by J. A. Jance
13
Ali was still shaken when she left the hospital a few minutes later. She had no doubt that Sister Anselm’s critically injured patient had been on her way to Flagstaff hoping for help from Ali’s good friend Irene Bernard when she ran away from home. But Reenie had been dead for years. How was it possible that the injured girl hadn’t known that Irene Bernard was no longer available to help her?
Hoping for answers, Ali got in the Cayenne and drove straight to the YWCA. She parked in a visitor’s space near Irene’s Place, the domestic violence shelter that Reenie had founded and championed and that was now named in her honor. Ali was always struck by the irony in that because Irene had died as a result of an act of senseless domestic violence, too, albeit from an unexpected source.
Ali rang the security bell and identified herself before being allowed inside. She went straight to the office of Andrea Rogers. At the time of Reenie’s death, Andrea had been Irene Bernard’s assistant. Now she was in charge. In the intervening years, Andrea had honed both her public-speaking and management skills. Like Reenie, Andrea spent a good deal of her time out in public raising both awareness and needed funds. Like her predecessor, Andrea took an active and personal interest in every traumatized family that showed up on the shelter’s doorstep.
When Ali tapped on the doorframe of Andrea’s office, she looked up as if annoyed with the interruption. Recognizing her visitor, annoyance changed to beaming welcome.
“Well, if it isn’t Ali Reynolds,” Andrea said, hurrying from her cluttered desk to envelop Ali in a welcoming hug. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Intent on her errand, Ali didn’t let herself get sucked into a long exchange of pleasantries. “I need your help,” she said. “I’ve just come from St. Jerome’s. We’ve got a critically injured but so far unidentified young woman there along with her injured newborn baby. When I was going through the victim’s effects, I found a scrap of paper with the name Irene on it along with a telephone number. When I tried calling, the phone was answered here.”
“Here at the shelter?”
“I didn’t realize it at first,” Ali explained. “When the call was answered, all the operator said was ‘May I help you?’ It wasn’t until after I asked for Irene specifically that she offered to put me through to the shelter. That’s when I realized I had reached the YWCA.”
“Sharing the switchboard with the YWCA during daytime hours saves us a bunch of money,” Andrea answered. “And we teach the operators who pick up on our line to answer with a simple ‘May I help you?’ Sometimes after domestic violence victims call us, someone else—often an angry husband—will call, too, because he’s busy going through his wife’s phone records, trying to find out what she’s been up to. A simple ‘May I help you?’ allows us to hide the fact that the wife—and most often it is a wife—is someone who’s come to us looking for help.”
Andrea paused and sighed. “As for using Irene’s old number as our hotline number? We did that as a tribute to her—to honor what she stood for. When Irene was running the show, she often took those calls herself. This way she’s still taking them.”
It was clear from the sadness in Andrea’s voice that Ali Reynolds wasn’t the only one who still grieved Reenie Bernard’s passing.
Andrea straightened her shoulders. “This young woman you told me about, the one in the hospital. Is she a victim of domestic violence?”
“From what we know of the investigation, she was injured in a traffic accident. She ran into traffic and was hit by a passing vehicle while in the process of running away from a difficult home situation. So the answer to that is a possible yes.”
“What about the driver or the car who hit her?” Andrea asked. “Sometimes so-called accidents aren’t accidental.”
“Indications are the driver is a complete stranger.”
“What makes you think she might have called here?” Andrea asked.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Ali admitted. “What we do know is that she had a slip of paper with Irene’s name and phone number on it hidden in her pocket.”
“Come with me, then,” Andrea said. “Let’s go check.”
Talking as she walked, Andrea led Ali into the corridor. “We log in the numbers of all incoming calls placed to our hotline. That way, occasionally in crisis situations, we know where to send law enforcement assistance. Having that information is also helpful when we need to track down an offender who is trying to reach one of our residents in violation of a protection order.”
Ali and Andrea left the shelter and entered the YWCA part of the building through a locking door that clicked shut behind them. In a side office just off the main entrance, a young woman sat at a desk laden with old-fashioned PBX telephone equipment.
“Hey, Debbie, this is Ali Reynolds, a friend of mine and a good friend of Irene Bernard’s as well,” Andrea announced. “Mind if I take a look at the logbook?”
Debbie handed over a simple spiral notebook, which was anything but high tech. The day of the month was written on the top of the page. The current page had only one listing—Ali’s. It included the time, her cell-phone number, and the word “Irene” followed by a question mark. That was all the information the operator had gleaned before Ali had ended the call.
She turned back to the previous page. That one listed five calls. As soon as she saw the last one on the page, Ali felt her heart skip a beat. A call from a 928 area code had come in at 4:56. The 928 designation meant it had originated from a phone purchased and activated somewhere in northern Arizona. But the telling detail, the one that took Ali’s breath away was the final notation on the line: “Irene?”
“It’s here,” Ali murmured to Andrea. “She did call yesterday; at least she tried to.”
