“James and Connie,” James Fox answered. “We were told our daughter was being treated here in the ICU, but they didn’t have her name at the front desk.”
“She’s listed on our records as Jane Doe. When she was admitted, we had no way of knowing who she was,” Sister Anselm told them. “But yes, at this point, I believe Jane Doe is your daughter.” She turned to the younger girls. “And these are her sisters?” She asked the question, though she didn’t really need to. The family resemblance between these girls and Rose’s shattered visage was striking.
“Yes,” Connie said. “Lily and Jasmine. But what can you tell us about Rose? Is she going to be all right? When can we see her?”
“Not right now,” Sister Anselm explained, directing them into chairs. “Without her express permission, I can’t provide any details about the extent of her injuries or her course of treatment, but you need to understand that she was seriously injured before she was brought here, and those injuries are likely to impact her health for some time. If you do see her, you need to prepare yourselves for the idea that she won’t look like the person you remember.”
“If we see her?” Connie asked. “What do you mean if? She’s our daughter. She’s here. We’re here, and I don’t care what she looks like. I just want to see her and to know that she’s alive, that she’s okay.”
“Alive, yes,” Sister Anselm replied. “Okay, no. The problem is, she doesn’t want to see you.”
“She doesn’t want to see us?” Connie echoed. “I don’t believe it. Why not? How can that be? We’re her parents. We’ve been trying to find her for years.”
“You’re her mother,” James Fox said. “She’ll see you even if she won’t see me.”
Hearing the regret in his voice, Sister Anselm studied the man. She had heard the all too common horror stories in which running away was the only option for children stuck in abusive homes. More times than she could count, that abuse had been perpetrated by stepfathers. That wasn’t the reading she was getting from this particular stepfather, however.
“You’re saying you and she were at odds?” Sister Anselm suggested.
“I was a lifelong bachelor who had never been married when Connie and her girls came into my life,” James Fox said. “Rose and Lily were already in their teens. I had never been a father, but I was an engineer. When I see something that’s wrong, I want to fix it.”
“What was wrong with Rose?” Sister Anselm asked.
“Nothing, really. Rose was smart. She had huge amounts of potential, but she couldn’t see it; she seemed determined to squander it. I tried to push her too hard in one direction-toward doing better in school, getting her education. She wasn’t interested. I thought all I was doing was trying to create a little order in their lives by giving them a better place to live, more opportunities. But I can see now that she must have thought I was bossing everybody around. I got smarter after she left. I’ve done a lot better with her sisters, don’t you think?” he asked Connie.
Connie reached out, took his hand, and nodded. The younger girl, Jasmine, sidled up to him and gave him a hug.
“When that young man Al Gutierrez showed up at the house last night, he said he was with the Border Patrol, but he wasn’t in uniform, and I thought he was trying to scam us,” Fox continued. “That’s happened before. I’ve seen Connie put through the wringer enough times by people claiming to know what happened to Rose when all they really wanted was Connie’s money. When the detective from Phoenix called this morning, I figured out that Gutierrez must have been telling the truth-that Rose really was alive. And now that we know she may be involved in a homicide-” His voice broke. He stopped speaking abruptly.
“Did they say whose homicide?” Sister Anselm asked.
James Fox nodded. “The guy’s name was Hernandez-Chico Hernandez. Rose evidently worked for him as a …” He paused, looked at Jasmine, and added, “A call girl. He was murdered late last week, and Rose’s fingerprints were found in his vehicle. That’s why Detective Rush called us this morning.”
“Does that make any difference?” Sister Anselm asked. She didn’t say “call girl” aloud, but that was what she meant.
“Damn right it makes a difference!” James Fox declared.
Sister Anselm’s heart fell.
“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he demanded. “Rose is a person of interest in a homicide. I don’t care if she wants to see us. That doesn’t matter, but if she’s mixed up in a murder, she probably needs our help. That’s why we’re here. Tell her that, please.”
Which was not at all what Sister Anselm had expected. She stood up. “Wait here,” she said. “Let me go talk to her. I’ll see what I can do.”
36
11:00 A.M., Monday, April 12
Vail, Arizona
By the time Detective Ariel Rush showed up on Al Gutierrez’s doorstep in Vail, he had printed out the crime scene photos, the ones Dobbs had told him not to bother keeping. His printer wasn’t the best, so neither was the resolution.
“I took these on Friday,” he said, handing them over. “They’re not very good.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “I’ll go get my computer and copy what’s on the memory stick so the lab can take a look at it.”
By the time she returned with her laptop, he had taken the memory stick out of his camera.
“Any thing else on here besides your crime scene photos?” she asked.
“My graduation picture,” he said. “From the academy.”
“We don’t want anything to happen to that,” Rush said with a smile. “Have you been on the job long?”
“Awhile,” Al admitted. “I just don’t take that many pictures.”
In a way, Detective Rush reminded him of his old junior high principal from back in Wenatchee. Mrs. Baxter had looked scary but wasn’t. Al suspected Detective Rush was pretty much the same.
“Ready to saddle up?” she asked, closing her computer and returning the memory stick.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Want me to bring my camera along?”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I’ve got my own.”
On the forty-five-minute drive from Vail to King’s Anvil Ranch, south of Three Points, Al told Detective Rush everything he could remember about the incident on Friday afternoon and everything he had learned about the victim.
On Friday, he had carefully recorded the location of the crime scene from his GPS so he’d be able to find it again later. Now, as they headed toward the crime scene in Detective Rush’s vehicle, that notation proved to be invaluable; without it, they would have been flying blind through the mesquite-dotted landscape. His note helped him make sense of the countless tracks that meandered here and there across the desert. Eventually, he spotted something familiar.
“Stop here,” he ordered. “It’s on the far side of that clump of mesquite.”
Before they got out of the car, Detective Rush slipped off her black low-heeled pumps in favor of tennis shoes. Stepping from the vehicle, she brought along Al’s crime scene photos as well as her own camera. Out on the desert floor, Al helped her down the bank and then led her to the spot where the roiled sand indicated a lot of activity. It was April. All weekend long the wind had blown in from the west, shifting sand into what might have been usable tracks. Comparing the photos to the landscape, Detective Rush combed the wash for twenty yards in either direction. Then she examined the part of the bank where Al suspected something had been rolled down the steep incline, taking photos of bits of broken grass, horse nettles, Tucson burr ragweed.
“Look here,” she said, pointing toward a plant with a bit of fabric tangled in one of the spiky burrs. She held up both the burr and the thread before dropping them into an evidence bag.
“It’s not from the victim’s clothing,” Al said. “She wasn’t wearing any.”
