. They want you to be one of their personalities—one of the team of on-air folks and producers who go around the country and pull together various independent segments. You’d have a lot of autonomy, Ali. You’d be able to call your own shots.”
Unfortunately, Ali was able to read between the lines. She understood what Jacky wasn’t saying as much as what he was. No doubt one of his other clients—a male big-name client—was being tapped for the host job. What Jacky was doing was pulling in people to fill out the rest of the package.
“I’m calling my own shots now,” she said. “I’m not interested.”
“But you’re not working,” Jacky insist
ed. “Come on. Let me at least show you the proposal and bring you into the picture as far as the dollars are concerned. This is a good deal, Ali, darling. A very good deal, and despite the fact that you’ve been out of the loop and really need to make a comeback, they’re still willing to pay some real money.”
“Who says I need to make a comeback?” Ali returned abruptly. “And I don’t care that much about the money. I don’t need more money.”
In Jacky’s world, everyone wanted more money. The idea that Ali didn’t left him stunned. The lingering silence between them was broken by the ringing of Ali’s cell phone. A glance at caller ID told Ali her mother was on the phone. Oddly enough for that time of day, Edie Larson was calling from home rather than the restaurant.
Ali felt a moment of panic. Is Mom sick? she wondered. Or has something happened to Dad?
“This is a good deal, Ali,” Jacky went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “Surely you wouldn’t just turn your back on it.”
But Ali’s attention was focused on her phone. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I’ve got to take this.” She got up and walked far enough away to be out of earshot before she answered. “Hello, Mom,” she said. “What’s up? Are you all right?”
“I just had a call from Chris,” Edie said. “And it’s all so upsetting. He lit into me something terrible. He’s never spoken to me like that before, Ali. Not ever. He made it sound like the baking I did yesterday was some kind of criminal offense. I was trying to help out. I wanted to make their engagement party a special occasion. How could it go so wrong?”
There was an odd sound. It took Ali a moment to realize that her mother was actually snuffling into the phone. From what she was saying, Chris had taken Ali at her word and tackled his grandmother on the subject of wedding planning. Ali remembered mentioning to Chris that he should try to be diplomatic. Evidently, that part of the message hadn’t gotten through.
“Mom,” Ali said, “are you crying?”
“Well, maybe a little,” Edie admitted. “I’m so upset, though, that I can’t help it. Your father sent me home. He said he didn’t want me making a fool of myself in front of all the customers. He’s right about that, of course. Fortunately, the restaurant isn’t busy, and Jan is holding down the fort.”
Jan Howard was the Sugarloaf Café’s long-term waitress. She and Edie handled the front of the house while Bob Larson handled most of the kitchen chores.
“Hold on,” Ali said to her mother. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
For someone wanting to dodge Jacky Jackson, Edie’s call was heaven-sent. “Sorry,” Ali said, turning back to Jacky. “Family emergency. I’ve got to go.”
“But—” Jacky began.
Ali didn’t give him a chance to finish. “It’s my mother. I’ll catch you later.”
Before he could build up to full-whine mode, Ali walked briskly away. She got into the Cayenne and drove down the hill. She went straight to the Sugarloaf and parked next door to the little house at the rear of the building where her parents had lived for most of their married life. Ali found her mother in the living room, plopped in the recliner usually reserved for her husband. A trash basket full of sodden tissues sat on the floor next to her.
“Just tell me,” Edie demanded tearfully as Ali entered the room. “What did I do that was so wrong?”
Honesty’s the best policy, Ali told herself. “You did too much,” she said.
“Too much,” Edie echoed. “All I did was bake a few things…”
“You baked more than a few things,” Ali corrected. “I’ve seen whole bakeries with fewer pies and cakes. Chris and Athena wanted a small party. You turned it into a big party. They wanted to keep it simple and do it themselves. From their point of view, you took over. You made their party your party.”
“But Chris is my grandson,” Edie objected. “Why wouldn’t I want to make it special?”
“You have to remember that Chris is only half of this equation,” Ali told her. “The other is Athena. She’s been married once before, and it didn’t turn out very well for her. I can understand why she might be feeling a little glitchy about doing this the second time around.”
“And then there’s her physical situation,” Edie suggested. “That might be a factor.”
“No,” Ali corrected firmly. “I think you’re wrong there, Mom. I don’t believe Athena’s missing arm and leg have anything to do with it. But if they do, so what? She’s a grown-up. She went to war and served our country. She’s paid a hell of a price for wanting to do things her way—not your way or Dad’s way or my way, but her way. Athena’s way. She and Chris get to conduct themselves the way they want to.”
