Web of Evil: A Novel of Suspense (15 page)

“Ali,” he gushed, taking her hand in both of his. “What an unexpected pleasure. How good to see you, although I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”

And you don’t know the half of it,
Ali thought.

When Dave emerged from the far side of the car, Jake frowned slightly. “And who’s this?” he added.

“Dave Holman is a friend of mine,” Ali replied without any further explanation. “We have some questions for you.”

“What kind of questions?” Jake asked.

“About S and S Enterprises,” Ali returned. “And about a guy named Tracy McLaughlin.”

Jake glanced warily from Ali to Dave and back again. It was something that wouldn’t have been apparent over a phone line. Clearly Jake had been caught off guard. Ali was glad they’d put good manners aside and hadn’t called in advance to warn Jake of their impending arrival.

“What about Tracy McLaughlin?” Jake asked.

“We were wondering if you knew where we could find him,” Ali said casually. “A few loose ends came up after the shoot ended yesterday. I wanted to ask him about them.”

“What things?”

Before Ali could answer, the door behind Jake opened. A woman wearing a pair of tight pedal pushers tottered out onto the front porch on a pair of very high heels. She was carrying a tall goblet filled with red wine.

“Didn’t know we had company,” she said, coming to an uncertain stop and standing, weaving, with one hand poised on her hip. “I just told Kimball to open another bottle,” she said. “Anybody want to join me for a little drinky-poo?”

Kimball (Ali had no idea if Kimball was the man’s first or last name) was a professionally trained butler with a British accent and an imperious air who had been Jake Maxwell’s aide-de-camp for as long as Ali could remember.

Ali stared. Whoever this smashed young woman was, she sure as hell wasn’t Roseanne Maxwell. And why she felt free to order Kimball around was another issue entirely.

“Go back inside, Amber,” Jake said brusquely. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Amber pouted. “I was just trying to be hosp…hosp…” she began before finally subsiding into tongue-tied silence.

“Hospitable,” Jake finished for her impatiently. “Now do as I said. Go back inside and wait.”

As in “Sit!” and “Stay!”
Ali thought.

Without another word, the woman staggered back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Jake looked back at Ali.

“One of Roseanne’s friends,” he explained unconvincingly. “She’s staying here while she’s waiting for her new house to close. I’m afraid she had a bit too much wine with dinner. But I’m forgetting my manners. Won’t you come in?”

Amber’s appearance had fueled Ali’s curiosity. Based on her own unfortunate marital experience, nothing short of a loaded weapon would have kept her from accepting Jake’s rather halfhearted invitation.

“Thank you so much,” Ali said, and headed for the door, leaving both Dave Holman and Jake to trail along behind her.

She saw signs of change the moment she stepped inside the entryway. For years a flattering oil portrait of Roseanne Maxwell had held sway just inside their front door. That painting was no longer there. Instead, a large rectangle of slightly lighter cream paint showed where the painting had once hung. Over the massive river-rock fireplace another painting—an unframed canvas Ali recalled as featuring a modern rendition of what appeared to be sunflowers—was also missing from its place of honor. Amber was nowhere to be seen, but from some distant corner of the house came the muffled sound of a television drama.

“Don’t tell me Roseanne isn’t home,” Ali exclaimed. “She was really kind to me last spring when everything was so awful. I wanted to thank her.”

“She’s in New York right now,” Jake said a little too quickly. “She went with one of her friends. They’re busy buying next year’s clothes and taking in a couple of shows.”

“Do let her know I’m sorry we missed her,” Ali said. “If she returns before I leave, we’ll have to have lunch.”

“Of course, of course,” Jake murmured. “Now, can I get you something?”

Dave shook his head. “No, thanks,” he replied.

“Some ice water would be nice,” Ali said.

While Jake summoned his majordomo and issued the drink order, Ali examined her surroundings. Two pieces of Dale Chihuly blown glass were missing from the ebony sideboard in the dining room. Their absence along with the missing paintings led Ali to only one conclusion. Most people don’t pack their precious artwork when they go off on a weeklong shopping excursion. Roseanne’s departure had to be more serious than that.

