Cold Betrayal

by J. A. Jance

  Ali didn’t say the rest of what she was thinking. If this was a polygamous situation, the oldest wife was the one female in each family who was allowed to drive, but not a single one of the women—not even the most senior—was allowed to vote. And if women in The Family weren’t allowed to drive or to vote, Ali wondered, what else were The Family’s girls and women forbidden to do?

  “Is there a Lowell Road?” Ali asked. “If so, who lives on that?”

  “No sign of a Lowell Road, but the largest set of buildings is on what appears to be the main drag, which is actually Angus Road. That one has the same kind of house, barn, and outbuilding arrangement as all the others, only the house itself is far larger. In addition, there are two possible public buildings, maybe a church or a social hall of some kind with plenty of parking nearby. There are several somewhat smaller structures in that compound as well.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “Someone named Richard Lowell. The single licensed female driver at that address is named Helena.”

  “How many roads on the property in all?” Ali asked.

  “I counted twenty-eight separate houses on the map. That would make for close to thirty families, including Wendell Johnson Sr., whose family evidently lives in town.”

  Ali’s call waiting buzzed with a blocked number showing up in the caller ID window.

  “All right,” Ali said. “Thanks, Cami. I’ve got to take another call. Keep putting the pieces together. I’ll get back to you.” She switched over to the other line. “Hello.”

  “Is this Alison Reynolds?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Danny Alvarado, Sheriff Alvarado from Mohave County. Your name sounds familiar to me. Weren’t you involved in some kind of dustup over near Bullhead City a while back?”

  “You have a good head for names, Sheriff Alvarado,” Ali said with a laugh. “And yes. I was the woman in the car trunk.”

  “I just had a call from the Catholic bishop down in Phoenix—Bishop Francis Gillespie. I take it you know him?”

  “Yes,” Ali replied. “He’s a family friend.” She realized as she said the words that it was no exaggeration. Bishop Gillespie was a friend.

  “He was asking me about two unsolved cases from here in Kingman years ago—a young woman and her newborn infant. It turns out I was one of the investigators on that case and remember it well. Bishop Gillespie mentioned there might be a possible connection between those cases and a new situation over near Flagstaff. He said that both girls appeared to be runaways who were very young, very pregnant, and who wore their hair in a similar fashion.”

  “Yes to all,” Ali said. “The hairdos were very distinctive—long braids wrapped around the tops of their heads.”

  “As I said, I was one of the investigators in the Jane Doe matter, and I remember those very distinctive braids. What I’m not sure is how you came to know about them.”

  “I heard about them from someone connected to both cases.”

  “That would be the nun Bishop Gillespie mentioned?”

  “Yes,” Ali answered. “Her name is Sister Anselm. She’s a special emissary of Bishop Gillespie’s, and functions as a patient advocate where necessary. Twelve years ago, Sister Anselm served in that capacity for both your victims—Jane Doe and her infant. Yesterday morning, by sheer coincidence, she was called out to care for this newly injured mother and child.”

  “Has your victim been IDed?”

  “Tentatively,” Ali answered. “We believe her name to be Enid Tower and that she ran away from one of the polygamous communities up near Colorado City. While on the run, she stepped into the path of an oncoming vehicle. That’s what put her in the hospital.”

  “Not Colorado City again,” the sheriff said with a sigh. “Dealing with those people is a nightmare. Do you happen to know which group?”

  “I believe they call themselves The Family,” Ali answered. “I don’t have much more information on them than that. From what I’ve been able to gather, the whole group consists of twenty-five to thirty families, give or take. At the time of your Jane Doe’s death, Sister Anselm attempted to suggest to the investigators that her death was the result of some kind of domestic violence. That idea got no traction at the time. This new case isn’t specifically domestic violence, either, but still . . .”

  “The good sister was entirely correct in her assumption. Considering the degree of violence visited on our Jane Doe, that’s what we suspected at the time—that it was a DV case. However, with no additional information as to her origins, we got nowhere. I can see how, with a new lead like this and with a small population to draw from, a near DNA match from either our two victims or yours could lead back to our Jane Doe’s killer. Based on that, we’d be willing to reopen the case.”

  Stunned, Ali realized that she had won the DNA argument without having said a word.

  “But there’s a problem with that,” Sheriff Alvarado continued. “After I got off the phone with the bishop, I went downstairs to bring the evidence box up from the basement. To my chagrin, it’s nowhere to be found. It’s probably just misfiled. I’ve got my evidence clerk on a search mission, but so far there’s no sign of it.”

  “Was any DNA evidence from your crime scene ever processed? Even if the box itself is missing, the state crime lab might still have the results taken from the evidence itself.”

  Sheriff Alvarado sent a bark of humorless laughter into the phone. “My predecessor wasn’t a great believer in technology. That’s one of the reasons I’m sheriff now and he isn’t. He kept his eye on the bottom line. Since DNA profiling was expensive back then, he thought of it as an unnecessary frivolity. I’m sorry to say that the answer to your question is no—our Jane Doe’s evidence was collected but never processed.

