Trial by Fire

by J. A. Jance

  She fully intended to go see Sister Anselm, but her parents came first. Back in her third-floor suite Ali showered and changed into her somewhat wrinkled long-sleeved pantsuit, which covered the bandages on her arms and knees as well as the darkening bruises on her legs. Then she fixed her face. It turned out she had gotten sunburned while she’d been outside scrabbling around in the wash with Sister Anselm. The jagged scar Peter Winters’s fist had left on her face months earlier showed bright white against her reddened skin, and it took several layers of powder to tone it down and make it less noticeable.

  With the damage concealed as well as possible, she went in search of her parents and found them seated in the spacious club lounge, where her father was nursing a beer and her mother was sipping a cup of tea. Ten o’clock was a good three hours past Edie Larson’s usual bedtime.

  “What are you doing here?” Ali asked as soon as she saw them.

  “Let me see,” Edie said. “Would it happen to be because our daughter was almost rubbed out in a shoot-out this afternoon but she gave us strict orders not to come to the hospital? How are you? Are you okay? Is anything broken?”

  “I’m fine,” Ali said. “Really.”

  Bob Larson grinned at his daughter. “As for what are we doing here, Edie and I talked it over. We decided that since you had declared the hospital off-limits, coming to the hotel was okay.”

  “But what about the restaurant?” Ali said.

  “We went by the Sugarloaf and put up a sign. I printed it out myself on the computer. Closed for a family emergency,” Edie said. “If this doesn’t count as a family emergency, I don’t know what does.”

  The lounge attendant came over to the table where they were sitting. “May I get you something?” she asked Ali.

  “A glass of merlot, please.”

  “And for you, sir,” she said to Ali’s dad. “Would you care for another beer?”

  “One’s my limit,” Bob told her. “Otherwise the wife gets cranky.”

  Edie gave him a withering look. “I do no such thing,” she declared. “You’re welcome to drink as many of those fool things as you want.”

  Bob winked at the attendant. “I’ll stick with one,” he said. “It pays to keep her happy.”

  Ali’s cell phone rang. There was a notice on the table asking that people refrain from using their cell phones in the lounge, but since she and her parents were the only people there and since the caller was Dave Holman, she answered anyway.

  “Do you hear it?” he asked.

  “Hear what?”

  “ATF agents Donnelley and Robson doing their happy dance,” Dave said. “It turns out Thomas McGregor was evidently the real ELF deal.”

  “You’re kidding,” Ali breathed.

  “Nope,” Dave continued. “McGregor has lived outside of Payson for a long time, staying under everyone’s radar. When he hasn’t been out on what he calls ‘missions,’ he’s been holed up in a cabin busily documenting everything his particular fire-setting cell has been doing for the last twenty years or so—sort of an unabridged ecoterrorism history, written in longhand.”

  “Longhand?” Ali asked.

  “Yup. McGregor’s no fan of computers or electronics of any kind. He’s done all his writing the old-fashioned way, with pen and ink in a pile of spiral notebooks. There are pages and pages of material, naming names and citing specific operatives involved and so forth. It’s incredibly amazing stuff—invaluable stuff. Your basic ATF gold mine.”

  “How did he stay under the radar all this time?” Ali asked.

  “By not causing trouble or calling attention to himself. He never got picked up for anything. No arrests of any kind, anywhere. He lived off the grid. He used a kerosene lamp for light and a wood stove for heat, and hand-pumped his own water from a well. The only thing that doesn’t fit is the cell phone found in his possession today. It’s a dead end, however. It’s one of those throwaway phones that only made calls to another throwaway phone.”

  Ali was aware that her parents were hanging on her every word, but she had to ask. “What’s McGregor’s connection to Sister Anselm?”

  “Good question,” Dave said. “We have no idea, but on a slightly different topic, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “What?” Ali asked.

  “Sheriff Maxwell got word tonight that Mrs. Cooper didn’t make it. She died a little after six this evening.”