“Is there a problem?” Debbie asked with a frown of concern. “Which call are you talking about—the one for Irene?”
Ali nodded.
“That’s so weird,” Debbie said. “I’ve had two calls like that in the past two days—someone who asked for a person named Irene rather than the shelter.”
“The second call was from me this morning,” Ali said. “What happened the first time?”
“I started to explain that was the name of the shelter rather than a person, but the caller, a young woman from the sound of it, hung up before I had a chance. I passed the information on to Mrs. Young, the resident assistant in the shelter, in case she called back overnight. According to this, she never did.”
“Beverly Young is our overnight housemother,” Andrea explained. “Calls are transferred over to her office in the shelter once the switchboard closes for the night. That way we have someone on-site for people needing assistance during nonbusiness hours.”
Ali thanked Debbie for her help and then keyed the phone number into the message section of the phone.
“I don’t recommend your calling,” Andrea cautioned as they walked back toward her office. “In a volatile situation, a call from an outsider could make things that much worse.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, but since Jane Doe is already in the hospital in critical condition, I’m not sure how it could get any worse.”
“You’d be surprised,” Andrea answered.
Good to her word, once Ali was back in the Cayenne, she didn’t call. Instead she e-mailed the number to Stuart Ramey with a simple request:
Can you give me a name and address to go with this number?
Her e-mail announcement chimed before Ali made it back to the parking lot at St. Jerome’s. The message was from Cami, Stuart’s assistant, rather than from the man himself:
Mr. Ramey is busy right now. He asked me to handle this. The phone leads back to someone named Tsosie Begay. The address listed is a post office box in Chinle, AZ. If you need anything else, let me know.
Cami
Ali sat in her idling car for a full minute after r
eading Cami’s e-mail. Begay was a well-known Navajo name, and the phone number was more likely to lead back to the source of the blanket rather than to one of Jane Doe’s family members. After giving it some thought, Ali went ahead and dialed. The phone was answered by a soft-spoken woman. “Begay residence.”
“Hello,” Ali responded. “My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m calling for a Mr. or Mrs. Begay.”
“I’m Evangeline Begay,” the woman said in a voice that gave nothing away.
Ali took a deep breath before launching off. “I’m looking into a phone call that was placed from your number to a phone located in Flagstaff late yesterday afternoon. It may be connected to a young woman who was injured in a traffic accident last night. We’re trying to identify her.”
“You said the girl was injured?” Evangeline asked. “How?”
“She was hit by a vehicle north of Flagstaff. I’m attempting to locate her family.”
“She was running away,” Evangeline said.
“We’ve surmised as much, but we’re trying to locate her relatives. At the time she was injured, she was wrapped in a blanket—a Navajo blanket.”
“One of mine,” Evangeline answered. “All she had on was a jacket. It was snowing and cold, so I gave her my blanket to keep her warm, help keep her safe. Is she all right? What about her baby?”
“As far as I know at this moment, they’re both still alive,” Ali said. “But can you give me any idea of where she’s from?”
“I know she came from a bad place,” Evangeline replied after a pause. “I don’t think she wants to be found.”
“What bad place?” Ali pressed.
“It used to be called Short Creek,” Evangeline answered. “That’s what the People called it long ago. Now it’s called Colorado City. Do you know it? Do you know about the people there?”
Ali did, because with those two words—Short Creek—everything about the Jane Doe puzzle seemed to click into place. Colorado City was the center of commerce for an isolated part of Arizona just to the north of the Grand Canyon. Although officially part of Mohave County, the area was hours away from even the most rudimentary law enforcement oversight. As a consequence, Colorado City and its environs had become a geographical magnet for any number of oddball communes and religious groups, many of which were suspected of practicing polygamy.
“Where exactly did you find her?” Ali asked.
“My husband and I were coming back from a selling trip, dropping off my blankets and his silver and turquoise jewelry at trading posts and gift shops before the summer tourist season starts. The man who owns the gas station in Colorado City is one of our customers. While Tsosie was talking to him, I went into the restroom. That’s where I found the girl, hiding in one of the stalls. She said she was going to Flagstaff and asked if we’d give her a ride.
“It was while we were driving south that she asked to use my phone. When I gave it to her, though, she didn’t know how to use it, so I dialed the number for her. It was to a friend of hers, someone named Irene. When Irene didn’t answer the call, the girl seemed very upset, but I didn’t ask what was wrong.”
“Where did you let her out?”
“At a junction north of Flagstaff where we turned off to go visit our daughter. The girl said she was hoping to catch a ride into Flag to see her mother, who was in the hospital.”
“Thank you,” Ali said. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Where is the girl?” Evangeline asked. “I mean, what hospital?”
“St. Jerome’s.”
“If you talk to her, please let her know that Tsosie and I will be praying for her.”
“I will,” Ali said. “Thank you.”
