Edge of Evil

Chapter 13

It took hardly any time for Ali’s search engine to track down Jasmine Wright-Jasmine and Timothy Wright, to be exact-with an address on N. Verde Street in Flagstaff. In other words, Howard’s prize pupil and key-carrying side-dish was married-or had been-a short enough time ago that the phone company database had yet to catch up with any possible changes in address or marital status. Opening a new file on her computer, in a document she labeled simply REENIE, Ali pasted in both the address and the telephone number.

She did a public records search and found no references to either Jasmine or Timothy that included anything concerning divorce proceedings. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed their number. Her heart skipped a beat when a male voice answered the phone on the third ring.

“Mr. Wright?” Ali asked that much but she had no concept whatsoever of what she would say next.

“Yes.”

Ali’s mind raced. “My name is Larson,” she said, reverting to her maiden name. “Ali Larson. I hate to bother you. I’m sure you remember that terrible snowstorm we had a week ago. My car was parked on a street near campus. Someone skidded in the snow and creamed my poor Camry-took out all three panels on the passenger side. The problem is, it was a hit and run. I’ve been told that your wife sometimes parks in that same area, and I was wondering if she might have seen-”

“Jasmine’s not here,” Timothy interrupted. “She moved out months ago.”

“Do you have any idea where I could reach her?”

“No,” he answered. “None at all. Sorry.” And he hung up.

Ali thought about Alan, the poor guy who had written to cutloose to express his devastation after learning that his wife was screwing around with her professor. Poor Timothy, Ali thought and meant it. The Wrights’ divorce might not be final, but it was definitely in the works. And if Jasmine was clearing the marital decks to make way for Howie, was it possible Howie had been doing the same thing?

It would have taken a year or two, or maybe even longer, for Reenie to die of ALS. A divorce took six months to a year, depending. Murder was a whole lot quicker. So where had Jasmine and Howie been on Thursday night? Did they have an alibi for the time when Reenie was flying off the cliff? Detective Farris probably knew the answers to those questions, but he wasn’t going to tell. Ali would have to find out about that on her own.

So who would be her allies in this project? Andrea Rogers, for sure. Bree and Jack Cowan. The Holzers. As for the cops? Not a chance. Knowing the Cowans and the Holzers would be otherwise occupied, Ali picked up the phone and called Andrea.

“Can you do me a favor?” Ali asked.

“Sure,” Andrea said. “What?”

“Jasmine Wright has split with her husband. Could you try to find out where she’s living?”

“How come?”

“I talked to Detective Farris,” Ali said. “He gave me the same treatment he gave you. As far as he’s concerned, the typed suicide note stands. Case closed.”

“You don’t agree?”

“No,” Ali said. “I don’t.”

“And it’s not an accident?”

“No.”

Andrea sighed. “Murder then,” she said. “Who?”

“Since the cops don’t suspect anybody, my position is to suspect everybody,” Ali answered. “Starting with Howie and Jasmine Wright.”

“I see,” Andrea said. “In that case, I could just as well tell you that I’ve been doing some nosing around on my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know Reenie,” Andrea said. “She wasn’t one for scrimping when it came to spending money on services or programs, but as far as the office was concerned…Six years ago, somebody donated a dozen or so computers. We used two of them, and Reenie put the rest of them away to use later. They’re all dinosaurs now and not worth fixing, but they’re perfectly reliable, right up until one of them quits.”

“So?”

“The first one I used was the first one that croaked, and I didn’t have all my files backed up the way they should have been. We installed flash cards so we could back up on a daily basis, but when we moved into the new office and set up a network, our IT guy fixed it so that Reenie’s computer backed up to mine each day and mine backed up to hers as well. Sort of a fail-safe system.”

“You’re saying you have her files?”

“Yes,” Andrea said. “All of them.”

“Does Detective Farris know about that?”

“He didn’t ask so I didn’t tell him,” Andrea answered. “And I know it’s snooping and probably none of my business, but I’ve been going through her files anyway. I’m sure the police have been doing the same thing.”

“And?”

“The last file Reenie worked on was a spreadsheet,” Andrea said. “The file was saved on Wednesday night at eight o’clock. So she came back into the office after I left for the day.”

“What kind of spreadsheet?”