  “In the last two years, my administration has been trying to rework our collection of cold cases, but only as time, personnel, and money allow. Having said that, it may explain why the Jane Doe box is missing. Perhaps one of my guys started focusing on that case without letting me know. Once the box is located and on its way to the crime lab, I’ll let you know.”

  “Great,” Ali said.

  “How are your two victims doing, by the way? Did you say the mother’s name is Enid?”

  “Yes, Enid Tower. I can’t tell you much about her condition, but as far as I know, both she and her baby are still alive. The baby was premature, but so far so good.”

  “Excellent,” Sheriff Alvarado said. “Glad to hear it. If you learn anything more, keep me posted, and I’ll do the same.”

  “One more thing,” Ali said. “What kind of a presence does your department maintain in the Colorado City area?”

  “Not much. As you no doubt know, it’s part of my jurisdiction but difficult to reach by car. Back in the old days, all of us had to pull a few weeks of duty over there every year, living in a beat-up mobile home that doubled as the local substation and taking care of whatever came up. Then, about ten years or so ago, the department hired a guy named Amos Sellers who actually lives there. Deputy Sellers spends part of his time working out of the substation and part of it working out of his own home. He’s done a good job keeping a lid on things. Since he’s part of the community, people there tend to trust him. I haven’t had any complaints about him—at least none that made it as far as my desk.”

  “Was there any kind of missing person report called in to him at the time Enid Tower took off?”

  “Not that I know of. Had there been, it would have been forwarded to my attention.”

  “All right, then,” Ali said. “Thank you so much for your help. Let’s stay in touch.”

  As soon as Ali hung up, she immediately called Cami back. “Tell me something, have you happened to come across the name Sellers anywhere in that bunch of names?”

  Cami didn’t have to think twice before she answered. “Just a few minutes ag
o. Sellers Road. The people listed there are Amos Sellers and a woman named Elizabeth. Same old, same old. She drives but isn’t good enough to vote.”

  “Thanks, Cami,” Ali said. “Thanks a lot.”

  Amos Sellers—Deputy Amos Sellers. According to Sheriff Alvarado, he was the law of the land in Colorado City, but if he was part of The Family, as Cami’s research clearly indicated, how come Sheriff Alvarado hadn’t provided that telling detail? And if Amos was the representative of law and order in Colorado City, that meant that anyone being mistreated or abused inside The Family would have nowhere to turn for help—nowhere at all.

  As for Sheriff Alvarado? Ali was more than a little pissed at him. When she had mentioned The Family, since he hadn’t mentioned that his deputy was part of the group, was it possible that Alvarado himself had some connections to The Family?

  Ali called Cami back. “I know you’re busy, but I need one more thing. Find out what you can on Danny Alvarado, the sheriff of Mohave County.”

  Ali pressed on the gas, urging the Cayenne forward and northward at a good ten miles over the posted 75 mph limit.

  19

  Despite her concerns about Sheriff Alvarado, the last thing Ali had expected was for him to be a willing ally in reopening the Kingman Jane Doe case. She was sure Sister Anselm would be surprised and gratified about that, too, especially considering her misgivings about collecting the current DNA samples. Once the Kingman Jane Doe evidence box was located, any DNA materials inside it could be sent out for processing with an excellent possibility of there being a match.

  Instead of taking Highway 179 and going back to Sedona, Ali stayed on the freeway and drove straight to St. Jerome’s in Flagstaff. When she arrived in the maternity floor waiting room, Sister Anselm was in the nursery, sitting in a rocker with a tiny wrapped bundle of baby cradled in the crook of one arm and a bottle of formula held in her other hand. Using baby formula in this instance made complete sense. The mother of a newborn, especially a premature newborn, couldn’t be expected to nurse the child when she herself had undergone major lifesaving surgeries. Whatever kinds of pain medications were being administered to the mother would go straight through her system and into the baby’s.

  Ali was still waiting for the baby’s mealtime to finish when Stu called. “Did Athena mention anything to you about her parents having financial difficulties?”

  “No, why?”

  “James and Sandra Peterson aren’t paying their property taxes. The taxes on both their home and on the building where the dental practice is located were due six months ago, and a new bill would have been issued right after the first of the year. So far neither one is listed as paid.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In my experience, when folks run short of moolah and don’t have enough to cover expenses, property taxes are the first thing they let slide. Tax collectors are a lot slower on pulling the collection-agency trigger than banks and credit-card companies are.”

  “Athena’s in class right now,” Ali said. “I won’t be able to talk to her about any of this until after school is over for the day.”

  “Don’t,” Stu advised. “Let me get a little better handle on what’s going on before you discuss it with her. In fact, don’t discuss it with her at all. Once we have her thumbprint she’ll have access to all her grandmother’s financial dealings and so will we without anyone crossing over into forbidden territory.”

  Hacking into unauthorized servers was something Stu Ramey did very well, but there were always risks involved, and hacking into financial accounts when it wasn’t necessary was stupid.

  “Fair enough,” Ali said as Sister Anselm emerged from the nursery. “Keep me posted.”

