Long after B. was snoring up a storm, Ali lay awake thinking about Beatrice Hart and her daughter. When Dave brought up the possible plea bargain with Lynn Martinson’s mother, he evidently assumed that Beatrice would do what she could to help get Lynn agree to the deal. In fact, she had headed out for Prescott determined to do the opposite.
Unable to sleep, Ali crept out of the bedroom and back to the library, where she relit the gas log and pulled her autographed copy of Brenda Riley’s book, Web of Lies: The Life and Death of a Cyberpath, from its spot on the bookshelf.
Thumbing through the pages, Ali found herself reading the chapter that dealt with Lynn Martinson. It was easy to see how Lowensdale’s phony claim of having a daughter with drug issues had given him an opening into Lynn’s life. He had preyed on her vulnerabilities in the same way he played on the other women he had victimized. As the local superintendent of schools, she had been a public person with a troubled son, one who committed suicide while incarcerated on drug charges. Lucas’s death had occurred after Lowensdale had ended his supposedly promising relationship with Lynn. Already brought low by her fiance’s unexplained abandonment, Lynn had fallen apart completely.
In the last passage in the chapter devoted to Lynn, she said that her experience with the cyberstalker had left her so emotionally depleted that she doubted she’d ever risk another romantic entanglement. It struck Ali as sad that she had become involved in yet another seemingly troubled relationship. This time she had a middle-aged boyfriend who lived at home with his mother and might or might not be involved in the murder of his former wife.
Yes, Ali thought, returning Brenda’s book to the shelf. Beatrice is right. Her daughter does have terrible taste in men.
With that, Ali tiptoed back into the bedroom and snuggled up next to B. She drifted off to sleep grateful that she, unlike Lynn Martinson, was at home and lying in her own bed rather than locked up in a jail cell, awaiting possible homicide charges.
When Ali awakened hours later, she was alone in bed. B., whose interior time zone was perpetually half a world away, was seated on the bedroom love seat, engrossed in something on his iPad.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said.
“What time is it?”
“After eight. Want some coffee?”
“Please.”
As he headed for the kitchen, Ali scrambled out of bed. She hadn’t made it to the bathroom when her cell phone rang on its bedside charger. The 928 area code on the readout meant the call was coming from a Prescott-area telephone, though the number wasn’t one Ali recognized.
“Is this Ali Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Paula Urban. I’m the public defender in Prescott-”
“And Lynn Martinson’s attorney,” Ali supplied.
“Exactly,” Paula said. “Ms. Martinson’s mother, Beatrice Hart, is in my office this morning. She suggested I call you. My client was offered a plea bargain that she has decided not to accept.”
“Which means she may end up being charged with first-degree homicide,” Ali suggested.
“That’s correct. I was explaining that there may be some budget constraints in my office’s ability to launch a full-scale investigation. Ms. Hart suggested that if I needed any investigative work done, you were a detective she would be glad to hire. We just Googled you, Ms. Reynolds. You appear to be extensively involved in a scholarship program of some kind, but I don’t see anything that would lead me to believe you’re a private investigator. Are you?”
“No,” Ali said at once. “I’ve done some investigative work as a journalist on occasion, but I’m not a licensed private investigator. That takes years of law enforcement-based investigation experience that I don’t happen to have.”
“I was afraid that might be the case,” Paula Urban replied, “but Ms. Hart may have come up with a work-around. Hang on for a moment. I’ll let her explain.”
While Ali waited on her end, B. returned to the bedroom with a mug of coffee gripped in each hand. “What’s going on?” he asked. He passed one of the cups to Ali and then returned to the love seat.
“It’s Lynn’s attorney,” Ali explained. Gratefully, she accepted her cup of coffee and perched on the edge of the bed.
A moment later, Paula Urban came back on the line. “Ms. Hart wants to discuss her proposal with you directly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to put you on speaker.”
A moment later, Beatrice’s voice came on the line. “When I got to town last night, I was told I wouldn’t be able to talk to Lynn until this morning, so I called her attorney to see if there was anything I could do to help. When she mentioned being worried about hiring an investigator, I immediately thought of you, but by then I felt it was too late to call. Instead, I called one of my friends in Surprise. She tells me the going rate for a private eye these days is eight hundred dollars a day plus expenses, and I’m fully prepared to pay that. Lynn may need the services of a court-appointed attorney, but she doesn’t have to settle for a court-appointed detective, not if I have anything to do with it.”
