“Any mobility issues?”
“She can walk when she wants to. And I know she does when I’m not around. At night I hear her pacing in her room, but during the day she mostly just sits in the recliner in the living room and stares at the tree. I try to get her to shower once a week.”
“She sounds depressed,” Dr. Patterson said.
“I think so, too.”
“Would she take medication if you offered it to her?”
Phil shook his head. “Probably not,” he said. “I had some leftover antidepressants my old doctor had given me. I tried giving them to Christine. She accused me of trying to poison her.”
“What about her teeth?”
“She’s lost several so far. I begged her to go to the dentist. She says that since I’m the only one who sees her, what does it matter?”
“Presumably, your wife isn’t in the best of health, but then neither are you,” Patterson said. “Your blood pressure is off the charts. So is your cholesterol. If we don’t get a handle on those, chances are she’ll outlive you. Then what will happen to her?”
Patterson had posed that question aloud for the first time several weeks earlier, and Phil had been grappling with the issue ever since. They had no kids—no surviving kids—who could be called on to help out in the face of a long-term health crisis. As Christine had turned into more and more of a hermit, the people who were once their friends had slowly drifted away. So had their relations. For now this was Phil’s fight and nobody else’s.
That was what had prompted him to bite the bullet and replace the windows. It was why he was painting the exterior of the house and garage. His next plan was to redo the kitchen and replace the appliances. Next up after that would be the bathroom. And finally, the living room. If Christine was ever left alone with a caregiver, it would be in a house that was in the best shape Phil could manage.
Lost in thought, Phil absently stirred the pot of oatmeal. Once it was finished, he divided it into the three microwaveable plastic bowls and set them on the kitchen counter before putting the dirty saucepan in the dishwasher to run with yesterday’s dishes. Then he moved the uniforms into the dryer and loaded the bedding into the Maytag. Glancing up at his grandmother’s antique teapot-shaped clock, he saw that it was ten to seven—time for his one bit of daily self-indulgence.
Every morning before work and on weekends, too, Phil stopped by the San Rafael Cafe to have a leisurely breakfast and shoot the breeze. His breakfast choices at the cafe tended to include crisp bacon and over-easy eggs, something he had no intention of mentioning to Doc Patterson.
After breakfast, he’d come home, do the ironing, paint the garage trim, and do the rest of his chores, all the while hoping that Ollie would be waiting to see him when he delivered her mail on Monday afternoon.
19
11:00 A.M., Sunday, April 11
Marana, Arizona
On Sunday morning, heading down I-17, Ali used her Bluetooth to call Victor Angeleri, the criminal defense attorney who had been her go-to guy when she was accused of murdering her former husband and needed one. He had given her his home number back then, and she still had it. Fortunately, it was April and daylight saving time in most of the rest of the country. With Arizona and California in the same time zone at this time of year, she doubted she was in any danger of waking him up.
“Long time, no hear,” Victor said cheerfully when Ali identified herself. “You’re not offloading inconvenient husbands again, are you?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “And if you recall, I didn’t do that the first time, either. Right now I’m calling for a friend of mine—a cop in southern Arizona who got shot the other night and is now under suspicion as a drug trafficker. He’ll probably be able to get help from the local police officers’ legal defense fund, but that will take time and paperwork. I’m looking for someone to step in sooner than that.”
“I may have a contact or two in Tucson,” Victor said. “Is Tucson close enough?”
“Tucson is exactly right.”
“Can your friend pay the going rate?”
“Probably not. He’s in the hospital with serious injuries and serious meds. Because it’s an officer-involved shooting, it’s being investigated by the Department of Public Safety. I’m worried that if the DPS investigator shows up for an initial interview while Jose is under the influence of medication—”
“That your friend may blow it.”
“Exactly. I’m not offering to sign on for his whole defense, but I am willing to pay the freight for him to have representation during that initial interview process.”
“It sounds like you’re still busy spending your former husband’s cash,” Victor said with a laugh, “but let me see what I can do.”
An hour later, as Ali approached Marana on Tucson’s north side, her phone rang again. The number in the readout was unlisted.
“Ali Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Juanita Cisco. Victor Angeleri and I go way back. When he gives me a heads-up about something, I generally pay attention, which is why I’m calling. He told me that this concerns a friend of yours, a police officer who’s in the hospital with gunshot wounds.”
“That’s right. Jose Reyes, a Santa Cruz County deputy, is the victim. Unfortunately, investigators now suspect that the shooting was the result of a drug deal gone bad.”
“Jose is related to you how?”
“We’re not related. We’re friends.”
“But you’re the one who’s hiring me, not him and not his wife. Why? What’s your interest in all this?”
“As I said, we’re friends. The shooting investigation is being handled by the Department of Public Safety. Eventually, Jose will probably have representation from the police officer’s legal defense fund, but I want him to have someone on hand today if he ends up subjected to an initial interview when he’s in the hospital and more or less out of it.”
“I don’t much like being called in as a pinch hitter,” Juanita said, “but I suppose I could do it. You haven’t asked me how much I charge, especially if I come in on a Sunday. My billing includes this phone call, by the way, and any necessary travel.”
“Yes,” Ali assured her. “Whatever it is, I’m good for it.”
“All right. Which hospital?”
“Physicians.”
“PMC isn’t far from where I live, which is fine for today, but it’s all the way across town from my office if the interview happens tomorrow or the next day. Are you at the hospital now?”
“Not yet. I’m on my way there.”
“When did the shooting happen?”
“Sometime Friday night. Maybe Saturday morning.”
“And the detective on the case made no effort to interview the victim or his family yesterday?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“That could be bad. He’s probably getting his ducks in a row before he comes calling. Do you have a name on the DPS investigator?”
“I believe Donnatelle told me that his name is Lattimore.”
“I don’t know him. Who’s Donnatelle?”
“Another friend,” Ali answered.
“Right. This Jose guy must be something, to have a wife and a whole raft of devoted female friends who are all ready to go to the mat for him,” Juanita said. “Okay. Call if you need me. Here’s the number. I should be home