14
When Betsy arrived home, Princess came to the door to greet her. After putting away her purchases and the container of carryout she’d brought home from the café, she went looking for Joe Friday. He was in her bedroom, tinkering with a computer on her small desk. He had stripped out of his flannel shirt. The short-sleeved T-shirt he wore underneath revealed more tattoos than Betsy could count. Or wanted to.
“Almost got ’er done,” he said. “I already captured the images I need of Princess. Once I finish with the computer and have all your passwords set, I’ll do your photo shoot. Then I’ll be able to get out of your hair.”
“You’ll have the whole thing installed tonight? Really? I thought you said it would take a couple of days.” Betsy was a little disappointed. She had rather liked the idea of having someone around the house to look out for her for a while. In fact, she had been fully prepared to offer putting him up in her guest room if for no other reason than to rattle Sandra’s chain.
“Up and running,” he answered. “The sight lines were less complicated than I thought. With all the angles covered, I’ll have a few cameras left over.”
“Well,” Betsy said. “Don’t feel obliged to rush. I had supper in town on the way home. I brought you a hot roast beef sandwich, unless you’re one of those vegan types who doesn’t eat meat.”
“Definitely a carnivore,” Joe said with a grin. “And a hot roast beef sandwich or even a warm roast beef sandwich sounds like just what the doctor ordered.”
“Come on, then,” she said. “We’ll deal with all that password business later. What would you like to drink?”
“Coffee if you’ve got it,” he said. “I need to drive back to Minneapolis tonight.”
Joe followed Betsy back toward the kitchen, stopping off to wash his hands in the powder room along the way. He settled down at the kitchen table and began eating while she stood by the counter waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. It bothered her to think that while she was just standing there in her own kitchen, someone a continent away could be watching her every move.
“My son and daughter-in-law made an appointment for me to see a doctor on Monday,” she said. “To have my mental faculties evaluated.” Betsy was astonished to hear the words coming out of her own mouth. How could she make such an admission to a complete stranger?
Joe was quiet as she set a coffee mug in front of him and then sat down with one of her own. When she looked up, he was studying her intently.
“Mrs. Peterson,” he said, “if you don’t mind my saying so, your son is a complete jackass!”
Fortunately for Betsy, she had yet to take a sip of her coffee. Had she done so, it probably would have splattered all over the table. She found herself nodding and laughing at the same time.
“I’ve met a few dotty folks now and again,” Joe continued. “You don’t happen to be one of them. Do you know this doctor, the one they want you to see? Did you agree to go to the appointment?”
Betsy nodded yes to both questions.
“Do you have someone who could go to the appointment with you—to have your back if need be?”
“Not really,” she said. “There’s my granddaughter, of course, but she lives in Arizona. And she’s a teacher. I couldn’t ask her to come up here for something like this.”
“Find someone else to go with you, then,” Joe urged. “And don’t, whatever you do, mention a word of the security measures we’ve installed to anyone, including the doctor. Now then,” he added, standing up and pushing away from the table. “Let’s go deal with those passwords.”
She followed him into the bedroom and waited while he went to fetch her a chair. He placed it next to his so she had a full view of the screen.
“Here we go,” Joe said. He punched a button at the bottom of the screen, which came to life. A bouquet of begonias filled the screen, moving in and out of focus. In the middle of the colorful flowers was a small box asking for her user name and password. Before going any further, Joe adjusted the font so it was easier for her to read. That done, they established her user name as Betsy.
“If you give me a password,” she objected, “how will I ever remember it?”
“What about it?”
“You use it to manipulate your cursor, but that’s not the whole reason why it’s here.” Placing the mouse on the table, he moved it until it was directly in front of Betsy. “I want you to put your thumb on it, right here in the bottom right-hand corner. Hold it like that for a moment.”
Betsy did as he asked.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s enough.” He waited for a moment, staring at the screen. “All right. Now we need to confirm it. Do that again.”
She did. After a second or two, the image on the computer screen changed from melting begonias into a seascape.
“The begonias are a screen saver,” he said. “The computer is running in the background, but the only way to access it will be with your thumbprint.”
“That’s my password, my thumbprint?”
“That’s right. All you have to do is put your thumb in the same spot long enough for the image to register. As you can see, it looks like the computer is calling for an ordinary password, the kind people type in. An unauthorized user typing in passwords won’t get anywhere, and I doubt it will occur to them that a woman your age, living out here in the sticks, would be using thumbprint recognition technology. Now, do you have either an e-mail or Facebook account?”
“Not Facebook,” Betsy said. “I used to have an e-mail address, on Gmail, I think, but I haven’t used it in years.”
“You’re going to start using it now.” Joe’s fingers flashed over the keyboard before pausing. “Yes, here it is. Now, what’s your password for that?”
For an answer, Betsy stood up, went over to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, retrieved a jewelry box, and removed a tiny spiral notebook that she handed to him.
Joe thumbed through the ragged book, then looked at her in dismay. “Wait a minute; these are the passwords to all your accounts—your bank accounts, your checking accounts, your cell phone, everything.”