  While I was downstairs in the ER, Ali thought, and while Sister Anselm was similarly occupied in some other part of the hospital.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ali said, “but as bad as she was burned, she never would have recovered.”

  “I know,” Dave agreed. “It’s probably a blessing for her, and for her family. I’m sure they’re relieved to know that she’s not suffering anymore. And I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to her husband and kids when we can tell them that we’ve nailed Mimi’s killer.

  “As for that missing painting?” Dave continued. “The arson investigators found something that looks like a piece of charred picture-frame stock and some glass with a few scraps of paper stuck to it in the other burned house up in Camp Verde. The manufacturer’s number is still visible on back of the frame. The investigators are trying to trace that, but the initial reading is that it’s good-quality and expensive stuff. Not from your local frame-it-yourself outlet.”

  “They burned up Mimi’s Klee?” Ali asked. “Why would they? It’s worth a fortune.”

  “Let’s hope it’s insured,” Dave said.

  Ali knew it was. She had spent a long time in the burn unit with Mimi’s less than exemplary family. She was sure Hal would be grieving the loss of his wife and wouldn’t notice the loss of the painting, valuable or not. Mimi’s children were another matter. They would be looking to lay hands on any dollars available, and they wouldn’t be pleased to know that if Hal Cooper was cleared of complicity, he would be free to inherit whatever Mimi had left him.

  “Does Hal know about the painting?” Ali asked.

  “Not yet,” Dave said. “That’s why I’m calling you. No one has told anyone anything. Donnelley’s trying to keep a lid on this, and he’s asking us to play along. There appears to be a treasure trove of names in the handwritten material they confiscated from McGregor’s place. Donnelley wants to have a chance to analyze as much of that as possible before word gets out that they have it.”

  “In other words, Donnelley is hoping to score,” Ali said.

  “Big time,” Dave agreed. “Robson doubts McGregor’s ELF associates knew he was documenting everything he did and, as a consequence, what they did, too. ATF hopes to swoop down and bring some of those folks in for questioning before they have a chance to go to ground.

  “Which is to say, they’re not releasing any information about what happened earlier this afternoon, other than that there was an incident involving multiple agencies south of Payson. No names. No details. Not to anyone, including Mimi Cooper’s family, because they’re concerned that some of them may also have ties to ELF. Donnelley believes that the ultimate solution to Mimi’s murder is going to be found in those notebooks.”

  “What about what happened to Sister Anselm? Who’s investigating that?”

  Dave sighed. “That’s sort of up in the air right now. Donnelley’s position is that it’s not his jurisdiction or his concern, especially since he has his hands full with the ELF investigation. Sheriff Maxwell comes down in pretty much the same place. The incident started inside the Phoenix city limits and ended in Gila County. It’s not his problem.”

  “But Sister Anselm was kidnapped because of what happened to Mimi,” Ali pointed out.

  “Yes.”

  “And they’re not releasing details about what happened to her, either?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Ali was beyond outraged. “So you’re saying someone can be kidnapped off city streets in broad daylight and no one is investigating the people who did it?”

  “I’m sure Phoenix PD i
s already working the case.”

  “Really,” Ali said. “They haven’t spoken to me, and I doubt they’ve spoken to Sister Anselm, either.”

  “There’s no reason you can’t call them,” Dave returned. “Since you seem to know so many of the particulars, I expect they’d be interested in talking to you.”

  “I’m not so sure I’m interested in talking to them,” Ali returned. “And what about Hal Cooper’s painting? No one has spoken to him about that, either? Agent Donnelley issues a gag order and we all just shut up and let him get away with it?”

  Ali’s merlot had arrived and was sitting on the table. She paused to take a sip and to get her temper back under control.

  “Yes,” Dave said. “For right now that’s what we need to do.”

  “That’s an order?”

  “Maybe not for you, but it is for me. If you want to raise an objection, how about if you do it tomorrow, after you get back home?”

