Authors: J.A. Jance
Sobbing, April buried her face in the pillow. “Mom’s gone,” she wailed. “So’s Paul. I’m all alone now. What’s going to happen to me? What’s going to happen to the baby?”
Ali reached down and patted April’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “But you’ll be all right. We’ll figure it out.”
Then Ali picked up the phone, took it into the other room, plugged it into the charger, and called Victor Angeleri at home. “You need to know what’s happened.”
In the end, Ali stayed behind at the hotel for yet another meeting with Victor. Her mother and Dave were the ones who volunteered to take April back to the hospital to handle whatever paperwork needed signing. After several phone calls, Victor managed to locate Detectives Tim Hubbard and Rosalie Martin, the two L.A. homicide cops who were now in charge of the Monique Ragsdale investigation.
“Look,” Victor said once he had Detective Hubbard on the phone. “I don’t like the circus atmosphere any more than you do, and it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. My client is willing to cooperate and give you a voluntary statement, but it needs to be on our terms. I’d rather do it here at the hotel, where we have some control over the media. How about if you come to us?”
In the end, that’s what happened—the detectives agreed to come there. For the next two hours, and with a tape recorder running, they went over the whole story again, in great detail. They wanted to know who was at the morning meeting at the house on Robert Lane. Both detectives seemed intrigued by the pre-funeral reading of Paul Grayson’s will, and they seemed especially interested in the fact that Paul Grayson’s murder had left Ali holding a bagful of monetary goodies.
“What was Ms. Gaddis’s reaction to that?” Rosalie Martin wanted to know.
Ali shrugged. “What you’d expect. She was upset.”
“What about her mother, Ms. Ragsdale?” Detective Hubbard asked. “Was she upset, too?”
“I’m sure she was worried about her daughter—and the baby,” Ali told her.
“Which put the two of you on opposite sides of the fence.”
Ali glanced in Victor’s direction. He gave a slight shake of his head, and Ali said nothing more.
With the topic of the will pretty much exhausted, Hubbard moved on to other issues. The two cops seemed to have missed the Sumo Sudoku craze entirely and had to have the concept explained to them. When it came to the names of the players and the film crew, however, Ali wasn’t able to offer much detail.
“What about workmen?” Detective Hubbard asked.
“Jesus Sanchez is the gardener,” Ali said.
“What can you tell us about him?”
Ali shrugged. “Not much. He more or less came with the house. He was working there long before Paul and I bought the place. Most of the time he works alone, but today he had a crew working with him. I didn’t know any of them.”
Was this the time Ali should mention her near-encounter with the falling boulder, or would the cops see that as nothing more than a lame attempt on her part to deflect their suspicions away from her? She decided to let it go.
“What about the cook?” Detective Hubbard asked.
“I met her, but she’s new. I don’t know her name.”
“What about address information or contact numbers for the two of them?”
“Jesus and the cook? I’m sure Paul had the information, probably in his office somewhere, but I don’t. We were getting a divorce, remember?”
“We’ll see what we can find,” Hubbard said. “Now about the house. Does it have a security system?”
“Of course,” Ali told him.
“But it wasn’t alarming when you got there this afternoon and found Ms. Ragsdale at the bottom of the stairs?”
“No. The front door was half open but the alarm wasn’t sounding. I assumed someone must have switched it off.”
“Why would that be?”
“Maybe with so many people coming and going throughout the day, it was easier to turn it off.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“It would have been for me,” Ali said. “But I’m not sure about how April runs the house.”
“Your house,” Hubbard added.
Ali didn’t like it that Hubbard seemed so eager to come back to the idea that the house on Robert Lane ultimately belonged to Ali.
“April Gaddis is the one who’s been living there most recently,” Ali returned. “Maybe she’s not all that worried about security.”
“Maybe not,” Hubbard agreed. “And no one else was there at the house when you arrived?”
“No one. Not the cook. Not the gardener.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Four or so. I don’t remember exactly.”
“The nine-one-one call came in at four-fifteen.”
“So around four.”
“The people who were with you at the time you found Ms. Ragsdale were your mother and this friend, one Dave Holman.”
“Yes,” Ali said. “That’s correct.”
“And he’s a police officer?”
Ali nodded. “Dave’s a homicide detective with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department in Sedona.”
“I’ve heard about Sedona,” Hubbard said. “The crystal place. So he drove all the way over here from there?”
