J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent by J.A. Jance
Authors: J.A. Jance
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outside,” Detective Sims replied before he and Taylor returned the way they had come.
“You’re Victor?” Ali asked. “My attorney?”
He nodded. Victor may have served as the attorney to some of Hollywood’s “beautiful people,” but beautiful he was not. Victor was a wide-load kind of guy—John Candy wide—with droopy jowls and a receding hairline. His suit may have been expensive, but it didn’t quite meet around his considerable girth. In one hand he carried a scarred, much-used leather satchel–style briefcase that was crammed to overflowing with papers.
“We left long before you did,” Ali said. “How did you manage to get here first?”
“I chartered a plane from Santa Monica,” he answered. He led her back to the sofa and placed his briefcase on the floor beside it. “Flew from Santa Monica Municipal to Jacqueline Cochran Regional here in Palm Springs. Believe me, at my hourly rate, it would be a total waste of your money for me to spend six billable hours driving back and forth to Indio. Now sit down here,” Victor continued, indicating a place next to him on the sofa. “I need to know what’s going on.”
Too tired to object, Ali sat. She had been through enough emotional upheaval in the course of the day that she was feeling frayed and close to tears. When Victor reached for his briefcase, she expected him to extract either a hanky for her or else a laptop computer for him. Instead, he removed a dog-eared tablet of blue-lined paper. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved a black and white Montblanc fountain pen.
Over the past few years, Ali had come to rely on computers more and more. Somehow, though, she found it strangely reassuring to see that Victor Angeleri was not a high-tech kind of guy—that when it came time to do a job, he relied on brainpower and old-fashioned pen and paper. That was exactly what Ali Reynolds needed right then—not someone blessed with good looks or glitz or style, but someone with substance—someone who would be big enough and tough enough to take on the combined girth of Detectives Sims and Taylor and win.
“All right then,” Victor said, removing the cap from his pen. “Tell me everything—from the beginning.”
{ CHAPTER 4 }
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Saturday, September 17, 2005
It’s after one. I should be sleeping, but I can’t. I didn’t expect yesterday to be a good day. You know before it starts that the day you go to court to get a divorce isn’t going to be a red-letter day or a time for celebration. But I didn’t expect it to be a disaster, either. I didn’t expect it to end with a trip to the morgue.
Because, although my divorce wasn’t finalized yesterday, my marriage ended anyway. My husband is dead. He didn’t show up for our ten A.M. court appearance because he died the night before—died after taking an early powder from his own bachelor party and departing the premises without telling anyone else he was leaving.
After spending hours in the company of a pair of homicide detectives, I now know how Fang died. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape. His mouth was taped shut. He was placed in the trunk of a stolen car that was left parked on the railroad tracks near Palm Springs. The vehicle with him in it was subsequently struck and demolished by a speeding freight train. He was ejected upon impact and thrown into the desert, where his body was found hours later. The autopsy won’t be done until much later today. My hope is that he died upon impact.
And so, since the divorce was never finalized, the authorities consider me to be his “next of kin.” For the first time in my life, I had to go to a county morgue to make a positive ID.
I expected the place to be dingy and cold inside. It wasn’t, but the chill I felt had nothing to do with an overly active air-conditioning unit because the air-conditioning unit was barely functioning. As I stood there in the viewing room, waiting for an attendant to wheel out the
“You’re Victor?” Ali asked. “My attorney?”
He nodded. Victor may have served as the attorney to some of Hollywood’s “beautiful people,” but beautiful he was not. Victor was a wide-load kind of guy—John Candy wide—with droopy jowls and a receding hairline. His suit may have been expensive, but it didn’t quite meet around his considerable girth. In one hand he carried a scarred, much-used leather satchel–style briefcase that was crammed to overflowing with papers.
“We left long before you did,” Ali said. “How did you manage to get here first?”
“I chartered a plane from Santa Monica,” he answered. He led her back to the sofa and placed his briefcase on the floor beside it. “Flew from Santa Monica Municipal to Jacqueline Cochran Regional here in Palm Springs. Believe me, at my hourly rate, it would be a total waste of your money for me to spend six billable hours driving back and forth to Indio. Now sit down here,” Victor continued, indicating a place next to him on the sofa. “I need to know what’s going on.”
Too tired to object, Ali sat. She had been through enough emotional upheaval in the course of the day that she was feeling frayed and close to tears. When Victor reached for his briefcase, she expected him to extract either a hanky for her or else a laptop computer for him. Instead, he removed a dog-eared tablet of blue-lined paper. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved a black and white Montblanc fountain pen.
Over the past few years, Ali had come to rely on computers more and more. Somehow, though, she found it strangely reassuring to see that Victor Angeleri was not a high-tech kind of guy—that when it came time to do a job, he relied on brainpower and old-fashioned pen and paper. That was exactly what Ali Reynolds needed right then—not someone blessed with good looks or glitz or style, but someone with substance—someone who would be big enough and tough enough to take on the combined girth of Detectives Sims and Taylor and win.
“All right then,” Victor said, removing the cap from his pen. “Tell me everything—from the beginning.”
{ CHAPTER 4 }
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Saturday, September 17, 2005
It’s after one. I should be sleeping, but I can’t. I didn’t expect yesterday to be a good day. You know before it starts that the day you go to court to get a divorce isn’t going to be a red-letter day or a time for celebration. But I didn’t expect it to be a disaster, either. I didn’t expect it to end with a trip to the morgue.
Because, although my divorce wasn’t finalized yesterday, my marriage ended anyway. My husband is dead. He didn’t show up for our ten A.M. court appearance because he died the night before—died after taking an early powder from his own bachelor party and departing the premises without telling anyone else he was leaving.
After spending hours in the company of a pair of homicide detectives, I now know how Fang died. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape. His mouth was taped shut. He was placed in the trunk of a stolen car that was left parked on the railroad tracks near Palm Springs. The vehicle with him in it was subsequently struck and demolished by a speeding freight train. He was ejected upon impact and thrown into the desert, where his body was found hours later. The autopsy won’t be done until much later today. My hope is that he died upon impact.
And so, since the divorce was never finalized, the authorities consider me to be his “next of kin.” For the first time in my life, I had to go to a county morgue to make a positive ID.
I expected the place to be dingy and cold inside. It wasn’t, but the chill I felt had nothing to do with an overly active air-conditioning unit because the air-conditioning unit was barely functioning. As I stood there in the viewing room, waiting for an attendant to wheel out the
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