  Just then the elevator door whispered open and four people swarmed out of it. Gordon Tower led the way. He was followed by Edith Tower and a man in a suit who looked to Ali suspiciously like a defense attorney. Last to emerge was a paunchy and somewhat younger man, a guy in his mid- to late thirties, who was dressed in a red flannel shirt. Ali recognized him as the one who had volunteered to drive Edith Tower back home to Colorado City the previous evening.

  Sister Anselm showed no dismay about coming face-to-face with the man behind the black-and-blue handprint that now graced her cheek. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tower,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and stepping directly into his path. “Nice to see you out and about.”

  Tower made a sour face. “I’m here to see my wife.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sister Anselm countered. “Do you have any proof that my patient is your wife?”

  “Of course, she’s my wife! I already told you.”

  “Do you have any actual documented evidence?” Sister Anselm asked. “Something like a marriage certificate, for example, one that’s actually valid in the state of Arizona?”

  “I don’t think my marriage certificate is any of your business,” Tower sneered. “I want to see my wife.”

  “I’m afraid HIPAA prohibits that from happening.”

  “Hip what?” Tower demanded.

  “It’s a federal law that mandates patient privacy rules,” Sister Anselm replied. “Only people specifically authorized by the patient are allowed to have access to either the patient or to the patient’s records. I can assure you, there is no such list with Gordon Tower’s name on it.”

  Nurse Mandy, emerging from the nurses’ station, had taken up a position just to the right of Sister Anselm. “The good sister’s assessment is quite correct in that regard,” the charge nurse said. “To my knowledge the patient in question has yet to authorize any visitors.”

  Because she’s still unconscious, Ali thought, standing up to take a defensive position alongside the other two.

  “That’s a load of bull and you know it,” Tower growled. “Then let me see my baby. Don’t try to tell me she needs to sign some stupid visitors’ form, too.”

  “The problem is,” Nurse Mandy said, “mother and child came in as a unit. Until we’re notified otherwise, the mother’s wishes or lack thereof hold sway. Now, sir, it would probably be best if you left. Otherwise we’ll be forced to summon security. Again,” she added pointedly.

  Other relatives in the waiting room, including two newly minted fathers, watched the escalating drama with growing alarm. Not only that, the three women barring Tower’s way were also blocking the window to the nursery. Ali knew that Sister Anselm had left Enid’s baby in a bassinet in the farthest corner of the room. Even if Tower gained access to the window, the baby would be out of sight.

  Nurse Mandy’s threat of calling security caused some of Gordon Tower’s bluster to fade. He spun around, turning on the man in a suit. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you do something about these obnoxious women? Doesn’t a father have some rights here?”

  “I’m afraid the law backs them up on this one,” the attorney said quietly. “For right now, I don’t think there’s much to be done.”

  “There is one more thing,” Sister Anselm said.

  Tower turned back to her. “What’s that?”

  Jabbing at the keypad, she unlocked the door to the nursery and ducked back inside. She returned a moment later holding a cotton swab, which she handed to Gordon Tower.

  He stared at it blankly. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s to swab the inside of your cheek,” Sister Anselm explained. “It’ll give us a DNA sample. That way, even without a birth certificate, we’ll be able to determine if you’re actually the baby’s father or if someone else is.”

  Tower’s eyes bulged. Ali could tell from the stunned expression on his florid face that the idea the baby might not be his had never crossed his mind. He paled slightly. Doubling his fists, he turned to glare at Edith, as though the possibility of Enid’s having been unfaithful was clearly Edith’s fault. The way she shrank away from him, as if expecting a blow, told Ali there had been blows befor
e. When Gordon turned his furious glower back on Sister Anselm, Ali fully expected him to fling the swab into her face.

  “You can tell from this?” he demanded, holding the swab in the air and shaking it in Sister Anselm’s face. “From this little thing?”

  “Yes,” Sister Anselm assured him. “We can.”

  Without another word, he shoved the swab into his mouth, ran the end of it up and down his cheek, and then handed it back to Sister Anselm.

  “There!” he said. “If I find out that little bitch cheated on me, I’ll—” He stopped in mid-sentence without finishing the threat. Then he turned and led the way back to the elevator.

  Once the door closed behind them, Nurse Mandy turned on Sister Anselm. “What in the world was that all about? Why do you need his DNA? Do you think the baby really isn’t his?”

  “I have no doubt that Mr. Tower is the baby’s father,” Sister Anselm said with a triumphant smile. “But now he does. It’ll give him something to think about.”

  “Look,” Nurse Mandy said angrily, “we already know how volatile the man is. You had no business provoking him. What do you think will happen to that poor girl and her baby when they finally have to go back home?”

  “We’ll have to see to it that they don’t,” Sister Anselm responded.

  Unconvinced and shaking her head, Nurse Mandy stomped off to the nurses’ station.

  “I believe yanking his chain like that is generally referred to as getting a little of your own back,” Ali observed.

  During the confrontation, Sister Anselm’s system had been fired with adrenaline. As that drained away, Ali was concerned at how weary she looked.

  “Maybe a little,” Sister Anselm agreed somewhat sheepishly. “After all, nuns are people, too. I’ll need to address that in confession this week, but that wasn’t the main reason I ran him up and down the flagpole.”