J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 2: Trial by Fire, Fatal Error, Left for Dead (73 page)

Ali let her breath out. “That’s good news then,” she said. “And you haven’t noticed anything unusual the past few days?”

“Well, let’s see,” Flossie said. “Mark was gone overnight this week. Friday night, I think it was. That’s unusual for him. He’s pretty much a stay-at-home. And then, there was the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Middle of the night, Sunday morning, a little after three, I wake up smelling smoke. Believe me, you can’t buy smoke detectors better than I am. Anyway, I look out the window, and there Little Miss Hissy Fit is tossing stuff into Mark’s barbecue grill and it’s burning like crazy.”

“You could see all this from here?” Ali asked.

“Since I got my cataracts fixed, my eyesight is downright amazing. So I look out there, and she’s got this roaring fire going in the grill. Like a bonfire. Only it stank to the high heavens. Mark only burns mesquite in his grill. He’s like a purist or something. But she must have put some kind of plastic crap in there. That’s what it smelled like. Burning plastic. I wanted to turn her in to somebody for burning garbage like that. We have waste management here. There’s no excuse, but Jimmy told me to be a good neighbor and keep quiet, so I did.

“But then yesterday afternoon, what do I see? Poor Mark is out there in the yard wrestling with that Weber grill of his.
He loaded all the ashes in a wheelbarrow. Took ’em over to the beach, dug a hole, and buried ’em. We could go take a look if you want.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was curious. So after Jimmy went off to the casino, I went over there with his metal detector. Screamed like a banshee, so there must be metal of some kind down there. I was going to wait for Jimmy to come home to check it out, but I know how to work the business end of a shovel. Want to go take a look?”

“Absolutely,” Ali said. “Sounds like a great idea.”

T
here was yellow crime scene tape plastered across the front porch of Richard Lowensdale’s house. There was crime scene tape strung across the broken front gate. There was no crime scene tape on the driveway or on the side entrance into the garage.

Donning yet another pair of latex gloves—he would need to go to the supply room for a set of refills soon—Gil let himself into the musty garage. The ten-year-old Catera was still in the same spot. Gil couldn’t help wondering who would take the car, or would it be left here to molder away?

The oil was exactly where Gil remembered seeing it—on a wooden shelf over the workbench. It was in a cardboard box that had been cut off so that the bottles stood half exposed above their cardboard container. Reaching up, Gil pulled the first one out of its corner spot. The heft of it, the play of the heavy liquid inside the plastic, told Gil that he was wrong. What was in his hand was, as advertised, a bottle of premium motor oil with, according to the buzz on the bottle, an engine-cleaning chemical additive.

There were a dozen bottles in the box—four wide and three
deep. And all of the bottles in the front row clearly contained oil. The same held true for three of the bottles in the second row. When he picked up the fourth one, however, it seemed lighter than air, and instead of ponderous liquid, there was something or maybe two somethings inside the bottle that rattled when Gil shook the container. At first glance, the bottle appeared to be unopened. There was still a manufacturer’s seal over the cap, but the bottle had clearly been tampered with.

Gil returned that bottle to its place and tried the first bottle in the back row. Like the one with the rattle, this one weighed considerably less than the bottles filled with oil, and whatever was inside this one wasn’t liquid. It rustled when Gil shook it. Something inside went up and down with a kind of thump, but the noise didn’t resemble the rattle in the other bottle. Whatever was inside this one took up far more space.

The second bottle in the back row was similarly loaded. The last two were entirely empty. No rattle, no thump.

Gil returned all the bottles to the cardboard container, then he lifted it down from the shelf. Because the load wasn’t evenly distributed, he almost spilled it out onto the workbench. Then he lugged it out the door and down the driveway to his Camry, where he loaded it into the trunk.

He drove straight home and carried the box of bottles into the garage, where he placed them on his own workbench. After switching on his overhead work light, he examined the bottles from the back two rows. Under the rays of the lamp, it was easy to see that the bottoms of some of the bottles had been tampered with—cut through with something sharp and then glued back together.