  “I may just do that,” Ali said, “but right now, I need to go. My parents are here. I need to talk to them.”

  With that she closed the phone. Blaming the hang-up on her parents was just an excuse. Ali knew she was about to throw a temper tantrum. At her age, that was something best done in private.

  “My goodness,” Edie Larson said. “I can’t imagine what Dave could have said that made you so upset. You practically hung up on him.”

  I didn’t practically hang up on him, Ali thought. I really hung up on him.

  It angered her to think that the vicious attack on Sister Anselm had been turned into a political football, with none of the various agencies accepting responsibility for it. That was true for ATF agents Donnelley and Robson, but it was also true for Sheriff Maxwell and Dave Holman. In order to further the ATF’s investigation, everything else was being shoved onto a back burner.

  “What’s going on?” Edie asked when Ali didn’t answer right away.

  Shaking her head, Ali looked from her mother to her father. “Sometimes men drive me nuts,” she said. “Present company excepted.” With that, and having taken only that one sip of wine, Ali pushed her glass aside and stood up.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I need to go to bed.”

  “Is something wrong with your wine?” Bob asked.

  “No,” Ali said. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to drink it. I’m going to my room.”

  “But we came all the way down here to see you . . .” Edie began.

  “Now, Mother,” Bob said. “Let her go.” He pushed away his empty beer bottle and reached for Ali’s glass of wine. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste,” he said.

  Edie glared at him and then shook her head. “The lady at the desk says they serve a free breakfast in here every morning. Should we meet up here?”

  “Sure,” Ali agreed. “That’ll be fine.”

  “What time?”

  “It’ll depend on how I feel,” Ali said. “Please call when you’re ready.”

  Ali was still doing a slow burn as she went downstairs. With McGregor dead, everyone else seemed ready to pass the buck as far as Sister Anselm was concerned. Ali seemed to be the only person who was convinced that the attack on Sister Anselm had been carried out by two perpetrators rather than just one. And the fact that Sister Anselm was now in a hospital room in Saint Gregory’s didn’t mean she was entirely out of danger.

  Ali allowed her parents think she was on her way to bed. Instead, she went to her room and called for her car. When she left her room to head back to the hospital, Ali took her briefcase and computer along with her. After all, Ali’s computer had saved Sister Anselm’s life once today. Maybe it would do so again.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time Ali drove back to the hospital, the valet parking stand was closed. Driving into the garage, she saw a dark-suited man with the look of a security guard standing near the garage elevator, watching everyone who came and went. For some reason, that made Ali feel better. When she exited the garage elevator in the lobby, she was relieved to see still another guard posted near the front entrance. There hadn’t been a noticeable security presence at Saint Gregory’s the night before, but she was glad to see one now.

  Once she was in the hospital, finding Sister Anselm wasn’t as easy as it should have been. No one seemed willing or able to give out any information. Having struck out everywhere else, Ali finally ventured into the waiting room outside the ICU.

  As she stepped off the elevator, she was surprised to find two more rent-a-cops in black suits there as well. One stood to the right of the elevator, while the second was stationed just inside the waiting room.

  The presence of the security detail probably meant that a celebrity of some kind, or maybe even a high-powered politician, was undergoing treatment in Saint Gregory’s. Fortunately for them, the guards made no attempt to waylay Ali. If they had, she most likely would have given them a piece of her mind—the piece she hadn’t let loose on Dave Holman.

  When Ali first entered the darkened waiting room, she thought it was empty. Then a shadowy figure rose from a chair in the corner and walked toward her through the gloom.

  “Please turn on the light, Edward,” a man’s voice said. “I’m through resting my eyes for the time being. There’s no need for our fellow visitor to stumble around in the dark.”

  One of the guards moved at once to switch on the overhead light while Ali examined the elfin figure who had issued the order. He was tiny—only about five foot four—and he, too, wore a black suit, only his was topped by a clerical collar. His unruly mane of white hair seemed at odds with his clothing, as did his mischievous blue eyes and ready smile.

