J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent (18 page)

“What now?” she asked.

“I think it’s time to file that missing person’s report,” Dave said.

U
pstairs, the first call Ali made was to Missing Persons at LAPD—with predictable results. Carolyn Little, the Missing Persons cop Ali had spoken to on Friday, wasn’t available on weekends, and no other officer came on the line, either. Instead, an indifferent clerk with minimal typing skills and an even smaller sense of urgency took the information on the disappearance of Edie Larson.

“You be sure to let us know if Ms. Larson turns up, now,” the clerk said cheerily when she finished. “If we don’t hear from you by this time tomorrow, an officer should be in touch. If not tomorrow, then the day after.” Click.

Ali flung down the phone. “So much for getting any help from LAPD,” she muttered.

“What did you expect?” Dave asked.

Shaking her head in disgust, Ali dialed the number she had for the Riverside Sheriff’s Department. If she had reached the younger detective, she might have achieved better results, but at seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, talking with Detective Sims was the best she could do. He was a long way from sympathetic.

“I’m a homicide detective,” he said. “If you’ve got a missing person on your end, you need to call LAPD.”

“We already did that,” Ali told him. “They’re not exactly interested.”

“Why should I be?”

“Because we think my mother’s disappearance may have something to do with my husband’s homicide and with one of my husband’s acquaintances—a guy named Tracy McLaughlin.”

“What about him?” Sims asked.

The way Sims asked the question made it clear McLaughlin was already a known entity, but Ali wasn’t eager to give up any additional information without first having some assurances from the detective that he would intercede with the LAPD on Edie Larson’s behalf.

“You know Tracy McLaughlin went to prison for car theft?” Ali asked.

“That’s what I like about all you hotshot media types,” Detective Sims grumbled. “You think that just because we’re cops, we must be too dumb to wipe our own butts. Of course I know McLaughlin got sent up for grand theft auto. Served five and a half years. In a homicide involving a stolen vehicle, don’t you think that’s the kind of thing that would have come to our attention once we started investigating your husband’s friends and associates? And what the hell does that have to do with the fact that your mother has apparently taken a powder?”

“My mother’s a responsible person,” Ali returned. “She wouldn’t leave of her own volition without letting one of us know. I talked to her shortly before she disappeared. She said she thought Tracy McLaughlin was somehow involved with April Gaddis, my husband’s fiancée.”

“Talk about yesterday’s news,” Sims returned dismissively. “Of course they were involved. April and Tracy have been friends for years. According to what April told us earlier, she was the one who brought Sumo Sudoku to her husband’s attention in the first place.”

Being friends and having a romantic encounter in a hotel hallway were two entirely different things, but Ali suspected that if she hinted at a possible romantic connection between April and Tracy, Detective Sims would most likely discount that as well.

“Before my mother left she was involved in a verbal confrontation with Tracy McLaughlin. We saw that on a security tape. She also collected a cigarette butt and left it in a plastic bag,” Ali continued. “Dave Holman and I believe that may have come from Tracy McLaughlin as well. If DNA from that could be linked to the duct tape found on my husband—”

“Who says there was duct tape?” Detective Sims demanded. “How would you know about that?”

“I saw it, remember?” Ali reminded him. “When I identified the body. I’m no expert, but the marks I saw on his face certainly looked like they could have come from duct tape.”

“Oh,” Sims said. “I see.”

“So are you checking the duct tape for DNA evidence?” Ali insisted.

“Of course we’re checking it,” Sims replied with an impatient snarl. “But this isn’t exactly
CSI Miami.
In our neck of the woods it generally takes a while for our people to develop a DNA profile. We don’t try to get the job done in sixty minutes minus commercials, so don’t expect us to have lab results tomorrow or next week or even next month. We’re also required to maintain chains of evidence. If and when we decide we need a DNA sample from Mr. McLaughlin, you can be sure we’ll be able to obtain one on our own without help from either you or your mother. In the meantime, we have leads and we’re working them. Now, if you don’t mind, this is supposed to be my day off.”

