With westbound traffic already backing up, Ali executed a U-turn and made her way to the 51. While at a stop sign, she programmed Dr. Westmoreland’s Tempe address into her GPS. It would take a matter of minutes for the news of an armed confrontation at North High to spread through the city, and Ali felt compelled to make good on her promise to A.J. that she would be the one to let Sylvia Sanders know what was going on.
Once on the 51 and speeding southbound, she found Dave’s last call and punched send. “I wondered if you’d call me back and apologize,” he said.
“Look, Mr. Grumbly Bear,” she said, “I’m calling with some information for you. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep on hassling?”
“I’ll hear it,” he said grudgingly. “What information?”
“I believe someone you’re looking for is about to be taken into custody by Phoenix PD, at the North High School campus in Phoenix.”
“Who?”
“The person of interest in the Gemma Ralston case,” Ali answered. “The kid who summoned 911.”
“Who?” Dave repeated.
“His name is A. J. Sanders. You interviewed his mother, Sylvia, yesterday.”
“James Sanders’s son was at the crime scene? Why is he being taken into custody, and why don’t I know anything about it?”
“The answer to the first question would be because he showed up at school with a trunkful of gambling tokens and a weapon-most likely a revolver. And the reason you don’t know about it is that it’s happening as we speak.”
“We’re talking an armed standoff?”
“It’s no standoff. The gun is in the trunk of his Camry. I told him to turn himself in.” And to keep his mouth shut, Ali thought.
“You know all this how?” Dave demanded.
“Because he called me and told me,” Ali replied. “The uniformed response was happening as I ended the call. I dialed you next.”
“But I don’t understand how-”
“Look,” Ali interrupted, “do you want to argue about this, or do you want me to tell you what I think you’re going to want to know?”
“Tell me.”
“Assuming A.J. is taken into custody and gets booked, you’ll most likely find his fingerprints on the cell phone that was used to send the 911 text from the Ralston homicide scene. A.J. also said something about a shovel that may have been left at the scene. He claims Gemma Ralston was alive when he got there, and he said that before she died, she mentioned someone’s name. Dennis.”
“Last name?” Dave asked.
“First name only. A.J. said he went back to his car to get her some water, and shortly after that, she was dead.”
“All right,” Dave said. “Thanks. It happens that I’m at Anthem, heading south, so I’ll be able to go to work on this right away. I have a feeling it’s going to be a jurisdictional nightmare, but thanks, Ali. I owe you one.”
This time Dave was the one who ended the call.
The Baseline exit came up fast. Before Ali made it onto the arterial, her phone rang again. Stuart Ramey was on the line. Ali quickly brought him up to date on the morning’s events.
“Okay,” Stuart said. “I’ll go looking for somebody named Dennis in Gemma’s e-mail correspondence. He’ll turn up either there or in her contacts list.”
“Which you have somehow accessed,” Ali said.
“Exactly,” Stuart returned. “Do you need anything else?”
“Yes, I want to know how somebody bringing home minimum wage can afford to give away most of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar payday. Why so generous? And did you come up with anything on that reporter, Betty Noonan?”
“Nothing,” Stuart replied. “As far as I can tell, there’s no such animal, unless you want to count the Elizabeth Louise Noonan, aka Betty, who is eighty-six years old and living in Rapid City, South Dakota. I’ve checked with the Examiner. They don’t have anyone by that name working for them and never have.”
“But someone claiming to be Betty Noonan stopped by to see Sylvia Sanders yesterday.”
“I believe ‘claiming’ is the operant word,” Stuart said. “Did Sylvia see what kind of vehicle the faux reporter was driving? Did she give you any kind of description?”
“I didn’t ask for one,” Ali said. “It didn’t seem all that important at the time, but I’m on my way to see Sylvia right now. I can ask for more details when I see her, and I’ll check with the folks at the Mission in Vegas as well. Since our intrepid reporter claimed to be from the Las Vegas Examiner, maybe she’s been in touch with the folks there, too. If you have time, you might give the Mission a call. If you can’t reach Abigail Mattson, check with her assistant. Her name’s Regina.”
By then Ali was pulling into the parking lot at the corner of Baseline and Rural. The shopping center was on one side of the parking lot, with a string of professional offices on the other. Ali pulled into a parking place just in time to see Sylvia Sanders come racing into the lot. Ali knew from the panicked expression on her face that she was too late. The breaking-news alert about the situation at North High School must have landed. Ali scrambled out of the Cayenne and ran to head the woman off.