“From Lake Havasu, actually,” Ali replied. “He’s divorced. He was there visiting his kids.”
“When did he arrive?”
Ali was a little puzzled by this segue into questions about Dave Holman. “Early afternoon,” she answered. “In time to have lunch.”
“And he was with you most of the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
All this time, Detective Rosalie Martin had been sitting back and letting her partner do most of the questioning. Now she leaned forward once more.
“You mentioned that you came and went from the hotel via the service elevator?”
“Yes,” Ali said.
“Why was that?”
“Because the lobby was full of reporters. I wanted to avoid them if at all possible.”
“Couldn’t it also be because you didn’t want to be observed, period?” Rosalie asked. “Not just by the reporters but by anyone?”
Her not-too-subtle implication was clear and Victor balked. “This interview is over,” he announced. “My client has been more than cooperative. She’s answered all your questions. If you want to know whether or not she left the hotel in the course of the afternoon, I suggest you avail yourselves of the hotel’s security tapes. I’m sure those cover the service elevator as well as the public ones.”
The cops left shortly thereafter. Victor turned to Ali. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a hell of a lot of trouble?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m pretty sure several people have mentioned it.”
“By the way,” Victor said. “My assistant did a LexisNexis search on you. We need to talk about the man you shot last March.”
Having already been questioned by the cops for more than an hour, Ali was surprised when Victor began grilling her as well.
“What about him? Ben Witherspoon was a vicious man who broke into my house and attacked me. I shot him, all right, but since he attacked me in my own home, the shooting was ruled self-defense, and I’d do it again in a minute.”
“What about the lady who tried to force you off the highway? She’s dead, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you happen to see a pattern here?” Victor asked.
“I do see a pattern,” Ali said, her temper rising. “You seem to be giving me hell about all kinds of things that have nothing whatsoever to do with what’s going on here. Why? Aren’t you supposed to be my attorney?”
“I am your attorney. It’s my job to look down the road, see what’s coming in our direction, and do what I can to mitigate it. All those reporters down in the lobby—the ones who aren’t getting a chance to interview you—are doing exactly the same thing I did. They’re checking out every available bit of Ali Reynolds’s history they can, including every archived posting on cutlooseblog.com. By the time you wake up tomorrow morning, regardless of whether or not you’ve been officially charged with a crime, you’re going to be on trial in the media for everything you’ve ever said or done. They’re going to turn you into this year’s big story. You’ll be cast as a former media elite who considers herself above the law and is probably getting away with murder.”
“All I did was defend myself. Bringing up those old cases isn’t fair.”
“No, it’s not,” Victor agreed. “But that’s how it’s going to play out, especially if charges are brought in either one of these new cases.”
“What about innocent until proven guilty?”
“Don’t be naive, Ali,” Victor said. “You know as well as I do, perception is everything, and the media are the ones who control that. Even if we prove you innocent in a court of law, dodging the criminal charge will only be the start of your problems. Next on the agenda will be a wrongful death suit where the burden of proof will be far less stringent. As Paul Grayson’s primary heir, you’ll make a very inviting target. Where’s your gun, by the way?”
“My Glock? It’s in the safe in Mom’s and my room, but it’s also legal. I have a valid license to carry.”
“Valid or not, leave your gun in the safe,” Victor advised. “If you end up being questioned again, you’ll be way better off if the cops don’t find a weapon on your person.”
Before Ali could reply, the door opened and Dave Holman ushered April into the room. She looked ghastly. “I think she needs to lie down,” Dave said.
As Ali rose to relieve Dave of his charge, Victor gathered his briefcase and stood as well. “I’ll be going then,” he said. “Hopefully for the last time today.”
Ali led April into the other room, where she flopped down onto the bed without even stripping off her clothes. “Are you all right?” Ali asked.
“I’m tired,” April said. “My back hurts. I need some sleep.”
Ali left her there and returned to the other room, closing the door behind her. She found Dave standing by the window. “I don’t think your attorney likes me,” Dave said.
“That’s fair enough,” Ali said, “since I’m not so sure I like him very much at the moment, either. How was it?”
“The hospital?” Dave shook his head. “Not a good scene,” he replied. “I felt sorry for April. It’s a lot for someone her age to handle.”