“It lays out all her death benefits,” Andrea said. “It lists all the insurance policies-group and individual.”

“How much?” Ali asked.

“Almost five hundred thousand,” Andrea answered. “There’s twenty-five thousand of group insurance from here, an additional hundred in group insurance through Howie’s work, a hundred from an individual policy. The rest is from their bank-one that will pay off the outstanding mortgage on their house. Then there’s an additional twelve hundred a month from Social Security until Matt and Julie each reach their eighteenth birthdays.”

Ali did some mental calculations. On the one hand, $500,000 sounded like a lot of money, but if you subtracted out $80,000 for the protocol and then whatever hospital expenses Reenie’s final illness might have entailed, that money could have been eaten up in no time.

“So she was definitely putting her financial house in order,” Andrea was saying. “I’m sure Detective Farris sees that as something else pointing to suicide, but I think she was trying to get a clear idea of how things would work once she was gone. I think she was just being responsible.”

“What about her Internet account,” Ali asked. “Can you access that? If we knew who she was e-mailing and what about, it might give us a big leg up.”

“I know her e-mail address,” Andrea said. “It’sR. Bernard@FlagYWCA.org, but I have no idea what her password is.”

“Do what you can,” Ali told her. “And if you figure it out, let me know. What about her calendar. Is that there?”

“Yes.”

“And what does it show for Thursday?”

“One appointment: two P.M., Dr. Clyde Mason, Mayo Clinic, Scottsdale.”

“Phone number and address?”

Andrea gave it to her and Ali put that information into the Reenie file as well, and as soon as she got off the phone with Andrea, she dialed Dr. Mason’s office. It wasn’t easy talking her way around the gate-keepers-first the office receptionist and then the nurse-but eventually Ali prevailed. By the time Dr. Mason came on the line, he sounded none too happy.

“I’ve already spoken to the authorities on this matter,” he complained. “As I told them, privacy rules limit my ability to comment on a patient’s condition including whether or not someone is one of my patients. Who are you again?”

“Alison,” she said. “Alison Larson. I’m a reporter with…”

“A reporter!” he bristled.

“And I was also Reenie Bernard’s best friend,” Ali put in quickly. “But my questions aren’t about her. I’m assuming she wasn’t your only ALS patient.”

“I have several,” Dr. Mason said.

“Supposing one of your patients, not Reenie, of course, happened to have heard about some new course of ALS treatment down in Mexico, would you advise them to try it?”

“No,” Dr. Mason barked. “Absolutely not.”

“I’ve been told that this supposed course of treatment is expensive-in the neighborhood of eighty-thousand dollars or so. I also understand that after Reenie left your office, she planned on visiting a bank.”

“I advised her not to have anything to do with those crooks,” Dr. Mason blurted. “I told her to go home and spend whatever time she had-whatever quality time she had-with her family, and not to waste financial and emotional resources on some kind of scam.”

“So you think this treatment, whatever it is, is a scam?”

“No question.” Mason quieted suddenly and Ali knew he had said more than he intended. She was afraid he might hang up on her.

“One more thing,” she hurried on. “And this is strictly theoretical. From what I’ve been able to learn, some ALS patients, faced with what has to be a very dire future, choose to go out on their own terms.”

“Yes,” Dr. Mason agreed. “Some of them do, but not within the first week of getting their final diagnosis,” he added. “Hardly anyone ever does that.”

It took Ali a moment to assimilate what had happened. It sounded as though Dr. Mason had answered the question she hadn’t asked, but she had to be sure.

“So you don’t think Reenie committed suicide?”

Dr. Mason hesitated for so long that Ali thought he wasn’t going to, but then he did. “In my experience,” he said, “that would seem unlikely.”

“Thank you,” Ali managed, pushing her voice past the sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And please accept my condolences on the loss of your friend. From everything I learned about her through my dealings with her, Reenie Bernard struck me as a wonderful person.”

“Yes,” Ali managed. “She was certainly that.”

Once Ali was off the phone, it took several minutes before she reached for her computer and turned her attention to the New Mail section of cutlooseblog.com.

Dear Babe,

And in my opinion, you are one. As far as I’m concerned, Melissa G. is walking around with a bag over her brain. Obviously her daddy never taught her the lesson Thumper’s father passed along to his little ones. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all!”