Gil started with the one that had rattled. The glue, probably some of Richard’s model airplane building epoxy, had created a bond, but not enough of one that it was impervious. Gil fastened
the bottle upside down in a vise. Then, using a well sharpened wood chisel and an ordinary hammer, he gave the glued surface a sharp whack. The bottom gave way and disappeared into the bottle. Reaching inside, Gil pulled out the plastic bottom as well as two small items. Gil didn’t regard himself as any kind of technical genius, but he recognized a pair of computer thumb drives when he saw them.

Setting those aside, Gil performed the same operation with one of the two thumper bottles. When the bottom gave way, it fell into the bottle, but only an inch or two, not nearly as far as the one with the thumb drives. It took some effort on Gil’s part to coax the bottom piece back out of the bottle. Then, removing the bottle from the vise, Gil whacked the open end several times on the top surface of his workbench. On the third try, a sheaf of money came shooting out through the opening—a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

For a moment all Gil could do was stare. The pile of money lying there on his workbench was more cash in one place than he had ever seen before. He performed the same operation on the next bottle with similar results, and with a stack of money that was almost equal in size to the first one. Of the two remaining bottles, both empty, both had been cut open but not glued back together.

Standing and looking at the cash as well as the empty bottles, Detective Morris was able to draw several interesting conclusions. Richard Lowensdale had been involved in some kind of illicit behavior for which he was being paid in cash. His killer had come to the house expecting to find it and had, presumably, gone away empty-handed. That was what the missing fingers were all about. The killer had tortured Lowensdale expecting him to reveal his hiding place, and he had not.

So what was Brenda Riley’s role in all this? Was she an active
participant in what Richard had been doing? Had they been partners of some kind, and Brenda had betrayed him? Or had Brenda somehow stumbled upon what was going on and ended up in jeopardy right along with Richard? And did Brenda’s part in this whole puzzle have anything to do with the key that she had kept hidden in her tampon container?

Thoughtfully, Gil put the two thumb drives in the front pocket of his jeans. He didn’t have a computer at home. The family desktop had decamped to Mt. Shasta City with Linda and the kids. As for the money? Gil returned that to the applicable bottles and put the bottles back in the box. Then, he hefted the loaded box of oil up to the top shelf over his own workbench.

From where Gil was standing, it looked for the world like a perfectly innocent case of oil. He really was the kind of guy who still did his own oil changes.

C
urious, Ali followed Flossie Haywood as she trudged across the road and through the rock-strewn sandy shoreline. Flossie carried the shovel. Ali lugged the metal detector, which she found to be surprisingly heavy.

But the walk gave her some time to consider. Richard Lowensdale’s murder had taken place on Friday. Mina had lit her middle-of-the-night bonfire sometime overnight between Saturday and Sunday. What if she was burning evidence? Or trying to burn evidence? If Ali encouraged Flossie to dig up the leavings—or if she even allowed it—there was a good possibility they would both be tampering with possible evidence in a criminal proceeding. Ali wanted to know what Ermina Blaylock had been burning in the worst way. That was Ali—plain Ali. But the one who was almost a cop—almost a sworn officer—didn’t want to do anything that might make it easier for Mina to get away with what she had done and whatever she was hiding, regardless of what it was.

“Here, I think,” Flossie said. “Hand me the metal detector.”

For several long seconds she ran it a few inches above the fine
sand. Eventually it started alarming. “See there?” Flossie said. “I told you so.”

She reached for the shovel, but Ali held it out of reach. “We can’t do this,” she said.

“Yes, we can,” Flossie said. “I was raised on a farm. I was shoveling manure before I learned how to read and write.”

“It’s not the digging,” Ali said. “It’s possible that this may be important evidence. If we disturb it in any way, and if Ermina Blaylock has committed a crime, our messing with the evidence might make it impossible for a district attorney to convict her.”

Flossie stood stock-still. “Are you saying you think she’s done something wrong? I mean something really wrong, not just disrespecting her husband. You mean like something against the law?”

“Yes,” Ali said, “that’s exactly what I mean, and I don’t want to be responsible for letting her get away with it.”