Ali nodded and looked around the suite, realizing for the first time that Edie hadn’t returned with Dave. “What about Mom?” she asked.
“Said she was dead on her feet,” Dave replied. “Told me to tell you she was going to bed and not to worry about waking her when you come in. She said she’ll take out her hearing aids and won’t hear a thing.”
“Why wouldn’t she be tired?” Ali returned. “I’m sure she got up at the usual time this morning and drove all the way here. Now it’s way past her bedtime.”
“What about your bedtime?” Dave asked. “And what about dinner? Did you have anything to eat?”
“Not since lunch.”
“I’ll take you to dinner then.”
“What about the reporters?”
Dave grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not stupid. I’ve learned the drill. You call the bellman, go up and down in the service elevator, and hand over the tip. How do you think I got April in and out without being seen? And then there’s my secret transportation device.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m sure the reporters have spotters keeping an eye on your Cayenne. And I don’t doubt there was a huge flap when Victor took off in that enormous Lincoln of his. But it turns out nobody pays the least bit of attention to a beat-out Nissan Sentra. It’s right up there with one of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloaks.”
Ali was genuinely surprised. In the months since she’d stopped working, she had returned to her long-neglected habit of reading for pleasure. She had allowed herself the guilty indulgence of reading the entire Harry Potter series and had enjoyed it far more than she had expected.
“You read Harry Potter?” she asked.
Dave rolled his eyes. “I’ve got kids, don’t I? Now, are you coming to dinner or not?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere no one will expect to find you,” he said. “Denny’s. And don’t give me any grief about it. After forking over a fortune in tips this afternoon, it’s the best I can do.”
“Are you kidding?” Ali asked. “If you’re offering a Grand Slam, I’m there.”
I
n the months Ali had been back home in Sedona, she had become reacquainted with the small-town intimacy of the Sugar Loaf Café. Now she found herself disappearing in the bustling anonymity of a corporate-run restaurant. The colorful, multipage plastic menus were the same everywhere. So was the food. The meal Ali ordered was good, but it didn’t come close to measuring up to one of Bob Larson’s.
“Victor thinks you should leave,” Ali told Dave over dinner. “You and Mom both. He’s afraid that having you poking around will somehow ‘muddy the waters.’”
“Tough,” Dave Holman replied. “I don’t like Victor. Victor doesn’t like me. That makes us even. I have three weeks of vacation coming. I called the office this afternoon and told Sheriff Maxwell I’m taking ’em. I’m here for the duration. And if things get settled sooner than that, I’ll camp out over at Lake Havasu and visit with my kids.”
“How are they doing?” Ali asked.
While Dave had been off serving in Iraq with his reserve unit, Roxanne, his now former wife, had taken up with a sleazy timeshare salesman. Months earlier, when the new husband had been transferred to Lake Havasu, Roxanne had moved, taking Dave’s kids with her. He had been devastated.
“Medium,” Dave replied glumly. “Gary, the cretin, lost his job. Got caught in some kind of corporate hanky-panky. Roxie didn’t tell me any of the gory details, and I’m probably better off not knowing. The thing is, Gary is currently unemployed, and they may end up having to move again. I’m not sure where—Vegas, maybe. The kids are sick about it. So am I.”
“Have you thought about taking Roxie back to court and trying to get custody?” Ali asked.
Dave shook his head. “Are you kidding? I’m a man. I’ve got about as much chance of winning a custody fight as I do of winning at Powerball. And since I never buy a lotto ticket, that’s not likely to happen. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you.”
“What about me?”
“This is serious, Ali. Really serious.”
“Victor has already pointed that out,” Ali responded. “Several different times. And it could be serious for you, too. Earlier the LAPD cops were asking a lot of questions about you. So was Victor, for that matter.”
“Screw Victor,” Dave said. “But it makes sense. If the cops are looking for you to have an accomplice, then I could be a likely subject. Who better than a renegade homicide detective to figure out a way to cover up a murder?”
“So what do we do?” Ali asked.
“We fight back.”
“But you can’t do that, can you? You’re a cop.”
He smiled grimly. “You’d be surprised at what I can do. What did you tell the two homicide dicks?”
“I told them exactly what happened, that you and Mom and I were all together at the hotel this afternoon, right up until we went over to the house and found Monique at the bottom of the staircase. I got the impression that they were going to go check out the hotel’s security tapes to see whether or not I was telling the truth about my comings and goings.”