Kimball appeared, bearing a silver drinks tray complete with an ice bucket, a collection of Baccarat crystal glasses, Voss bottled water, a decanter of wine, and a bottle of Oban single-malt scotch. With a slight bow, he deposited the tray on a side table. Then, without bothering to ask, he poured Jake a rocks glass with a tall, two-finger scotch. Meantime, Jake settled himself comfortably on a nearby love seat and crossed his legs, revealing a pair of very expensive Italian loafers.

“So what’s all this about Tracy McLaughlin?” he asked.

He was trying so hard to be nonchalant and casual that an imp got into Ali Reynolds. She decided to go for the gold.

“I suppose you’ve heard about Paul’s will?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jake said with a thoughtful nod. “I heard that you got left holding the bag. It’s got to be really tough, dealing with a complicated mess like that. And then, with everything else, to have April’s mother fall down the stairs…”

“It’s been tough, all right,” Ali agreed. “And it’s likely to get even tougher. Dave and I have reason to believe that the child April is carrying might not be Paul’s after all. Since you and Paul were so close, I was wondering if you’d have any insight into that?”

Jake’s face registered astonishment. “If it’s not Paul’s, whose baby is it?”

“She,” Ali corrected. “The baby is a she. But that’s what we’re trying to determine—the identity of the baby’s father. It’s also why we’re looking for Tracy McLaughlin.”

Jake allowed himself a generous slug of neat Oban. “You’re thinking Tracy might be the baby’s father?” he asked.

“It’s possible,” Ali said. “So what can you tell us about him?”

Jake peered into his glass, studying the contents. “I suppose you know that he had a bit of a rough start.”

“As in being sent to prison for grand theft auto,” Ali returned. “Yes, we’re aware of that.”

“After he got out, he came out to California, where he eventually developed this Sumo Sudoku idea. And it was a great idea—he got a trademark on it and everything. Unfortunately, at the same time, Tracy was also developing a bit of a gambling problem. Finally, he was in so deep that Paul and I bought him out. We gave him enough of an advance to pay off his debts. After he’s earned that back, he’ll get royalties.”

“Which is how the guy who invented the whole thing ends up doing grunt labor,” Ali said. “That’s why he wears a kilt, lugs rocks around, and drives a leased RV.”

“Something like that,” Jake said.

“So is Tracy mad about that—about losing control of his brainchild to someone else?” Dave asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jake answered. “He wanted his debts paid off a lot more than he wanted to run things.”

“What if Sumo Sudoku happens to get picked up by one of the sports networks?” Ali asked. “What happens then? Would Tracy make money?”

“We’d all make money.”

“Which is why,” Ali said, “even with Paul dead, April was determined to go forward with the shoot.”

Jake sipped his scotch. “I suppose,” he said. “But I still don’t see what makes you think the baby might be Tracy’s. I mean, I’ve never seen any evidence of them hanging out together.”

“How did Tracy get hooked up with you and Paul to begin with?” Ali asked.

“Touché,” Jake said after a pause. “Now that you mention it, I guess April was the one who introduced us.”

Somehow Ali didn’t find that the least bit surprising.

“Do you have any idea where Tracy McLaughlin lives?” Dave asked. “We’d like to talk to him if at all possible, the sooner the better.”

“No idea,” Jake answered. “None at all. He lives a pretty marginal lifestyle, if you know what I mean.”

“So he’s still gambling?” Dave asked.

“I suppose.”

“And he’s still broke?”

“Most likely.”

“But he would need a place to park that huge rig of his. And since your name is on the lease of that very valuable piece of equipment, I would imagine you’d know where that secret parking place might be.”

“Sorry,” Jake said. “I have no idea.”

It was a simple answer, but as soon as Ali heard it, she knew it was a lie.

“Does he have another vehicle?” Ali asked. “Something a little smaller and easier to park?”

“Probably,” Jake answered, “but I’m not sure what.”

“So you just turn these guys loose with your leased RVs and don’t pay any attention to where they go or what they do with them?”

“Their contracts dictate that they have to be out in public doing events for a set number of hours per week, mostly up and down the West Coast. Some of the contests we set up—like the shoot at the house yesterday. Some of the others are just pickup games—on the beach, in parks, wherever. But with the advertising on the RVs, our guys are doing their job wherever they are, even when they’re just driving up and down the Five. After all, name familiarity is the name of the game.”