“But still—”
“No,” Ali said. “No buts. I could have raised a fuss when I found out that Chris went to you and Dad about the engagement ring instead of coming to me. But I didn’t. It was Chris’s decision. This is the same thing, Mom. He and Athena are a couple. We’ve got to let them live their own lives.”
“So I suppose you’re going to light in to me, too?” Edie asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” Ali said. “I’m here because you were crying on the phone. As far as I can remember, that’s never happened before. I’m here because you’re upset, but I happen to know Chris and Athena are upset, too. They’re at a delicate point in their relationship. They’re trying to figure out how to pull away from us and be a family of their own. That means that even though we have the very best of intentions, you and I need to back off. Not only that, I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll tell me when you think I’m meddling, I’ll do the same for you. Maybe we can spare ourselves and everyone else a lot of grief.”
“It’s just like when you and Dean eloped, isn’t it?” Edie said as a new spurt of tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Pretty much,” Ali admitted.
“I never meant for that to happen, you know,” Edie said, blowing her nose one last time. “I just wanted to be a part of it.”
Ali leaned over and gave her mother a hug. “I know, Mom,” she said. “And I’m sorry, too, so let’s see if we can both do better this time around.”
When Edie had recovered enough to go powder her nose, Ali left her alone. Realizing she had skipped breakfast, she walked across the parking lot and into the restaurant.
“How’s she doing?” Jan asked after taking Ali’s order for French toast. “That poor woman baked like crazy all afternoon yesterday, and for what?” she added. “So she could be bitched out about it today? I swear, there’s no pleasing kids these days.”
So that’s it, Ali concluded. A generational divide.
As far as Jan and Edie and probably even Ali’s father were concerned, Edie had been trying to “help.” From the point of view of Chris and Athena, however, that help had come across as unwanted interference. Ali realized it would fall on her shoulders to negotiate a peace treaty, and it wouldn’t be easy.
I’m stuck in the middle, Ali told herself. I’ll be ducking shots from both sides.
CHAPTER 7
Working four ten-hour days gave Peter Winter a lot of time off—three whole days he could devote to other things and to his other life. He tried to get in at least two rounds of golf a week, not because he liked the game all that much but because it was expected. Besides, playing golf was good cover. The rest of his free time went to Singleatheart. Sometimes he went prowling on the site for the hell of it, checking to see if any of the newly arrived profiles suited his particular fancies. Now that he was in the market for a new playmate, his search had taken on greater urgency.
Peter’s private system automatically captured all incoming profiles and credit-card info and sent him those bits of information. Each week he made it his business to go over all of it in detail. You never could tell when something might prove useful for creating yet another virtual man or woman, as he had with the lovely and now departed Susan Callison. As far as Peter Winter was concerned, having a never-ending supply of virt
ual identities at the ready was essential.
Most of the time he used a stolen identity only once or twice before shedding it the same way a molting snake discards its skin. As long as he was careful to keep any resulting bills under five hundred dollars, no one paid much attention—not the cops and not the banks, either. The banks quietly wrote off any and all disputed bills, mostly because they didn’t want to let on that their supposedly secure systems were being breached.
At Hertz, Peter had used a phony credit card belonging to Matt Morrison to rent the vehicle he had driven to Sedona. He had done so in hopes of adding another possible suspect to the investigative mix into Morgan’s death. Now that the damage was done, he wouldn’t use it again; he ran the card itself through his shredder.
So far the only major exception to Peter’s use-it-and-lose-it identity philosophy was Manny Wilkins, Peter’s first fully cyber offspring, a fictional creation who was proving to be exceptionally successful in the real world. Manny Wilkins had come into being through a complex trail of fake and official documents it had taken Peter two years to pull together. Known as a canny businesman with a Las Vegas address, Manny was listed as the founder and CEO of Wilkins LLC and also as the bottom-line owner of Singleatheart.com. It was Manny who received all the checks and paid all resulting expenses and taxes before moving any remaining monies to numbered accounts in a series of offshore banks. Other identities came and went. Manny remained because, to Peter’s astonishment, Singleatheart had turned into an inadvertent gold mine, and as long as all resulting taxes were paid on time, no one looked too closely.
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Peter. He owed much of his good fortune to Rita—poor, dear departed Rita, who had stupidly refused to give him a divorce—or at least the divorce he had wanted. She had told him once that the only way he would get rid of her was over her dead body, which was exactly how he had done it—by making sure Rita was dead.
Their hike up Camelback Mountain had been part of a carefully orchestrated reconciliation after a period of marital turbulence. There had been no witnesses when Rita fell several hundred feet to her death. She had been so surprised when Peter had turned on her with a drawn weapon in his hand that she’d leaped backward and fallen all on her own. He’d made sure there was no one around to say Rita hadn’t tripped and fallen exactly the way her grieving husband claimed she had.