“Did they tell you what time Monique took her header?” Dave asked.
“No. Why?”
“Because she may have been on the floor for a long time before we found her. If she fell before I got to the hotel, we could still have a problem on that score.”
“Is there any way to find out?” Ali asked.
“Officially, no,” Dave replied. “Unofficially, maybe. I’m assuming they asked you who all was at the house today.”
Ali nodded.
“You’d better tell me, too, then,” he said. “Give me the whole list. As far as I’m concerned, it’s time we started running our own parallel investigation.”
“But—” Ali began.
“Victor Angeleri is looking out for you,” Dave said, “but the man is being paid good money to look out for you. Nobody’s paying my freight. I’m the one who has to look out for me. If you don’t want to have anything to do with this, fine. I’ll do it on my own.”
“What do you need exactly?”
“I need you to tell me whatever you told them. In detail.”
Knowing she had been leaving April’s room for the night, Ali had dragged her computer along with her when she headed out. Now, at Ali’s request, Dave went out to his Nissan and retrieved Ali’s laptop. For the next hour or so, Ali told the story one more time, using her air-card network to pluck appropriate telephone numbers and addresses off the Internet. Dave’s method was far more low-tech. He jotted his notes expertly on a series of paper napkins, including the part about her close encounter with the boulder.
“You’re sure it was an accident?” Dave wanted to know.
“I think it was an accident,” Ali told him. “It
looked
like an accident, but with everything else that’s gone on…”
“We’d better check it out,” Dave said.
When they finally finished the grueling process, Ali was a rag. “I’ve got to go back to the hotel,” she said. “It’s time.”
By then it was late enough and the lobby deserted enough that Ali risked venturing in through the front door. Upstairs, walking toward her room on what was posted as a nonsmoking floor, she was surprised to find the corridor reeking of cigarette smoke. She was tempted to call back down to the lobby to complain, but then she thought better of it. The last thing April or Edie needed was someone from hotel security pounding on doors and waking everybody up.
Inside the room, Ali found that her mother hadn’t bothered to close the blackout curtains. Even without turning on a light, there was plenty of illumination for Ali to find her way around the room. Her mother was sound asleep, clinging to the far side of the single king-sized bed. Ali undressed and climbed in on the other side. By the time her head hit the pillow, she was asleep. She awakened to the click of the door lock and the smell of coffee as Edie let herself back into the room. A glance at the clock told Ali it was past seven.
“Sorry to wake you,” her mother apologized. “I’ve been up since four, and I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to go downstairs to get some coffee and the newspapers.”
She unloaded two paper cups and a stack of newspapers onto the coffee table while Ali got up and staggered into the bathroom.
“You must have gotten home late,” Edie observed over the top of a newspaper when Ali emerged.
“Dave took me to Denny’s for dinner,” Ali answered. “And you’re right. It was late when I got home. Anything in the paper?”
“Lots,” Edie replied. “Help yourself.”
Ali settled onto the couch and picked up one of the other papers where Monique Ragsdale’s death, under suspicious circumstances, was front-page news. Her relationship to network executive Paul Grayson, who had been murdered two days earlier, was laid out in tabloid-worthy detail. The cops were cagey. The public information officer mentioned that detectives had identified several people of interest in the case but that no arrests had been made at this time.
Edie was evidently reading something similar. “I’m assuming you’re one of the ‘persons of interest’?”
“Who else?” Ali responded. She said nothing more.
When the first cup of coffee was gone, she called room service and ordered breakfast for two along with more coffee—a full pot this time. Then, with Edie still preoccupied with the hard-copy newspapers, Ali booted up her computer.
Dear Babe,
My name is Adele Richardson. I used to watch you when you were on the news here in L.A. and I’ve been a fan of cutlooseblog.com from the time you started it. And I’m sure you know the reason. Something very similar happened to me. Not the job thing but a very similar marriage disaster. Over the months I’ve admired the way you’ve picked yourself up and gone on, reaching out to help others along the way. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that you’re one of my heroes. And, because of you, I’ve started reading other blogs as well. Who knows? Maybe you’ve turned me into an addict. Are there twelve-step programs for people addicted to reading blogs?