“So you’re still moving forward with this Sumo Sudoku thing?” Ali asked.

“Of course,” Jake replied with absolute confidence. “There’s no reason not to.”

There might be,
Ali thought.
I’m your new partner and I may not be quite as interested in it as Paul was.

Amber, her empty wineglass in hand, meandered into the living room from somewhere else in the house. “Oh,” she blurted vaguely, looking at Ali and Dave. “Are you still here?”

Ali took the hint and stood up. Dave followed suit while Amber staggered toward the drinks tray. Clearly the woman had had more than enough, but that didn’t keep her from refilling her glass.

“Amber,” Jake said warningly.

“What?” Amber seemed defiant. She dropped onto a sofa, slopping a splotch of vivid red wine onto the white silk. “What?” she said again.

Jake shook his head wearily and said nothing. Obviously Amber was a bit of a handful.

“We’ll be going then,” Ali said. She walked as far as the door before pausing and turning back toward their host. “When did you say Roseanne will be back?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jake said uneasily. “This week sometime. It was pretty open-ended. You’ll let us know when the funeral is, won’t you?” he asked. “She’ll want to be home for that.”

“I’m sure she will,” Ali agreed. “Tell Roseanne I’ll give her a call as soon as the services are scheduled.”

Outside, the sun was down. The warm September evening had cooled under a blanket of damp marine air that had rolled in off the Pacific.

“What now?” Dave asked as they climbed into the Cayenne and buckled up.

“I’m not sure,” Ali said.

She put the car in gear and drove to the bottom of the driveway. The gate opened and closed, letting them back onto the roadway. Ali drove a hundred yards or so up the road and pulled off into the approach to yet another driveway.

“What on earth are you doing?” Dave asked.

“Wait,” Ali said. “Let’s see what happens.”

Less than a minute later, the gate to the Maxwells’ place swung open and a silver Jaguar XJ convertible with the top down nosed out of the driveway and onto the road.

“Bingo,” Ali said. “There he is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to follow him,” Ali said, putting the Cayenne in gear and pulling out well behind the Jag. “I’m guessing he’ll lead us straight to Tracy McLaughlin.”

“God help me,” Dave groaned. “Do you know anything at all about pursuit driving?”

“Not a thing,” she answered. “But I know a lot more about California drivers than you do, so you watch him and I’ll drive.”

Both of which were easier said then done.

Ali raced through two lights that were in the process of turning red in an effort to keep Maxwell’s Jaguar in sight as he turned onto the 101 and headed back toward the city. By the time Ali merged onto the freeway, he was in the far left lane and passing everything in sight. Ali headed for the left lane as well.

“We’ll never catch him,” Dave protested. “Or else we’ll be killed.”

“We’ll catch him, all right,” Ali said determinedly. “And with all this traffic, he’ll never know it’s us.”

She managed to stick with the speeding Jag for the next hair-raising ten minutes or so until Maxwell finally swerved back into the far right-hand lane and onto the Fallbrook Avenue exit. Dodging through traffic, Ali followed suit, making it onto the ramp with bare inches to spare. Once there, she slowed and dropped back far enough to allow another car to merge in ahead of them at the light.

Back on surface streets it was easier to keep the Jag in sight while maintaining a safe distance. A mile and a half later, Jake Maxwell turned into a well-lit commercial parking lot.

“Geez!” Dave grumbled. “This guy has spent the last half hour driving like a bat out of hell and endangering life and limb. And for what? To go to Wal-Mart? What’s he going to do, buy a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk?”

But instead of turning up the aisle of parked vehicles that would have led toward the store’s main entrance, the Jag turned left and headed off across the outermost boundary of the parking lot, stopping at last in a far corner of the property where several hulking motor homes and campers had pulled up and parked for the night. The fluorescent glow of the parking lot lights revealed that one of the assembled RVs sported a more-than-life-sized portrait of a smiling Tracy McLaughlin wearing his distinctive Sumo Sudoku kilt. Hooked onto a tow bar behind it was a spanking-new Honda Element with the paper temporary plate still in its back window.

Dave stifled his series of complaints and sat bolt upright. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed with undisguised admiration. “I don’t believe it. You were right all along. Maxwell led us straight to Tracy.”