ceramic cup.
The cup didn’t break, but it rang like a bell as it struck the tabletop, spewing a flood of coffee over the Formica.
And people were looking.
Everyone was looking.
The two cops — looking.
One of them turning in his chair, offering a paper napkin, saying something, his face polite, nice smile, kind eyes, but still he was the enemy and he was
“That’s okay,” she managed, using her own napkin to swab up the mess. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
Then the waitress was there with a sponge, and the rest of the spill disappeared under the quick circling motion of her hand.
“Want a refill on that?” the waitress, Lois, asked.
“No, just… just the check, please.”
God, listen to her, she sounded so damn scared.
She risked a glance at the cops again. One of them, the one who’d volunteered his napkin, was still watching her. “Happens all the time,” he said kindly. “Don’t fret about it.”
She had to say something, anything. “I’m just clumsy today,” she tried.
“No big deal,” the other cop said. “Clumsiness is only a misdemeanor in this town.”
It was a joke, and she laughed, but even the word
The waitress came back with the bill, and Elizabeth paid in cash, overpaying somewhat, not caring.
“Keep the change. I’m sorry about the — you know.”
“Not a problem. Don’t you want that cinnamon roll?”
“Guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” The cliche came from nowhere, rescuing her from a self- conscious silence. She got up, grabbing her purse, trying not to look at the cops, feeling like such a fool.
After twelve years she was still this afraid. After last night. After the phone call an hour ago. After all she had done, all she’d been through — still the fear was with her, clinging like a shadow.
She left the coffee shop. Outside, she glanced through the window, and for a moment she was sure she saw one of the cops, the one who’d made the misdemeanor joke, watching her.
But maybe not.
It could have been her imagination.
She hated this life. Running, hiding. Hated it, and she was tired of it, too, just tired, worn out.
Her Chevette was parked on a side street, away from the main thoroughfare. She slipped behind the wheel and sat for a long moment, breathing harshly through her mouth, letting the fear subside.
After a while she slotted the key into the ignition cylinder and ran the battery, then turned on the radio. She dialed through the AM bands, wanting to hear a soothing voice, something to distract her. She found a news update. The time was exactly nine o’clock, and the ABC announcer was talking about a battle in Congress over Medicaid funding.
This was good. This was a safe topic, far removed from her life and her concerns. She listened, grateful for the illusion of escape.
There were more news headlines, then a spate of ads, then the stock market numbers at this hour, and after the ABC sign-off, the local news came on.
“The top local story, a possible break in the White Mountains Killer case…”
Elizabeth sat upright, her fear forgotten.
This soon? Word had gotten out already?
It seemed impossible, too much even to hope for.
But…
“Police sources say they may have apprehended the man who killed single mom Sharon Andrews in the White Mountains wilderness last April. There is, as yet, no official word…”
Somehow, only an hour after she’d left the satchel,
“… a man believed to be in custody and linked to the crime that shocked southern Arizona. Reports are still sketchy, but it appears that a telephone tip to nine-one-one earlier this morning may have been instrumental in identifying the suspect….”
Her call.
There was no doubt, then.
It was incredible that they had moved so fast, but somehow they had.
The report ended with a request to stay tuned for further details as they developed, and then a political talk show came on, and Elizabeth switched off the radio.
She felt immensely better. She felt fine. She wished she could march right back into the coffee shop and finish that cinnamon roll she’d left uneaten.
Cray was in custody.
In custody.
Words that had haunted her, frightened her, for the past twelve years — but not this time.
“I won,” she told John Bainbridge Cray. “I beat you, you evil son of a bitch.
20
At 9:30 A.M. a meeting of the White Mountains Killer task force convened in an interrogation room at Tucson PD’s downtown headquarters. Captain Paul Brookings, commander of the Homicide Division, presided. He looked unhappy, but he always did.
“Got a shit storm coming,” he said by way of opening the conclave.
His gaze panned over the seven men seated around the long mahogany table and lounging on the metal bench against one wall. The bench was fitted with steel rings, suitable for securing handcuffed prisoners when the room was used for its primary purpose.
“So what else is new?” a detective named Rivera sighed.
Marty Kroft tossed a Styrofoam coffee cup at a wastebasket and missed.
The task force was decidedly informal in both its organization and its membership. A core group of four homicide detectives had stayed with the case since the discovery of Sharon Andrews’ remains last August, but other investigators drifted in and out of the task force as their caseloads dictated.
Roy Shepherd had been there from the start. He had investigated Sharon’s disappearance even before she turned up dead. He’d met her boy, Todd, the seven-year-old now being raised by his maternal grandparents in Sierra Vista. He’d gone to Apache County to share notes with the sheriff’s department there and to see the creek where the body had been found.
The killing belonged to him, really, not to Brookings, not to anyone else. Other cops had worked it to varying degrees, but he had lived it. And he wanted the case cleared. More than anything in his sixteen-year career in law enforcement, he wanted to find the man who had peeled off that woman’s face and taken it with him as a souvenir.
“Don’t hold back, Captain,” he said from the far end of the table. “Share the bad news.”