Ali more than half expected Paula Urban to take exception to Beatrice’s dismissive remark about court-appointed attorneys, but she didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Ali said, jumping into the uncomfortable silence. “Even though I’d like to help, I can’t. As I just told Ms. Urban, I’m not a licensed detective.”
“But you’re a journalist, aren’t you?” Beatrice Hart asked.
“Was,” Ali said. “As in used to be. I’m not anymore.”
“I want you to do what Brenda did for Lynn and all those other poor women. I want to hire you to tell the story of what’s going on in Lynn’s life right now, and if you happen to pass along what you learn to Ms. Urban, so be it.”
“Are you hearing this, Ms. Urban?” Ali asked, expecting the attorney to object.
“Works for me,” Paula said.
“As I said before,” Ali insisted, “I’m not a licensed private investigator. It’s very generous for you to offer to pay me, but I can’t take your money. It’s out of the question.”
“How about if I make a voluntary donation to your scholarship fund?” Beatrice offered. “Surely you couldn’t object to that. And if you happen to report your findings to Ms. Urban before you get around to writing whatever it is you’re going to write for me, then it would be all to the good, don’t you think?”
Across the room, B. was saying nothing, but he was grinning into his cup.
“What kind of investigative help do you need, Ms. Urban?” Ali asked, saying yes without really meaning to.
“You’re aware that another homicide victim was found near the first one?” Paula asked. “Near where Gemma Ralston was found?”
“Yes,” Ali answered.
“So far, all I’ve been able to learn is the man’s name,” Paula said. “James Mason Sanders. I need to do a complete background check on him to see if we can find out whether he had any possible connections to Gemma Ralston or Dr. Ralston. Lynn claims she’s never heard the name. I also need to know everything there is to know about Charles and Gemma Ralston. I’ve been told that they were involved in long, drawn-out, and very messy divorce proceedings, but I don’t know any of the details. I need complete background information on them as well, individually and as a couple.”
Ali glanced in B.’s direction. At the mention of background checks, he nodded. Can do, he mouthed silently.
“All right,” Ali said into the phone. “Providing three sets of background checks sounds pretty doable. I’m assuming that whatever I find should be turned over to you?”
There was a pause during which Beatrice Hart was evidently considering Ali’s question. “I’m not very computer-literate,” she said. “I have a cell, but I hardly use it. Would it be all right if Ms. Reynolds interacted with you, Ms. Urban? Then you could collect the material and send it along to me.”
“That would probably work,” Paula Urban agreed.
The faux-journalist story gave all of them a thin veneer of cover; enough, Ali hoped, that should she be found operating as a private investigator without appropriate state licensing, she’d be able to dodge any resulting class-one misdemeanor charges.
“What’s the situation with Chip Ralston?” Ali asked. “Any word on whether he intends to turn state’s evidence?” Ali knew if that happened, it would be a game changer as far as Lynn’s situation was concerned.
“No word so far,” Paula said. “I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad news.”
Beatrice’s voice came back on the line. “I don’t know how to thank you enough,” she said. “Should we draw up some kind of official contract for the article or story or whatever it is you’re writing?”
“No,” Ali said. “That’s not necessary. We’ll consider this a handshake agreement. If I end up doing anything helpful, I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you’re going to make a contribution to the fund and how much that should be. But I’ll need complete contact information for both of you. And, as suggested, I’ll send my progress reports to Ms. Urban, with the understanding that she’ll forward them on to you.”
When Paula Urban ended the call, Ali turned back to B., who was still grinning.
“What’s so funny?”
“To quote George Bernard Shaw, ‘We’ve established what you are, now we’re merely haggling over the price.’”
“Right. What happens if I go to jail for operating without a license?”
“Then I guess I show up, checkbook in hand, to bail you out,” B. said with a smile. “I’m also willing to put Stuart Ramey at your disposal.”
“Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind,” B. said. “He’s gotten a real kick out of back-stopping some of your escapades in the past, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to do it again.”
“But why-” Ali began.
“Because I heard you tell Beatrice Hart last night that I’m your partner. How about if I start acting like it?”
“Are you sure?” Ali asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I am. As your mother is so fond of saying, ‘Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’ And speaking of sauce, Leland was close to putting breakfast on the table when I picked up the coffee. You’d better get a move on.”