With that Sims hung up, leaving Ali holding the phone.

“What?” Dave asked.

“I don’t think Detective Sims is going to help us find Mom or Tracy McLaughlin,” Ali said.

“If we can’t go through official channels, we’ll have to try some unofficial ones,” Dave said, reaching for his phone.

“Your pal at LAPD?”

Dave nodded. “If he’s home. He said something about going camping on his days off.”

While Dave worked his phone, Ali stood in the middle of the room, holding her cell phone and thinking. She remembered something Helga had said the day before as Victor had been driving them from the hotel to Robert Lane. Scrolling through her cell’s phone book, Ali located Helga Myerhoff’s number and dialed it.

“Yesterday, when you were talking to me about April Gaddis,” Ali said, “I seem to remember that you mentioned something about her wanting to be a Pilates instructor.”

“Yes,” Helga answered. “That’s right.”

“And that some of her friends weren’t exactly nice people?” Ali pressed.

“Bit of an understatement,” Helga replied. “Have you ever heard of The Body Shop in Century City?”

“Car repairs?” Ali asked.

“Not exactly,” Helga said with a snort. “Although it’s located in a building that once held an auto dealership, it’s got nothing at all to do with cars. It’s a twenty-four-hour upscale fitness club where network bigwigs and wannabe bigwigs can mix and mingle, see and be seen. It’s also one of the hot, in-crowd places at the moment. Supposedly the gym comes complete with one-on-one personal trainers, an organic juice bar, and with personal chefs available upon request. More than that, though, it also operates as a convenient pickup joint. That’s where April first met Paul, by the way. She worked there as a receptionist.”

Makes sense,
Ali thought. For an undereducated and beautiful young woman like April Gaddis, who was also ambitious and determinedly upwardly mobile, The Body Shop sounded like the perfect manhunt launching pad.

“The Body Shop’s biggest appeal is that it’s both respectable and edgy,” Helga continued. “As you already know, some of Hollywood’s best-known heavy hitters are afflicted with complicated substance-abuse issues. For these relatively respectable guys, it’s a lot more convenient if they can meet up with their drug supplier at some fashionable watering hole rather than having to buy their next hit from a street dealer at some dingy intersection in L.A.”

“What about Tracy McLaughlin?” Ali asked.

“The Sumo Sudoku guy?” Helga asked. “The one in the kilt?”

“That’s the one,” Ali said. “Did he work there, too?”

“He may have,” Helga said. “I don’t know for sure, but I’ll tell you this. I liked looking at the guy. He might be a bit young for me, but I wouldn’t mind taking him home for a day or two to check out whatever it is he keeps under that kilt.”

Ali was glad that Dave wasn’t hearing Helga’s part of the conversation.

“Why all this sudden interest in Tracy McLaughlin?” Helga asked. “What’s going on?”

“My mother’s missing,” Ali said. “This morning she witnessed what looked to her like a bit of hanky-panky going on between April and Tracy. Early this afternoon one of the hotel security cameras recorded a confrontation between McLaughlin and my mom, but by the time I got back to the hotel to talk to her about it, she was gone—not just from our room, but from the hotel, too. The parking attendant told us he saw her peel out of the hotel garage sometime after one. I’ve tried calling her. No answer, and she hasn’t called me back, either.”

“Have you reported her missing?”

“Yes,” Ali said. “Not that it did much good. No one at LAPD is particularly interested.”

“So what can I do to help?” Helga asked.

“When you were doing your investigation of Paul, did Tracy McLaughlin’s name come up?”

“I remember looking into the Sumo Sudoku thing because S and S Enterprises was one of your husband’s newer business ventures. That name could have been mentioned, but I don’t remember it in particular. I’d have to check with one of my investigators—and I probably won’t be able to talk to him until tomorrow. Is there anything I can do in the meantime—anything I can do tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Ali said. “I can’t really think straight right now.”

“If you come up with something you need,” Helga said, “don’t hesitate to call. Have you told Victor?”

“Not yet,” Ali said.

