Fatal Error (2 page)

After her life-changing pair of crises, Ali had spent a year or two back in her hometown, getting used to the idea of being on her own. Her parents, Bob and Edie Larson, owners of the Sugarloaf Café, lived there in Sedona, as did Ali’s son, Christopher,
and his fairly new and now newly pregnant bride, Athena, both of whom taught at Sedona High School.

For a while it was okay to be Bob and Edie’s daughter and Chris’s mom, but Ali was used to working, used to being busy. Finding herself bored to distraction, she took on the project of purchasing and remodeling the house on Manzanita Hills Road, which she shared with Leland Brooks. Mr. Brooks was her aging but entirely capable personal assistant or, as she liked to call him, her majordomo, since both he and the word seemed to hail from a more gracious, bygone era. Ali had had a boyfriend, but at her age the word
boyfriend
rankled. She liked to think of B. Simpson as her “lover.” When speaking to others, she referred to him as her “significant other.”

Ali was lying on the bed, wondering what B. would think about her showing up for Labor Day weekend with a shiner, when her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID.

“Hi, Mom,” Ali said to her mother, Edie Larson. “What’s up?”

“One of your friends dropped by the Sugarloaf this afternoon, looking for you.”

“Really,” Ali said. “Who was it?”

“Dad said her name was Brenda Riley. She used to work with you in L.A.”

“Not exactly worked with,” Ali replied. “She was the anchor for a sister station in Sacramento when I was in L.A. So we were acquaintances and colleagues rather than friends. She got booted off the air about the same time I did for approximately the same reason. They thought she was too old. I haven’t heard from her in years. What did she want?”

“She told Dad that she really needed to see you—that it was urgent. You know your father. He’s such a softie, he falls for every sob story on the planet.”

“What kind of sob story?”

“Just that she needed to see you—that she was looking for help. From what he said, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was really looking for money.”

Ali had found that old acquaintances did have a way of doing that, of showing up on her doorstep and asking for a loan or an outright handout. They seemed to think that since she had money and they didn’t, she was obligated to give them some of hers.

“Did Dad give her my number?”

“I chewed him out for it, but yes, he did. Worse than that, he also told her where you were and what you were doing. He said she seemed shocked that you were in the process of becoming a police officer.”

Ali ran a finger over her rapidly swelling eye. “I’m shocked by that myself sometimes,” she said with a laugh.

“Anyway,” Edie Larson continued. “From what he said, she may very well be on her way down to Phoenix to see you right now.”

Ali suppressed a groan. Brenda Riley was pretty much the last person she needed to see right now—especially with a cut on her eyebrow and with a black eye coming on. Brenda had been one of those irksome women who never went anywhere without being perfectly put together—hair, makeup, and clothing. She had been almost as tall as Ali—five ten or so—but as far as Ali was concerned, Brenda was better-looking in every way.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Mom,” Ali said. “Tell Dad not to worry about it. Whatever Brenda wants, I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Are you coming home for the weekend?” Edie asked.

Ali knew that B. Simpson was flying in from his most recent business trip and was due to arrive at Sky Harbor late the next morning. Ali had been looking forward to going home for the long Labor Day weekend and escaping the August heat in the Valley
of the Sun. There would be socializing and barbecues galore, but knowing she’d be showing up with a black eye made Ali think twice.

Small towns were small towns, and Sedona was no exception. If Ali appeared in public with B. Simpson and a black eye, tongues were bound to wag. She could try explaining that her injury was a result of her police academy training, but she doubted anyone would listen. In fact, the more she protested, the more they would talk behind her back.

“I’m still planning on being home,” Ali said, finally, “but I’ve got a whole lot of studying to do this weekend. I may have to bail on the barbecue end of things.”

“I hope you don’t dodge out on everything,” Edie said. “Chris and Athena would be so disappointed. I know they’re planning on having everyone over on Sunday afternoon.”

“We’ll see,” Ali said.

The call waiting signal buzzed in Ali’s ear. The number was one she recognized as having a Sacramento area code.

“Gotta go now, Mom,” Ali said. “I have another call.”

“Ali?” a woman said when Ali switched over. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Brenda,” Ali said. She might not have recognized the voice without the benefit of her mother’s advance warning. “How are you doing? My parents said you might call. Where are you?”