“Sylvia,” Ali called, chasing after her. “Stop, please. I need to speak to you.”
Sylvia didn’t pause until she reached her car. “I’ve got to go,” she said desperately. “There’s a problem at A.J.’s high school. They’re reporting a possible shooter on campus. I tried calling his cell, but he isn’t picking up. I’ve got to make sure he’s all right.”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” Ali insisted. “A.J. wanted me to be the one to tell you. That’s why I’m here.”
Sylvia froze with her hand on the door handle. “Tell me what?”
“About what’s really going on. This is important, Sylvia. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Sylvia looked back at the door to her office. Then, without a word, she walked away from her Passat, leading the way to a small taqueria at the far end of the development.
“What?” she said once they were seated. “Tell me what’s going on.”
In answer, Ali pulled out her iPad and hit a local news feed, playing it for Sylvia to hear. “Phoenix PD authorities are telling us that the situation at North High School has been resolved and that the alleged shooter has been taken into custody without incident.”
“He may not be answering his phone, but that probably also means he’s okay,” Ali said.
“Wait,” Sylvia said, looking aghast. “Are you saying A.J. was the shooter?”
“He’s not a shooter,” Ali said, “because there was no shooter, but he did take a gun to school. It was in the trunk of his car.”
“That’s impossible,” Sylvia Sanders insisted, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My son doesn’t own a gun. I don’t own a gun. I don’t allow guns in my house. And if A.J. is the one who’s been arrested, I need to go there-to the jail or the police department or wherever he is-to see what I can do to help.”
She started to get up out of the booth, but Ali took hold of Sylvia’s arm and bodily pulled her back down. “Right now the best thing you can do to help your son is sit here and talk to me. I told A.J. that the first thing he needs to do once he’s taken into custody is to ask for an attorney. Appointing attorneys takes time, especially since two different jurisdictions are involved-Phoenix PD, where the alleged gun incident happened, and the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department, where your son is a possible suspect in one homicide and a person of interest in another.”
“This can’t be happening!” Sylvia exclaimed. “A.J. is a suspect in a homicide?”
“Are you going to listen or not?” Ali asked.
“I’ll listen.”
For the next ten minutes, Ali related everything she had learned, both from her phone call with A.J. and from her own investigations.
“From what you’re telling me, it’s like he’s been living a double life. We’ve always been so close. I don’t understand why he didn’t talk to me about any of this. And why did he call you instead of me?”
“I think he was ashamed about betraying you,” Ali said. “Now tell me what you know about the girlfriend, Sasha. A.J. said she was the only one who knew about the gun at school. She probably mentioned it to someone without realizing that other people would be upset about it and report it to the authorities.”
“Maddy told me Sasha’s last name is Miller.”
“Any idea where she lives?”
Sylvia shook her head. “Somewhere inside the school boundaries, I suppose.”
“No matter. I’ll be able to find her.”
Sylvia fell quiet, then nodded as if having come to an understanding. “I know why A.J. didn’t tell me about the money.”
“Why?”
“Being given that much money must have seemed like a miracle to him, but he knew that when I found out about it, I’d probably insist that he give the money back. For one thing, who knows how James got it? If Scott Ballentine is involved, it’s probably some crooked deal or another. I’d rather A.J. take six years to work his way through school than use ill-gotten gains for some kind of free ride.”
“Tell me about Scott Ballentine,” Ali said.
“Scott and James were good pals at one time. Best friends, even. He was one of the four guys involved in that counterfeiting scheme from years ago. He paid a fine. James went to prison. Some friend!”
“Did you stay in touch with any of those guys afterward?”
“Are you kidding?” Sylvia replied. “Why would I? After my husband went to prison, I barely stayed in touch with him. The other three of them all walked away and hung James out to dry. I wouldn’t cross the road to see any of them, not ever.”
“I watched the security tape from the casino,” Ali said. “Ballentine turned over three hundred thousand in gambling chips to James Sanders, who loaded them into a strongbox and walked away. Four days later, James was dead. Your son admitted to being in possession of two hundred and fifty grand of that money. We’ve accounted for another five thousand. So where’s the other forty-five thousand? Do you know?”
“Wait,” Sylvia said, her cheeks reddening. “You’re asking me if I have it?”
“Do you?” Ali asked. “If James slipped money to his son without your knowledge, the reverse might also be true. Maybe he gave you some of it, too.”
“No,” Sylvia declared. “He didn’t, and even if he had, I wouldn’t have accepted it.”