“I’ll call him,” Helga said. “He’ll want to know what’s going on.”

Ali put down the phone. Dave had finished a series of calls and was once again hunkered over her computer.

“Google S and S Enterprises here in L.A.,” Ali told him. “See what you get.”

“S and S Enterprises holds all rights to Worldwide Sumo Sudoku,” Dave said a few minutes later. “S and S was incorporated back in April with Paul Grayson named as executive director and CEO.”

That announcement hit Ali hard. She had left Robert Lane early in March. No doubt negotiations for S and S Enterprises had been well under way long before Ali’s departure, but she had known nothing about it. Sumo Sudoku had never been mentioned. In the scheme of Paul’s betrayals, this one seemed relatively small, but it was a betrayal nonetheless.

“Who else is on the board of directors?” Ali asked.

“Guy by the name of Jake Maxwell,” Dave replied.

“He worked with Paul at the network,” Ali explained. “I always thought of him more as a rival than a friend, but there are lots of shifting loyalties in television, and things change. Jake showed up at court last week when the divorce was supposed to be final. He came there to back Paul up. He was also the official host of Paul’s bachelor party from the night before.”

Dave was still studying the computer screen. “This is interesting,” he said. “S and S leases all the RVs that the various teams use. In other words, all the Sumo Sudoku guys are ultimately employees of S and S, but they’re hoping to create team rivalries that will attract media attention.”

“Sort of like professional wrestling?” Ali suggested.

Dave nodded. “Just about that real. According to this, the company was incorporated with the stated intention of obtaining coverage for the sport on one or the other of the sports-oriented cable channels. No doubt that’s why they scheduled the filming around Paul’s wedding—to garner additional media attention.”

“And that’s why they went forward with the shoot anyway, even though Paul was dead,” Ali added. “That’s how the business works. The show must go on no matter what.”

“I’ll say,” Dave agreed.

“So let’s go see him,” Ali said.

“Go see who?”

“Jake,” Ali said. “Jake Maxwell. The person we really need to see is Tracy, but we don’t have any idea where to find him, so Jake is our next best choice.”

“I’ve got a call in for Tracy’s vehicle records,” Dave said. “I’m waiting for someone to get back to me.”

“Fine,” Ali replied. “But in the meantime, since Jake is clearly part of all this, maybe he can point us in the right direction.”

“Where do we find him?”

Ali picked up her purse. “He and his wife, Roseanne, live out in Westlake Village.”

“Where’s that?” Dave asked.

“Not that far. Out on 101.”

“Do we need to call first?” Dave asked.

“I think we’ll just show up,” Ali returned. “And we’re probably better off if I drive.”

“Amen to that,” Dave said. “You drive. I’ll handle the phones.”

They left the hotel a few minutes later and headed for the 405 with Ali behind the wheel of her Cayenne.

“Have you had anything to eat since breakfast?” Dave asked as they went.

Thinking about her mother, Ali shook her head. “I’m not hungry,” she said.

“Too bad,” Dave said. “Edie would want you to eat, and we’re eating. Pull up at the next Burger King you see.”

Ali did as she was told, and much as she didn’t want to admit it, eating a Whopper did help. Back in the car, Sunday evening traffic turned what should have been a forty-minute drive into an hour and ten, most of which Ali drove in silence.

“What’s going on?” Dave asked finally. “Worried about your mom?”

“That,” Ali said, “and trying to get over being pissed off.”

“What about?”

“This whole S and S Enterprises thing,” she returned. “Obviously it was going on long before I left home last March. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen in a day or even a month, but I didn’t know a thing about it even though Jack and Roseanne Maxwell did.”

“So?”

“Once I was in Sedona, Roseanne sent me a sugar-coated e-mail in which she pretended like she and I were the very best of friends and she thought Paul was a cad, while at the same time Jake and Paul were starting a business together. I’ll never forget her cutesy little message. She kept harping on how awful it was that I was reduced to living in a trailer and having to wait tables for a living. She even offered me a place to stay—in their newly remodeled casita.”