“I’m in a place called Black Canyon City, although it doesn’t look like much of a city to me.”

“Coming from California, it wouldn’t.”

“Could we get together for a while tonight? Is there someplace where we could meet near where you are, like a bar or something?”

“There’s a joint called the Rimrock Inn,” Ali said. “It’s off Grand Avenue here in Peoria. If you’re on the 101, exit to the right and turn right. That’s only a couple of miles from here. I’ve
heard some of the guys here at the academy talking about it. According to them, the Rimrock has great burgers.”

Ali had also heard that the Rimrock was something of a dive—cheap and relatively dingy. Maybe in the dim light Ali’s bruised and swollen eye wouldn’t show up quite so much.

“How long will it take me to get there?” Brenda asked.

“Probably forty-five minutes.” Ali glanced at her watch. “It’s coming up on rush hour. So maybe a little longer than that.”

“Okay,” Brenda said. “See you there.”

Ali got off the bed, stripped off her bloodied T-shirt and shorts and made her way into the bathroom. She was grateful she didn’t have to share the bath with anyone else. The half-inch cut over her eye was no longer bleeding, so she peeled off the Band-Aid before she got in the shower. After blow-drying her hair, she used makeup to repair as much of the damage as possible. It wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. By the time she left the dorm, classes were getting out for the day. She managed to dodge her returning classmates as she headed for her car.

She had no intention of running into Jose Reyes and giving him a chance to rub her nose in it.

I
t was a little more than an hour later when Ali pulled into the lot at the Rimrock Inn. She’d expected to arrive before Brenda, but what looked like Brenda’s signature vehicle, a BMW with California plates, was parked just to the right of the front door.

Ali remembered that Brenda had always taken great pride in her vehicles. This one was shabby and more than a little the worse for wear. For one thing, it was covered with grime and a film of reddish road dust. The rear bumper and trunk were both dented in as though they’d made contact with something substantial, like a bollard. There were smaller dents in the side panels too, and some of the chrome trim had disappeared. The window in the rear driver’s side door was missing, and the empty space had been covered over with a combination of clear plastic and duct tape.

As Ali walked past the car, she glanced inside. The Beamer looked lived in. It was full of trash—empty food containers, soda cans, and more than a few empty booze bottles as well. None of this fit with the Brenda Riley Ali knew.

Things went downhill from there. Ali stepped inside and looked around. It was late afternoon, so there were plenty of men lounging around the long bar—plenty of men and only one woman. At first Ali didn’t believe it was Brenda. Even in the tavern’s dim lights it was possible to see that Brenda’s trademark long, straight blond locks were gone. The hair was still there, but it stood out around her head like a fright wig. She had evidently tried a do-it-yourself dye job/permanent kit, and it hadn’t worked out very well. Most of her hair was a very convincing shade of pink, fluffed atop an inch of brown roots. Cotton candy immediately came to mind.

As Ali walked up to the bar, Brenda was chatting with the guy next to her, joking and laughing. Only when Ali was a few steps away did she see the set of three shot glasses sitting in front of Brenda. There was also a plate of lime sections and a salt shaker, so Brenda Riley was doing shots of tequila at four thirty in the afternoon.

“Hello, Brenda,” Ali said. “How’s it going?”

Brenda spun around and studied her. “Ali?” she asked. “You look like hell. What did you do to your eye?”

“Ran into a door,” Ali said.

As if Brenda had any room to talk. Ali could have asked her the same question, because Brenda Riley really did look like hell. The perky smile that had greeted Sacramento viewers for more than a decade was long gone. Brenda looked haggard and careworn. She wore no makeup of any kind. None. There were dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. She appeared to be years older than Ali knew her to be. Her clothing was grimy and wrinkled and looked as though it had been slept in. And she had put on weight—forty pounds at least, more weight than even her relatively tall frame could handle.

The guy on the stool next to Brenda’s moved away, clearing a
place for Ali to sit. The bartender came forward. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Do you have any coffee?” Ali asked.

