Cold Betrayal (12 page)

“Is this something Betsy will have to turn off and on whenever she’s home?” Ali asked. “That’s why she didn’t have the alarm engaged the other night. Every time she lets her dog in or out, she has to turn it off. And what about the dog? If Betsy isn’t home and the dog is, won’t that set off an alarm, too?”

“For one thing, the alert doesn’t sound where Betsy is. It operates on her Wi-Fi system and sends the alert to the desk of one of our round-the-clock monitoring centers. She does have Wi-Fi, right?” B. asked.

“That’s what Athena told me. It’s probably not hooked up right now, but Stuart says it will be.”

“Good,” B. replied. “What’s so slick about Joe’s system is that it uses facial and form recognition. When he goes there to set it up, he’ll create three-dimensional recognition files for both Betsy and the dog. When the camera spots one of them, no alerts are issued. As for anybody else? They’re all fair game.”

“It sounds as though you and Stuart have this in hand. Why does he need to clear it with me?”

“Because you asked him to do it, for one thing,” B. reminded her. “For another, we’re going to need you to talk Betsy into letting Joe into her house. She’ll need to create a convincing cover story for his visit, because the whole point is having the system installed without anyone else knowing it exists.”

“Because the dog didn’t bark?”

B. laughed. “That’s my girl,” he said, “and that’s it precisely. Whoever came into the house that night and turned on the gas most likely was someone the dog—Princess, I believe—wasn’t worried about even though she should have been. So we’re going to observe the movements of everyone who enters the house and see if we can spot any of them doing something suspicious.”

“This sounds expensive,” Ali observed, remembering she had given Stuart the go-ahead to spend whatever was needed.

“It is,” B. agreed, “but you get what you pay for. Besides, you weren’t planning on billing either Athena or her grandmother for this, were you?”

“No,” Ali admitted.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “In that case, we’ll care enough to send the very best. By the time Stuart talks to you later this morning, he’ll have some idea of Joe’s availability. After that, it’s up to you to convince Betsy Peterson that this invasion of her privacy is in her best interest.”

“If there are going to be cameras everywhere in her house, how is she supposed to shower or take a bath without feeling like people are watching her every move? It sounds like there will be cameras in her bedroom and in her bathroom, too. Is that really necessary?”

“Yes, it is,” B. answered. “If someone were going to try to slip something into a bottle of prescription medication, for example, it’s important that the cameras record whoever might be messing with the medicine cabinet. But again, that’s where the smart part comes in. The system only records the movements of people who aren’t in the official 3-D recognition file.

“I’m suggesting that you recommend to Betsy that for now she and Princess be the only two entities with recognition files. Anyone else who enters the house will trigger an automatic alarm and record because the cameras will follow them everywhere. It’ll be easy enough to tell from the images if they’re on the up-and-up or if they’re not.”

“Betsy struck me as being a bit cantankerous,” Ali cautioned, “but she’s also provoked that the authorities back there aren’t taking any interest in what happened. In other words, I should be able to pull this off.”

“Of course, you will,” B. agreed. “I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion.”

With the pressing items of business out of the way, they talked for a while longer. By the time the call ended, Ali’s coffee cup was empty. She turned off the fire and went back to bed, thinking that with a caffeine high she’d be able to make great progress on Jane Austen. After a mere page or two, she put the book down on the bed, turned off the bedside lamp, and fell asleep. She did notice, though, that just as she dozed off, a little warm dog wormed her way under the covers and curled up next to her back.

9

O
nce on I-17, Sister Anselm was surprised that Ali’s weather report proved to be entirely correct. After leaving Sedona, the farther north she went, the less evidence she saw of the storm that was still wreaking havoc from Sedona through Prescott and Cordes Junction and all the way down to the northernmost outskirts of Phoenix. It was an odd kind of weather pattern, to be sure, although she doubted anyone would be able to ascribe the lack of new snow falling in Flagstaff to evidence of global warming or the newest catch-all label—climate change.