  “I’m Bishop Francis Gillespie,” he said, holding out his hand. “From what Sister Anselm told me, I would assume you to be Alison Reynolds. Is that correct?”

  Thunderstruck, Ali nodded. “Most people call me Ali,” she said.

  When he clasped her hand in both of his, Ali was startled to realize that his hands weren’t nearly as small as the rest of him.

  “I must confess that I had a little more help in identifying you than just Sister Anselm’s description,” he added. “After she spoke so highly of you, I took the liberty of looking you up on the Internet. I more than half expected that if you came here tonight, you’d still be wearing that bright red wig. Sister Anselm indicated that she thought the red hair looked very fetching on you.”

  Ali was struggling through her memory banks, trying to remember the proper term one should use when addressing a bishop. Was she supposed to call him Your Excellency, or Reverend Gillespie, or was there something else?

  “Sit down, sit down,” he urged pleasantly, leading Ali to a chair.

  “Sister Anselm is here now, in the ICU?”

  Bishop Gillespie nodded. “Yes, they brought her up from the recovery room a few minutes ago. I spoke to the surgeon—an orthopedic guy. He says they set the leg and put in metal plates and screws to hold it in place. It was broken in more than one spot. They won’t be able to schedule the hip replacement until sometime next week. No visitors but relatives,” he added.

  “I can’t see her, then?” Ali asked.

  “No,” he said. “Sorry. They may let me in later, but then I have special dispensation.”

  Having seen Sister Anselm’s damaged leg with her own eyes, Ali wasn’t surprised to learn that more than one surgical procedure would be necessary to repair it. As for the fact that Sister Anselm wouldn’t be allowed any visitors? That was fine with Ali.

  “I’m sure you’re startled to find me here,” Bishop Gillespie continued, “but Sister Anselm is rather a special case. Considering the seriousness of the situation, it seemed to me that having a contingent of security guards on hand to keep an eye on her while she’s recovering would be a good idea.”

  Ali agreed with that assessment completely. She also liked the fact that the security guards in question appeared to take their responsibilities seriously. They seemed more than capable of handling any unexpected conti
ngency.

  “The truth is,” the bishop went on, “if I had really listened to Sister’s concerns—if I had been paying attention—I would have sent one of my cars and a driver to take her to and from the hospital as needed. That’s what I should have done. Now we have to deal with the consequences of my negligence.”

  “I’m sure Sister Anselm will forgive you,” Ali said.

  “Yes,” Bishop Gillespie agreed. “She’s a very forgiving soul. But knowing she’s come to grievous harm, I’m not at all sure that I shall be able to forgive myself. Then, of course, there’s what happened to you today as well,” he added sadly. “I understand you, too, have sustained some injuries in the process of rescuing Sister Anselm.”

  The man seemed so troubled that Ali didn’t want to add to his burden. “Nothing serious,” she said casually. “A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing’s broken.”

  “I understand the man responsible for that dreadful attack is dead. It’s difficult to imagine that kind of evil loose in the world. What sort of depraved individual would leave one poor woman to burn to death in a fire and abandon another to die in the desert? Behavior like that is entirely beyond the pale.”

  Ali realized that someone had been feeding Bishop Gillespie a whole lot of very accurate information that he wasn’t supposed to have. Despite Agent Donnelley’s embargo on information, Bishop Gillespie seemed to know almost as much about the day’s events as Ali did. Under the circumstances, her best tactic seemed to be changing the subject before she, too, ended up divulging unauthorized information.

  “Have you and Sister Anselm been friends for a long time?” she asked.

  He nodded. “A very long time,” he said. “Has she told you anything about her background?”

  “Some. She told me about her mission and about how, when she’s dealing with badly injured people, she’s often as concerned about healing their broken relationships as she is their broken bodies.”

  Bishop Gillespie nodded sagely. “That’s true,” he said. “She’s forever trying to do for others what other people once did for her.”