Making a face, Brenda salted the side of her fist, licked off the salt, downed one of the shots of tequila, and then sucked on a lime wedge as she pushed the shot glass back across the bar. There wasn’t anything about this that was genteel cocktail-hour-type sipping, and Ali recognized it for what it was—serious drinking.

The bartender nodded in Ali’s direction. “Give me a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll make a new pot.”

“And maybe a menu,” Ali said. “We should probably have something to eat.”

The bartender picked up the empty shot glass. “Got it,” he said. “Coming right up.”

Brenda gave Ali a sly, squint-eyed look. “Are you really a cop?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Ali said. “But I’m going to be. What about you? My dad said something about your needing my help.”

Brenda nodded. “I do need your help,” she said, slurring her words ever so slightly. “It’s a long story, a very, very long story. I was engaged to a guy named Richard, Richard Lattimer. He dumped me.”

Which meant it was also an old story. As Brenda began to recount her tale of woe, some of Ali’s classmates from the academy, including Jose Reyes, wandered into the bar. Wanting to avoid them if at all possible, Ali steered Brenda and her latest shot glass into a sheltering booth in the back corner of the room, beyond the bank of pool tables. Once in that airless section of the room, Ali realized how much Brenda reeked of booze—not just what she was drinking now but what she had most likely been imbibing for the past weeks and months. This was way more than recreational drinking.

“What happened?” Ali asked, trying to seem interested but not intrusive.

“Richard was working down in San Diego. Things just seemed funny, out of sorts. I thought we needed to see each other face-to-face to get things sorted out. So I drove all the way down there to see him, and he was gone. I went by the place where he supposedly lived, but they had never heard of him. The same thing happened when I went by the place where he told me he worked. They said they had another man named Richard who worked for them once, but his last name wasn’t Lattimer. I was just frantic. I didn’t know what to think.”

Unlike Brenda, Ali had a pretty definite idea of what to think. In her current guise, Brenda Riley was clearly a very troubled person. Under those circumstances it made perfect sense that most right-thinking men would have done the same thing Richard Lattimer had done—run like hell in the opposite direction.

Their food came, along with another cup of coffee for Ali. She was starved and lit into her burger. Brenda picked at her fries and ordered another shot of tequila. Keeping count, Ali was astonished at her capacity.

“So anyway,” Brenda continued. “Like I said, he’d been acting all weird for weeks—sort of distant, like something was bothering him. That’s why I went down to see him—to surprise him. When I got back from San Diego, I called Richard and told him I knew he had left San Diego and that I knew he had lied to me.”

“What happened then?”

“He hung up on me. I tried sending him text messages and e-mails, but he blocked them. I haven’t heard from him since. That’s why I’m here. I need you to help me find him,” Brenda said miserably. “Even if he doesn’t love me anymore, even if he lied to me, I still love him. I need to be sure he’s okay. Finding him should be easy, right? I mean, especially now that you’re a cop.”

That was when Ali finally understood what Brenda wanted and why she was here. Ali also knew the ramifications. Using law enforcement tools and sources to track down personal information on someone who was not a suspect in a specific crime is illegal. Yes, cops did that kind of thing occasionally, but it was also grounds for instant dismissal if the snooping was discovered.

“Tell me about him,” Ali said.

The floodgates opened. “Like I said, his name is Richard,” Brenda said. “Richard Lattimer. He grew up in Grass Valley, California. We met in an Internet chat room, a support group for abandoned spouses. My husband had left me and his wife had left him. Once we met, we just clicked. I know it sounds trite, but it seemed like we had always been meant to be together. For one thing, we had so much in common. We both had cheating spouses in our backgrounds. Our fathers died at an early age when we were both in high school. His father committed suicide. Mine had a heart attack and died.

“Richard and I talked about everything, and he was always there for me. When the station fired me, he was the only one who stood by me. We spent hours on the phone, talking, texting, e-mailing. Whenever I felt like I was falling apart, he was there to bolster me up and help me get a grip. At least he was for a while. Once I wasn’t working any longer, there was no reason I couldn’t drive down to see him on occasion, but every time I made plans to go, something seemed to come up at the last minute. Once his daughter, Suzanne, was sick; once he got called out of town on a job-related problem; once he got called in to work on some kind of emergency and was there for five solid days, fixing some problem or another.”