“Tell me about the reporter,” Ali said. “The one who came to see you yesterday.”
“Betty Noonan?”
Ali nodded. “What did she look like?”
“Tall,” Sylvia said at once. “About your height. Light reddish-brown hair. Curly.”
“Did you see what kind of vehicle she was driving?”
“An SUV, I think-a little white SUV-but I can’t tell you which kind,” Sylvia said. “I’ve never been particularly interested in cars, and I’m not very good at telling one make and model from another.”
“Did anything she said strike you as odd?”
Sylvia frowned. “Not then,” she said, “but now I realize she seemed to be under the impression that we had seen James sometime very recently. I told her that wasn’t true. That the last time we’d seen him was when he gave A.J. the car on his sixteenth birthday, but that was over a year ago.”
Looking out the window beyond Sylvia’s shoulder, Ali watched as a pair of unmarked Phoenix PD patrol cars nosed into the parking lot. One stopped directly behind Sylvia’s Passat and stayed there, making it impossible for the vehicle to drive away. Two plainclothes detectives got out of the first vehicle and walked into the office building.
“Oops,” Ali said. “It looks to me like you’ve got company. A pair of cops just went into your office.”
Sylvia turned around and stared out the window. “They blocked my car,” she said.
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “I’m pretty sure they want to talk to you in person.”
“What should I tell them?”
“The truth,” Ali answered. “You don’t know where A.J. got the gun. You may be tempted to give him an alibi by claiming he was home the whole time, but save your breath. Pretending it’s impossible for A.J. to sneak out of the house at night without your knowledge is a joke. I know for a fact that he did it at least once yesterday.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him. He came out of the house after my interview with you. He was carrying a backpack loaded with the strongbox containing all those gambling tokens. He put it in the trunk of the car and went back inside without your ever being the wiser.”
Sylvia said nothing. “He’s been playing me,” she said finally, making no effort to hide her disappointment.
“It certainly sounds like it,” Ali agreed, “but that makes him a kid, not a killer. You need to go talk to the cops now. Don’t make them come into the restaurant looking for you. It’ll be better if you show up voluntarily. You’ll look less like you’ve got something to hide.”
“What’s going to happen to A.J.?”
“I’m not sure,” Ali answered. “For the next little while, he’s going to be a jurisdictional football. Phoenix PD will want to charge him on the unlawful possession of a firearm. Right now he’s a person of interest in Yavapai County. If the weapon they found on him turns out to be the murder weapon, the county prosecutor will be the one lodging possible homicide charges against him. My best guess is that Yavapai will ultimately win the toss. The chief detective there, Dave Holman, is a friend of mine. He can be a jerk on occasion, especially when he’s shorthanded and dealing with two separate homicides, but he’s also a straight shooter. I’m not sure the same can be said for Cap Horning, the Yavapai County prosecutor. Make sure A.J. gets a court-appointed attorney before he talks to anyone.”
“What about you?” Sylvia asked, giving Ali an appraising look. “Are you a straight shooter?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “I am, but I don’t have any way of proving it. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“What’s your part in all of this?” Sylvia asked. “Why are you helping us? Why are you helping A.J.?”
“I have a son whom I raised on my own a lot of the time. A.J. reminds me of him. They’re both good kids. From what I can tell, A.J. was an unwitting pawn in whatever was going on between you and his father. I’m sure he picked up on the idea that the only way he’d be able to accept this very generous gift from his father-a life-changing gift-was to try to keep it a secret from you. That might have worked for him if you hadn’t raised him to be a responsible kind of guy who, when the chips were down, would pick up a phone and try to help a dying woman by calling 911.”
“That’s true,” Sylvia said. “He is a good kid.”
“From what I’ve learned about James Sanders, he got sold down the river by his friends and by the criminal justice system for something that was very likely an ill-informed teenage prank. I’d like to see that his son gets a better deal. Wouldn’t you?”
Sylvia nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
“Now get going,” Ali said, dismissing her. “And remember, when you talk to the cops, tell the truth, but the less you say, the better.”
Sylvia sat for a moment longer, studying Ali. Then she seemed to pull herself together. “All right, then,” she said, standing up. “I guess I’d better go do this.”
Watching her go, Ali couldn’t help but be astounded by the remarkable transformation between the panicked woman who had come into the restaurant and the resolute one leaving. Striding determinedly across the parking lot, Sylvia Sanders reminded Ali of a mama bear on the way to rescue her endangered cub.
She would either succeed, or she’d die trying.