“Neither do I,” Flossie said. “So what do we do?”

“Get a rock,” Ali said. “A big rock that you can use to mark the spot so we can find it again.”

Flossie nodded. “Okay,” she said, but she seemed disappointed.

It took some time for her to find a suitable rock. Then Ali helped carry the equipment back across the road.

“So what am I supposed to do now?” Flossie asked. “Just forget about it?”

“No,” Ali said. “Not at all. It may take some time, but I’ll call it in.”

“Are you some kind of a cop?”

There were times when telling the truth was the only option.

“No,” Ali said thoughtfully. “I’m no kind of a cop at all. I have a friend named Brenda Riley, at least I had a friend named Brenda. She may be dead, and I have reason to believe that Ermina is responsible for what happened to her. If that turns out to be the case, I want her caught and convicted.”

“All right,” Flossie said in grudging agreement.

“But there is something you can do,” Ali offered.

“What?”

“If I can make this work, a little later on tonight, a bunch of cops are going to show up here with a search warrant, and you can do them a big favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Show them where to find that clicker. It’ll be a lot easier for them to get inside the Blaylocks’ house if they can raise or lower the shutters.”

“You think there’s a chance that bitch will go to jail?”

“Yes,” Ali said. “I certainly do.”

“Then you can count on me,” declared Flossie Haywood. “I will not let you down.”

Ali waited only long enough to drive out of Flossie’s sight before she was on her Bluetooth and dialing Stuart Ramey. Yes, it was a holiday, but she had every confidence that Stuart would answer—which he did, once she managed to outwit the series of voice mail prompts.

“Hey, Stuart,” she said. “I want you to look up a telephone number for me. The name is Gilbert Morris, Grass Valley, California. I have his cell phone and his work number. I’m looking for a home number.”

“Have you tried information?”

“He’s a cop,” Ali said. “I’m guessing it’s unlisted.”

“That may take a little longer.”

It turned out the number was unlisted and getting it did take a little longer. Wanting to be able to write down the number, Ali pulled over and parked in a small business park bustling with weekend campers on their way back to their respective cities at the end of the three-day weekend.

“Okay,” Stuart said, “you called that shot. Here it is.”

Ali jotted the home number down on the back of Ermina’s background check, right along with Gilbert’s office and cell phone numbers. When the phone started to ring, she held her breath.

Answer, damn it!
she thought.
I don’t want to give you another chance not to call me back.

“Hello.” He sounded tentative, uncertain. Before dialing his number, she had put in the code that would block her caller ID.

“Is this Detective Gilbert Morris?” Ali asked. Her tone was brisk, businesslike.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “But who’s calling, please?”

“My name is Alison Reynolds,” she said. “I called earlier and left you two messages. You didn’t call me back.”

“This is an unlisted number. How did you—”

“Listen very carefully,” she said. “I have important information, but since you probably won’t believe me, I want you to call a third party. Do you have a pencil handy?”

“I have a pen,” he said.

“Good. The guy’s name is Laughlin. Detective James Laughlin. He’s a retired homicide cop from Jefferson City, Missouri. I want you to call him. Ask him about Ermina Vlasic Cunningham. Once you do, I believe you’ll be interested in calling me back. Here’s his number.”

After reading off James Laughlin’s number, Ali hung up, without leaving her own number or answering any questions. When Gil Morris got around to calling her back—as she was certain he would—he could damned well go looking for her number. After all, she had already given it to him. Twice.

G
ilbert Morris was pissed. He had no idea who had given this pushy broad his number but he intended to find out and then there would be hell to pay. This was exactly why cops had unlisted numbers—so every crazy in the universe couldn’t pick up the phone and give them pieces of their ringy-dingy minds just because they felt like it.

His first instinct was to ignore it. She’d already told him that she was a friend of Brenda Riley. Yes, he probably should have picked up the phone and called her earlier today, but he hadn’t, primarily to get back at Chief Jackman more than anything else. He had told himself he’d make the call tomorrow. But now she’d had nerve enough to call him at home. On his unlisted number.