Christine also said something about being upset because Phil’s girlfriend was at their house earlier this morning.”
Sheriff Renteria stared at Patty. He had wondered about Phil’s love life—if he had one—and whether Patty herself might have been the object of Phil’s affection. That was evidently wrong, but how the hell had Ali whatever-her-name-was gotten Christine Tewksbury to stop screaming and start talking?
“Christine told her that Olga Sanchez was Phil’s girlfriend?”
“No. She just said that he had a girlfriend, a woman named Ollie—that she had seen a letter Phil wrote to someone named Ollie. And Christine claimed that Ollie had been at the house this morning—at Phil’s house—that she had smelled her perfume.”
Renteria felt a clench in his gut. Somewhere in the midst of the pitched battle in Phil Tewksbury’s living room, while they were grappling with Christine and trying to wrench the bat out of the madwoman’s hands, he seemed to remember her screaming something incomprehensible about perfume, but she had been a raving maniac at the time. He hadn’t really paid attention. He had been too busy trying to keep from having his own head bashed in. Even in the patrol car, Christine hadn’t made any sense. She had kept right on screaming and pounding her head against the window.
“Since Christine said she had seen one letter,” Patty was saying, “I wondered if there might be others. If so, obviously, Phil wouldn’t have left them lying around the house, where Christine could find them. I went back to the post office and looked in his set of drawers in the sorting table. That’s where I found them. They’re from Olga, but she signs them Ollie, short for Olive Oyl. I guess it’s like a joke or something, but because she mentioned Oscar, I knew who she was. Since Christine claimed Olga had been at her house, I knew I’d need to turn these over to you, and I wanted to let her know.”
“That was probably a really stupid idea,” Renteria said.
“Yes,” Patty agreed. “I know that now.”
While they waited for the overworked county coroner and the crime scene techs to show up at Santa Cruz County’s second homicide scene of the day, Sheriff Renteria decided to read the notes. First he went to his patrol car and retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the trunk. Then he came back to the Camaro.
What he found in the envelopes were notes rather than letters—notes that made arrangements for future meetings. There were brief comments on things Ollie and Phil had done, where they had been, and how things were at home with Oscar’s increasingly precarious health situation. It wasn’t until Renteria got to the last one, the thank-you note, that it all came together for him. As soon as he saw the part about changing the tire, he knew what had happened.
Phil Tewksbury hadn’t shot Jose Reyes. He’d been set up—framed by someone who made sure his prints were on the lug wrench left at the crime scene. Olga had tried to murder her former daughter-in-law’s new husband, first by passing the blame on to Phil and then by blaming Phil’s murder on Christine. Now, with Oscar Sanchez dead, Olga had no one else to blame.
The sheriff pulled out his cell phone and dialed the office. “Have you located all the Sanchez vehicles?”
“Yes. They own a 2008 Dodge Caravan, a 2006 Range Rover, and a 1998 Buick Regal.”
“Okay,” he said. “I want you to put out a statewide BOLO on the Range Rover and the Buick. Olga Sanchez is now a person of interest in three separate homicides. Tell people to be on their guard. She could be armed and dangerous.”
“Three?” Patty Patton asked. “You mean you no longer think Christine murdered her husband?”
Sheriff Renteria sighed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid when you’re right, you’re right.”
51
7:00 P.M., Monday, April 12
Tucson, Arizona
Detective Rush had been gone only a few minutes when the first reporter showed up at PMC. Hearing raised voices in the hall outside Rose’s room, Sister Anselm went out to find a reporter, backed up by a cameraman, attempting to interview Connie Fox.
“What’s going on?” the nun demanded.
Connie nodded in the reporter’s direction. “What should I do?”
The reporter stepped forward and held up her ID for Sister Anselm’s perusal. “My name is Abby Summers,” she said. “I’m with the FOX affiliate in Phoenix. Someone who knows I’ve been following Rose’s story for years sent me a tweet about it—a tweet from someone named Jasmine—claiming that Rose had been found and was being treated here.”
In her head, Sister Anselm replayed the telling glance that had passed between Jasmine and Lily Ventana when Detective Rush had been explaining the need not to go public with Rose’s situation. It seemed clear that even then the cat was already out of the bag. Sister Anselm also knew that if one reporter was here, others were bound to follow. And no telling who else. So if the strategy of keeping quiet wasn’t going to work, maybe it was time to do the opposite. She thought it might be time for a media circus of her own making.
“I think you should go ahead and tell Ms. Summers the whole story,” Sister Anselm said decisively.
Connie Fox’s eyes widened. “All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Sister Anselm said. To the reporter, she added, “I think doing the interview right here in the waiting room will be fine.”
As the reporter and cameraman moved into position, Sister Anselm set out on a brisk walk through the hospital, looking for something that didn’t fit. She found what she was looking for in the next wing over when she walked past a man pushing an enormous floor polisher.
She looked at the man, smiled, and nodded. When he ducked his head and looked away, she knew. This was the guy.
One of the terms of sale between the nuns of All Saints and the doctors who created PMC had been a written agreement that, wherever possible, the hospital would make use of workers from a nearby sheltered workshop that was also operated by All Saints. Developmentally disabled adults from there did much of the hospital’s grunt work, from the laundry to routine janitorial functions. One glance was enough to tell Sister Anselm that the guy pushing the floor polisher wasn’t developmentally disabled.
She stopped off in a restroom long enough to dial Bishop Gillespie’s number. “I need some help,” she said when he answered. “I want an anonymous but urgent tip to go out to every media outlet in both Tucson and Phoenix.”
Bishop Gillespie had a reputation for being well connected inside the law enforcement community, but his media savvy was just as extensive. “About?” he asked.
“I need a flash mob of reporters here at PMC as soon as you can drum one up. Tell them that Rose Ventana, a teenager from Buckeye who went missing three years ago, has been found outside Tucson. She was the victim of a vicious assault and is currently receiving treatment at Physicians Medical Center.”
“Are you sure?” Bishop Gillespie asked. “This doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’m sure,” Sister Anselm said. “And I need those reporters here ASAP.”
She made three more calls before she left the restroom. The first one was to Detective Rush. “Where are you?” the nun asked.
“I just dropped Al off in Vail and I’m on my way back to Phoenix. Why? What’s up?”
“I think we have a problem. There’s a guy here running a floor polisher in the wing next to Rose’s. I think he’s a ringer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s someone who’s pretending to be an PMC janitor who isn’t an PMC janitor.”
“Do you think he poses a danger to Rose?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s a very real possibility. Enough that I think we need her out of the