I miss seeing you on the news, but I think you’re doing good work.

Randy

Dear Ali,

Why are some people so mean? They need to get a life.

Donna

Dear Babe,

From what you’ve said, it sounds as though you’ve never experienced domestic violence. Lucky for you. I have, and I really related to what’s going on with Watching’s wife. I spent eighteen years in an abusive relationship. My husband was a physician. He didn’t beat me up physically, but he did mentally. He told everyone in town that I was a mental case and he told me that if I ever tried to leave, he’d kill me in a way that no one would ever detect. I’m thinking now of your friend’s suicide. He also said that if I ever did get away, he’d track me to the ends of the earth and put me out of my misery.

My husband was an influential person in town-you’ll notice I’m not saying which one. He made sure I didn’t have money of my own and no credit cards, either. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how. Then I heard about an organization called Angel Flight. Most of the time, they fly patients back and forth across long distances for chemo or dialysis treatments. But now they’ve started doing domestic violence escape flights as well.

Two years ago next month, I walked out of my house with nothing but the clothes on my back. A friend gave me a ride to the airport. A private plane met me there and away I went. If I’d had to pay for a ticket, I couldn’t have afforded one, and since there were no tickets to buy, there were also no credit card receipts that he could use to find me.

I live somewhere else now. People here helped me establish a new identity. Starting over isn’t easy. I’m waiting tables now, too, and I’m glad to do it. At least I’m safe. At least I’m alive. My parents and my sister know I made it out, but they don’t know where I am because I’m afraid my ex-husband might browbeat or threaten them into revealing my location. I love them and miss them, but for right now this is what I have to do for me. I’m better off safe and alone than dead.

I’m unwilling to come out of hiding. For that reason alone, I haven’t divorced my husband and, as far as I know, he has yet to divorce me.

I pray that Watching’s wife and baby stay safe. Unfortunately, due to liability issues, the organization that helped me is reluctant to be involved in situations that involve minor children. And I’m praying that you’ll be safe as well.

Noname, notown, nostate.

While she was posting that one, Ali had reason to be grateful. Noname was right. Ali had never had to deal with domestic violence on a personal basis. She had money, credit cards (at least they were still working as far as she knew), food to eat, a place to live, and friends and family who loved her. Compared to Noname, Alison Reynolds was very, very lucky.

Dear Ali,

I bought your autographed photo from e-Bay for $4.67. I thought you’d want to know.

Your fan,

Sylvia

Her landline rang while she was posting the e-Bay message. The caller was none other than Paul, and he was furious.

“Did Helga tell you to do that?” he demanded. “Is that what this is all about?”

“I don’t know what ‘this’ you mean,” Ali returned.

“I mean pretending to wait tables at your folks’s place in Sedona. What’s that all about, looking for a sympathy vote? Poor Ali Reynolds. Lost her job at the news desk and now things are so bad that she’s had to revert to her old standby, waiting tables. Except I happen to know you’re still on the station’s payroll at the moment even if you’re not on the air.”

“I’m not pretending,” Ali returned, keeping her voice level. “Dad got hurt. I’m helping out.”

“Yeah, right,” Paul returned. “And you just happened to call up Lauren Masefield at the LA Times to give her the word along with what she assures me is a real cool picture.”

Ali knew Lauren Masefield. She wrote a weekly gossip column covering local TV issues and detailing the comings and goings and detox adventures of various LA-area television personalities.

“What picture?” Ali asked.

“The one that’s going to be in the paper in the morning. I understand it’s a fetching one of you in all your Sugarloaf Cafe glory, packing around a couple of platters loaded with food. Lauren tells me the resolution’s not too hot, but that’s what you get for having whoever took the picture use a cell phone camera instead of a regular one.”

That’s when Ali remembered the latte guy in the designer sweats, the one who had recognized her, the one she had made fun of for the benefit of the locals. She remembered, too, that he had been carrying a cell phone. Now it seemed he had managed to get even with her. Worst of all, Ali knew she deserved it.

“I know who took the picture,” she said coldly. “Believe me, he’s no friend of mine.”

