“I’ll tell her for you,” Ali offered. “Where is she? At home?”
“No. She went to work. Dr. Westmoreland’s office. He’s a dentist. His office is in Tempe, in the shopping center at the corner of Baseline and Rural roads.”
“Okay,” Ali said. “Now remember. If you’re taken into custody, all you say is ‘I want my lawyer.’ That’s it! After that, they can’t ask you anything else, and don’t tell them anything else. Nothing. Do not talk while you’re in the car, even with uniformed officers. Keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but-”
In the background, Ali could already hear the wail of multiple police sirens. There could be no doubt. That was where they were going.
“No buts, A.J.,” Ali warned him. “Close your phone now. Get out of the car, put the phone on the ground, and then stand with both hands on the hood or the trunk of your car. If you make any sudden moves, you’re liable to end up dead.”
Afraid he would keep talking rather than following her directions, Ali punched the button to end the call in time to make her own right-hand turn onto Thomas. As soon as she did so, she could see a flock of emergency vehicles lined up across the street in front of her, creating a roadblock that diverted all westbound traffic off Thomas and either north or south on Sixteenth Street.
For A.J.’s sake, all Ali could hope was that he had heard what she’d said and done what she’d told him to do. If not, chances were, armed or not, in the next few minutes, a very promising young man might well be dead.
As for Dave Holman? Even though Ali knew what she had to do, she didn’t like it. When he found out about her phone call from A. J. Sanders, he was going to be even more bent out of shape. The problem was, A.J. had handed her a clue in Dave Holman’s homicide investigation, and as much as she might have wanted to, withholding that information wasn’t an option.
23
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.”