J. Jance - Trial By Fire

“By the time Mother died, Becka was a rebellious teenager. She hated the convent just like she had hated the camp in Texas. She thought she had exchanged one prison for another. She ran away, lived on the streets for a while, and was stabbed to death in an alley in Paris before she turned seventeen.”

“What about you?” Ali asked.

“I stayed on at the convent,” Sister Anselm said. “I loved the nuns, and they loved me. They took care of me and saw to my schooling. When I turned eighteen, I could have exercised my right to return to America as a citizen. Instead, the little Lutheran girl named Judith Becker from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, converted to Catholicism and became a nun. For the next twenty-five years I lived and worked mostly in France. In the seventies, I was offered the chance to come home to America, and that’s what I did.” Sister Anselm paused and smiled. “So there you have it, the real background on that whole Angel of Death thing.”

“That’s why you do what you do?” Ali asked.

“Yes, it is,” Sister Anselm answered. “Even if my mother had survived, I don’t believe the breach with her family ever would have healed. So often, the people who come under my care are in similar circumstances to what happened to us in France. They’re lost and alone, sick or hurt, and far from home. Usually they’re dirt poor, and often they don’t speak the language. Not all of that applies to the woman in room 814, but she does seem to be alone in the world. No one has reported her missing. No one seems to be looking for her.”

“Except for the person who tried to kill her.”

Sister Anselm nodded. “And you and I may be the only people standing between her and her would-be killer. That’s why I need your help.”

That was supposition on Sister Anselm’s part, but Ali happened to agree. “Doing what exactly?” she asked.

“Listening and watching,” Sister Anselm said. “If she has visitors, I want you to keep track of who they are, what they do and say, how they comport themselves.”

“I can’t do anything of the kind without checking with Sheriff Maxwell first,” Ali said. “I can’t imagine he’ll be in favor of it.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sister Anselm said with a confident smile that waved aside Ali’s objection. “It’s all in what you say and how you say it. Just be sure to let him know that if he says no, I’ll be obliged to turn to Agent Robson for help. That should fix it.” She gave Ali an appraising look. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “The killer may well have seen you in that first news conference. I think we need to change your looks a little, and also your name. For some strange reason you look like a Cecelia to me. Yes, Cecelia should do very nicely, but Cecelia what? Let’s see. How about Cecelia McCann? With a name like that, I think you’d be better off having red hair. That would certainly change your appearance.”

Ali was stunned. “You want me to dye my hair?”

“Certainly not,” Sister Anselm declared. “There’s a wig shop in that new shopping center right across the street from the hospital, Biltmore Commons. That shop in particular specializes in providing wigs for cancer patients, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find what you need.”

Sister Anselm pawed in her purse again, extracted her iPhone, and fiddled with it for several long moments. “Ah, yes,” she said. “Here it is. It’s called Hair Again. If you go over there shopping, you might want to pick up some other footwear, something more comfortable. Heels aren’t good for hiking around hospitals. I’ll be changing back into my running shoes before I head back.”

Sister Anselm raised her hand and summoned Cynthia.

“Would you like to bill this to your room?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, please,” Sister Anselm said.

“You’re staying here, too?” Ali asked.

“Oh, yes. I suspect that the benefactor for this program has some connection to the hotel business. I often stay in upscale hotels, not that I spend much time in my rooms, but it’s good to have a place to go to decompress if I need to.”

“I could have bought my own tea,” Ali said as the nun signed the check and handed it back to Cynthia.

Sister Anselm smiled. “Think of it as a bribe, my dear, and there’s no reason to feel guilty. I have an idea my benefactor has deeper pockets than yours. Nevertheless, I would like you to contact Sheriff Maxwell, the man who, according to Mr. Robson, isn’t the least bit involved in this case. Please let him know that you and I both have some concerns about our patient’s safety. We should probably refer to her as Ms. Smith for the time being-Ms. Mary Smith. Ask him if he can spare someone else to come here and help make sure no one gains unauthorized access to her room. My first priority is to make certain that whoever committed this heinous crime doesn’t have a chance to finish it.”

Ali already knew that Sheriff Maxwell had no one to spare-except for a certain stray media relations consultant-but she didn’t say that aloud.

“Of course,” Ali told Sister Anselm. “I’ll get in touch with him right away, but let me call for my car. I can give you a ride back to the hospital.”

“No,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s only a few blocks. I’m more than capable of walking that far.”

“But the heat…”

“I’m fine, and the less the two of us are seen together, the better.”

They exchanged telephone numbers. Just then the electronic device Ali had heard before sounded again. “Ms. Smith’s vitals,” Sister Anselm said, plucking it out of her purse and studying the face of it. “She’s starting to come around again. I need to go.”

With that, Sister Anselm picked up her purse and was gone. Ali waited until she exited the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators. When that happened, Ali picked up her phone and speed-dialed Sheriff Maxwell’s number.

“He’s very busy right now,” Carol Hillyard, the sheriff’s secretary, said. “Who’s calling, please? Is this important?”

“It’s Ali Reynolds,” she said, “and yes, it’s important.”

Three long minutes later Sheriff Maxwell finally came on the line.

“Ali, glad you’re checking in. I assume you’ve heard about the missing persons report?”

“What missing persons report?”

“I asked Holly to give you a call about it. She must have been too busy, or maybe she couldn’t get through.”

I’m sure, Ali thought. She said, “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

“The call came in to the Fountain Hills Marshal Office a little over an hour ago. The missing woman’s name is Mimi Cooper. She’s seventy-one, about the estimated age of our victim. Her husband is a pilot for Northwest Airlines. He came home from a trip this afternoon and said that his wife has evidently been gone since sometime yesterday. Her car is missing, and so is she.”

“Any sign of a struggle?” Ali asked.

“Nope, but she didn’t leave a note, either. Dave Holman is on his way to meet with the Fountain Hills authorities and maybe, depending on what he learns, with the spouse as well. At this point we don’t know for sure that this Cooper woman is our victim. It’s really a wild guess on the husband’s part. What we do know is that so far hers is the only missing persons report statewide that fits in with our time frame as well as with the victim’s approximate age.”

“What do we know about her?”

“Not much. Mimi Cooper must be reasonably well-to-do. You can tell that from the Fountain Hills address. Married, with a couple of grown kids. Once Dave has more details, I expect he’ll call them in, especially if it looks like Mimi might turn out to be our victim. If you’re not calling about that, though, what’s up?”