“Whatever,” Paul said. “It doesn’t matter. The only reason I know about it in advance is that Lauren called me to see if I had a comment. I didn’t. Not for her, but I have one for you. Playing the ‘poor me’ publicity card isn’t going to carry any weight at all when it comes time to hammer out a property settlement.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “What I’m doing has zero to do with you and nothing to do with a property settlement. It’s about family, Paul, something you wouldn’t recognize if it smacked you over the head.”

In that moment, with Paul’s rant ringing in Ali’s ears, he sounded like a total stranger. It was difficult for her to grasp that she had been married to the man for seven years. Ali’s mother was right. She had put herself in emotional neutral and had coasted. Now that her gears were fully engaged, it was time to fight back.

“And another thing,” she added. “When we last spoke, it was all ‘Honey Bunny this and that’ and you were trying to talk me into coming back to you and telling me that we could work things out. Now you’re talking property settlement?”

“That was before I knew you were going ahead with this boneheaded lawsuit,” he said. “I won’t be manipulated,” Paul declared.

“Neither will I,” Ali returned. “And incidently, you are being manipulated. Just not by me. So if you have anything more to say to me, I suggest you do it through my attorney. I’m sure you can find Helga easily enough. I would imagine her number is in the book.”

Ali hung up the phone. Once her hands quit shaking, she went back to the computer.

Dear Babe,

Since I don’t really know you, it feels weird to address you that way, but here goes. I, too, have recently been diagnosed with ALS. I’ve heard from several people about some new treatment program available in Mexico. Do you know anything about it? It seems to cost a lot of money. Does it work? Is it worth it?

Don Trilby

St Louis, MO

She wrote back to him immediately.

Dear Don,

I’m sure you’re still reeling from your diagnosis. Learning you have ALS is a terrible blow for both you and your family. I’m in the process of trying to find out more about ALS treatment protocols that may be available in Mexico and not in the US. The one I’ve heard about requires an up-front commitment of $80,000 and may or may not offer any real or lasting benefits.

As I said, I’m attempting to investigate these treatment claims in order to learn whether or not they’re bogus. If you were to send me whatever information you’ve gathered, I would be most grateful. In the meantime, you may want to contact Dr. Clyde Mason, a neurologist at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, Arizona. His contact information is pasted below. I believe Dr. Mason is familiar with some of the Mexico-based treatment programs, and he would most likely be able to give you far better advice than I would be able to.

My very best to you and to your family in this difficult time.

Babe

Out of respect for Don’s privacy, she posted neither his note to her nor her response. Now she posted a new comment of her own.

cutlooseblog.com

Thursday, March 17, 2005

I know that this blog has surfaced in ALS circles. I’m only just now beginning to understand all the heartbreaking ramifications of this dreadful disease-something many of you learned a long time ago.

I have reason to believe that my friend Reenie, who died last week, was considering participating in an experimental protocol of some kind, a Mexico-based ALS course of treatment that has yet to be tested or approved for use in the United States.

There are lots of people in this world who choose to prey on the unfortunate. They have no scruples about making dishonest claims to desperate people in search of answers. I’m worried that the treatment Reenie was considering-one that required an initial “investment” of $80,000-may be one of those bogus schemes, something created expressly to bilk money out of people who can ill afford to lose it.

My intention is to turn my training as an investigative journalist to this situation and see what I can do to ascertain whether or not the proposed treatment is legitimate. If it were found to be so, I would be among the first to shout its praises from the rooftops. If it’s a fraud, I want to help put it out of business once and for all.

So if you know about this-if you’ve heard of or participated in something that sounds like the program Reenie was being encouraged to join-please let me know. You can write to me in confidence through the blog. If you don’t want your comments publicly posted, all you have to do is say so. But I want to find out the truth about this. It no longer matters for Reenie because she’s gone, but it matters to the rest of you, and if Reenie were alive, I’m sure this is exactly what she’d want me to do.

Posted 5:03 P.M., March 17, 2005 by Babe

Realizing it was almost time to head for the Holzers’ gathering in Cottonwood, Ali closed her computer. As soon as she did, it beeped to say it was shutting down. Samantha immediately stirred from her sleep, got up, leaped off the couch, and headed for the kitchen. Despite all the turmoil in both their lives, Samantha was evidently learning to make sense of her changed circumstances.

“Is that a subtle hint that it’s dinnertime?” Ali asked with a laugh. “And who says old humans can’t learn new tricks?”