Driving north, Sister Anselm spent the time praying for her two, and as yet unknown, patients. An unidentified young woman, possibly a runaway, who was also pregnant, had been struck by a motor vehicle twenty miles north of Flagstaff on Highway 89. The woman, injured and unconscious, had gone into labor. Her infant, a girl thought to be six to eight weeks premature, had been delivered by EMTs in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The baby was now being treated in a critical care nursery while the mother underwent multiple surgical procedures—one to remove her ruptured spleen and another to reduce pressure on her brain from injuries to the back of her skull.

When Sister Anselm turned into the hospital entrance, it may not have been snowy, but it was bitterly cold. Patches of black ice covered the paved parking lot, making her grateful that she had been directed to go into the underground garage, where a space had been coned off for her. After being buzzed into the building, Sister Anselm made her way to the front desk, where a bleary-eyed overnight receptionist directed her to the fourth-floor maternity ward.

Stepping out of the elevator, Sister Anselm was greeted warmly by an energetic young woman who hurried out of the nurses’ station to welcome her. “I’m Nurse Mandy, the charge nurse. You must be Sister Anselm.”

“Yes, I am. How are my patients?”

“The baby is premature—critical but stable. She also has a broken arm, which has been set and placed in a soft cast. She was having some breathing difficulties when they brought her in, but she’s doing better now. As for the mother? She’s critical, too, and still in surgery. When she comes out of the recovery room, by rights they should take her to the surgical recovery floor, but given the circumstances, her doctors have agreed to send her here instead. That way she’ll be closer to her baby.”

“Has there been any progress on identifying her?”

Nurse Mandy shook her head. “Not so far. Her clothing and belongings are all under lock and key, but I’ve been authorized to allow you access to them in case that will aid you in sorting out who she is.”

“Isn’t the sheriff’s department working on that?” Sister Anselm asked.

“Yes, but they’re not making much progress. They’ve checked statewide missing persons reports, but so far nothing has turned up that matches our victim. The investigation into the accident itself is still ongoing, but it’s most likely going to be termed unavoidable. In other words, no wrongdoing on the driver’s part. Apparently, she darted into the road in front of him. Had it been a hit-and-run, that would be a different story, but the driver stayed around long enough to help her and give a statement to police. A witness from a nearby gas station backed up his story.”

Sister Anselm understood that had the incident been ruled a hit-and-run, there would have been far more urgency on the part of some law enforcement agency to identify the victim.

“By the way,” Nurse Mandy added, “the young man who hit her is just down the hall in the waiting room. He claims not to know her. Nevertheless, he’s beyond distraught. I tried to tell him he should go home—that there’s nothing more he can do here. Even so, he’s adamant about staying.”

“Do you think he knows her and is pretending not to?”

“Maybe,” Nurse Mandy said. “I’ve certainly seen that happen before, especially in instances of domestic violence. The assailant sits there and pretends ignorance while the helpless victim is unconscious and unable to say otherwise.”

“Why don’t I go speak to him,” Sister Anselm said. “After that I’d like to take a look at the victim’s personal effects; maybe I’ll find a clue that will help us identify her.”

She walked down the hall to a small waiting room. This was a part of the job she liked the least, approaching supposedly grieving loved ones and trying to suss out who was lying and who was telling the truth.

On one side of the room was a long window that allowed waiting room visitors to see inside the nursery. Several separate seating areas with chairs and love seats would have accommodated a fair number of visitors. At this hour of the morning, there was only one—a young man in jeans, hiking boots, and a Northern Arizona University Lumberjack sweatshirt. He jumped to his feet as Sister Anselm walked toward him.

“Are you the chaplain?” he asked anxiously.

“No,” she said. “I’m not the chaplain.”

“Is she dead?”

The anguish on his face seemed genuine enough. “No one has died,” Sister Anselm assured him. “My name is Sister Anselm. I’m a Sister of Providence. I’m also what’s called a patient advocate. I’m usually summoned when someone is hospitalized with no apparent next of kin and no way of communicating his or her wishes to medical practitioners. Part of my job is to help locate next of kin for, in this case, two patients rather than one.”

“Two?” he asked. “That means they’re both still alive?”