Anyway, I read your last post and I’m smart enough to read between the lines. As long as you’re caught up in any kind of legal proceedings, I’m sure your attorney won’t let you do any posting. But I’m also selfish enough to miss having cutloose as part of my morning routine. So I’m writing to you today with a proposition. Maybe you’ll think I’m being too forward. If so, all you have to do is press the delete button.
I was a journalism major in college. Then, during my senior year, I got engaged and realized that for me, marriage and kids and a career in journalism just wasn’t going to work, so I switched over to elementary education. I’ve been teaching third grade in Escondido for the past fifteen years. It turns out that marriage and elementary education didn’t work out very well, either, but how was I to know?
So here’s the nervy part. Unlike you, I’m not famous, but I am a survivor. My husband ended up getting caught up in online gambling. We lost everything, including the house, our savings, and most of my retirement account as well. I’m divorced now. Slowly but surely I’m rebuilding my life—just as you’re rebuilding yours.
Sometimes one of the bloggers I read needs to take a break to go on vacation or to have a baby or even because there’s some kind of health crisis. A lot of the time, they just put their blog on hiatus for a while and then go back to writing it when they’re good and ready. Others invite guest bloggers to sit in and take over for them in the meantime. That way, regular readers don’t get out of the habit of checking the site every day.
And that’s why I’m writing to you today—to see if you’d like me to be your guest blogger for the next little while—until you’re able to come back. Yes, I suppose I could just kick over the traces and start my own blog, but I’ve followed what you do on cutloose, and I’d really like to make a contribution and help you.
I’m assuming you can see from this that I’m not exactly illiterate. From reading your blogs, I know we share similar opinions on many issues, although you probably can’t tell that from what I’ve written here. (I do have an unfair advantage, since, through reading your columns, I know you far better than you know me.)
You don’t have to answer right now. In fact, you don’t have to answer at all, but if you’d like to have me do a couple of sample blog postings for you, I’d be glad to audition. Let me know.
A
DELE
R
ICHARDSON, AKA
L
EDA
Ali was touched by Adele’s offer. She was also provoked by it. Based on Victor’s advice, she had announced she was putting cutloose aside for the time being, and Adele was responding to that in a kind and supportive fashion. But included in that kindness was an implicit agreement with Victor’s take on things—that Ali Reynolds needed to sit down and shut up. This morning that didn’t seem likely.
Dear Adele/Leda,
Thank you for your kind offer. I’ve been rethinking my position. In the past I’ve used cutloose as a way of responding to and dealing with events that were going on in my life at the time. As you so correctly pointed out, the legal ramifications occurring in my life right now make that difficult since there are things happening—the things that are most important to me—that I won’t be able to discuss. But I don’t think I can walk away from cutloose entirely.
From your note, I see you have an interesting perspective about having had your life blow up and figuring out a way to move on afterward. And that’s the whole point of cutlooseblog.com—to support women who find themselves in those difficult circumstances. So do send me your comments, and I’ll be glad to post them, but for right now, cutloose is back in business, and I’d better go to work.
B
ABE
About then room service showed up. Edie let the waiter and his serving cart into the room. “Shall I see if April’s ready for breakfast?” Edie asked.
Ali had ordered a fruit plate along with a basket of pastries. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty,” she said.
Edie bustled off down the hall. She returned a few minutes later with a puffy-eyed April in tow. Her hair was in disarray, and she was wrapped in a terry-cloth robe that once again didn’t quite cover her middle. The faint odor of cigarette smoke entered the room when April did.
“Thanks for waking me,” she said, helping herself to a coffee cup and a plate of pastries. “The baby was jumping around all night. I hardly got any sleep at all, but now I’m starving.”
April had been starving the day before, too. Ali remembered how, while she was pregnant with Chris, she’d also been hungry all the time. “Help yourself,” she said.
Settling into the room’s only armchair, April set her coffee on a nearby end table and perched a loaded plate on her belly. “The cops said I won’t be able to go back to the house until they’re done with it,” she announced, buttering a blueberry muffin. “They say it’s a crime scene. I thought Mom just fell down the stairs, but they’re thinking she was pushed.”
Ali simply nodded.
“One of my friends, Cindy, runs a shop called Motherhood in Bloom,” April continued. “I thought I’d call her later this morning to see if she can bring some stuff by here—underwear, bras, and some new maternity clothes. I’ve got to have something to wear. And what about colors? I don’t have anything in black. Or should I wear navy? Would that be better?”