Sister Anselm nodded. “So far,” she said, “but would that be you, then? Are you their next of kin?”

“No,” the young man said. “Not at all.” His face, which had brightened momentarily, turned somber again. His shoulders drooped. “I’m the guy who hit them.”

Sister Anselm trusted her people skills. The young man’s anxiety could easily have been faked, but the naked relief that had flashed across his face at learning that both patients were still alive was absolutely genuine.

He sat back down, hard, shaking his head in obvious relief. “I’m so glad to hear they’re both still alive. When she told me her baby was coming, I thought, ‘Oh, no, I’ve killed them both.’ ”

“Well, you didn’t,” Sister Anselm said, taking a seat next to him. “Now, you know my name. What’s yours?”

“David,” he said. “David Upton. I’m a junior here at NAU.”

“I’ve heard only the barest outlines of what happened. I’d appreciate it if you could tell me your side of the story. I understand you were driving the car that hit . . . we’ll call her Jane Doe for right now. I also was told that the victim isn’t someone you know.”

David nodded. “That’s right. She’s a complete stranger. I’d never seen her before when she ran out into the road right in front of me. There was no time for me to stop. She was just there. I’ll never forget the sound of the thump when I hit her. She went flying through the air like a little rag doll. It was awful.”

David shuddered at the memory, and Sister Anselm gave his knee a consoling pat. “How about starting at the beginning,” she suggested. “Where did this happen, and where were you going?”

“I was on my way to Vermillion Cliffs,” he said. “Some of my friends go to school at BYU. We were going to meet up there for some rock climbing. It’s more fun to do that before the weather gets warm and all the warm-weather tourists show up. I’m studying chemical engineering. My big lab days are Tuesdays and Thursdays. I figured I could spend tomorrow climbing and then be back in time for classes on Thursday.

“That’s why I left so late in the afternoon. I have an afternoon lab, and then I had to do some other stuff before I could leave town. There’s a little gas station on Highway 89 about twenty miles from here. It closes around ten o’clock, so it’s sort of the last place for a pit stop and coffee when you’re headed north late at night. That’s what I was going to do—stop and get some coffee.

“I was starting to slow down when she ran across the road directly in front of me. All I saw was someone wrapped in an Indian blanket running into the beams of my headlights. There was nothing I could do. I tried to stop but there wasn’t time. I hit her dead-on.”

He paused and shook his head, as though the very memory of the incident was enough to leave him shaken all over again.

Finally he continued. “I got out of my vehicle and ran over to her. She was just a kid. She may have been wearing an Indian blanket, but she wasn’t an Indian. I don’t know any blond-haired Indians. She was lying there on the pavement so still that I thought for sure I’d killed her. There was blood coming from the back of her head. I didn’t dare move her for fear of doing more damage.

“I kept calling to her, hoping to get her to wake up, and finally she did. It was so cold, and all she was wearing was this lightweight jacket kind of thing. I had seen the blanket go flying when I hit her. I found it, brought it back, and used that to cover her. The whole time I had been with her, I had been so focused on her face that I didn’t notice anything else. It wasn’t until I came back with the blanket that I realized she was pregnant. She said something like, ‘don’t let them send me back, and don’t let them send my baby back, either.’ Call me stupid, but that was the first I realized she was expecting.”

He paused again and took a deep breath. “And that’s about the time her water broke. I mean it was like a flood. The next thing I knew, she was soaked and so was I. By then other people had turned up. The clerk from the gas station came out and started putting up flares because we were both still in the middle of the road. Somebody else called for an aid car and notified the cops. I don’t know how long it took for the ambulance to get to us. It felt like forever.”

“She spoke to you, then?” Sister Anselm asked.

David nodded.

“Did she say anything about who she was—what her name is or where she’s from?”

“I asked what her name was. She tried to tell me, but she was having a hard time talking. It sounded like something that started with an E—Edith maybe? She didn’t mention a last name. There was a lot of confusion when the EMTs got there. For a while, they must have thought I was her husband. That’s why, when they cut her hair off so they could deal with the wound on the back of her head, they gave me these.”