Текст книги "Cold Betrayal"

Автор книги: J. A. Jance

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

18

After a night of ragged sleep, Ali wasn’t exactly at her best at eleven the next morning when she arrived at Bishop Gillespie’s residence in Phoenix and was ushered by his assistant into a book-lined study. The old-fashioned library table that served as a desk was situated in front of a metal mullioned window that looked out on a spacious lawn of winter-hardy green grass. Except for a wrought-iron gate on the drive, the lawn was completely surrounded by a thick hedge of twenty-foot-tall oleanders and punctuated by towering, fully skirted palm trees. Off in the distance was the distinctive hump-shaped rock formation that gave Camelback Road its name.

Bishop Gillespie, seated in front of a gas-log fireplace in what Ali assumed to be an original Stickley Morris chair, watched with interest as Ali paused long enough to enjoy the view.

“The gardener keeps asking for me to let him trim the palm trees,” Bishop Gillespie said, “and I keep saying no. All those dead palm fronds provide a lot of habitat for doves, especially, and they also provide a lot of shade.”

He gestured toward an oak and leather Morris chair that matched his. The lumpy leather cushions were burnished with long use and cracked with age. Ali guessed that the chairs were probably about the same age as the bishop.

“Come and sit,” he suggested. “Coffee?” He raised the cup and saucer that had been perched on the broad flat arm of his chair in Ali’s direction.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m completely coffeed at the moment. Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

Ali had called earlier that morning, a little after eight, asking for an appointment. She expected it would take a day or two to gain access. When she was told eleven that morning was the only time available, she made tracks to be there.

“What have you and Sister Anselm got up to now?” Bishop Gillespie asked, beaming at her. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

He listened to Ali’s story in silence until she reached the point where Gordon Tower had nearly decked Sister Anselm. At that point the bishop laughed out loud.

“It sounds like she deliberately provoked him.”

Ali nodded. “She did, and since the cops were right there, they were only too happy to cuff him, arrest him, and haul him away.”

“It’s not the first time,” Bishop Gillespie observed. “That’s one of the tools Sister uses when she’s dealing with bullies. That way someone else locks the guy up, and she doesn’t have to mess with him. It only works, though, if she has cops on hand to witness the assault.”

Ali had known Sister Anselm for years, but Bishop Gillespie’s revelation was news to her.

The bishop fell silent again and stayed that way until Ali finished telling him the rest of her story. In doing so, she told the bishop about sending DNA samples from Enid and her baby to Banshee Group while neglecting to say exactly how those samples had been obtained—a sin of omission. She ended with the hope that Bishop Gillespie would be able to convince Sheriff Alvarado to reopen the Jane Doe case.

“You’re thinking that a reexamination of the DNA involved in the Kingman cases will lead back to a perpetrator who’s a member of the group you just mentioned, The Family or whatever—the one Gordon Tower is part of?”

“Yes, I do,” Ali answered.

Bishop Gillespie considered for a time before he spoke. “My connection to the Kingman case is tenuous at best, but I know that this case in particular is one that has haunted Sister Anselm through the years. However, your assumptions about the connections between the two cases may well be correct. My asking might provide the necessary impetus to get the case back in the spotlight. I suspect, however, that the added expense of the DNA lab work may turn out to be a sticking point as far as Sheriff Alvarado is concerned.”

“High Noon will cover that,” Ali declared.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

Ali nodded. “I’m sure.”

A long silence settled over the room. Bishop Gillespie was the one who broke it. “On the one hand, reopening this case—if it does lead back to The Family—might suggest the authorities are indulging in a certain level of religious persecution. On the other hand, the extreme youth of the two pregnant female victims—Jane Doe and Enid Tower—is indicative of a history of sexual abuse, something of which the Catholic church is hardly blameless.

“So, yes, I’ll make that call to Sheriff Alvarado,” he continued. “Since you are far more conversant with the details of the current investigation and how it leads back to the Kingman homicide investigation, I’ll suggest that he contact you directly. In the meantime, I’d like to know more about The Family. I’d like to know if they’re part of that splinter fundamentalist group that still refers to itself as LDS or whether this is something else entirely.”

“You’re asking me to look into it?” Ali asked.

“Yes, I am,” Bishop Gillespie answered. “I’m familiar, of course, with what happened there years ago—the Short Creek incident you mentioned earlier. That was a complete travesty. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for bringing that kind of overreaction down on the heads of folks who may be innocent of any wrongdoing. On the other hand, we have two young women, twelve years apart, risking life, limb, and their children’s lives in desperate attempts to escape. That would suggest that something is seriously wrong as far as The Family is concerned. I want to know what’s really going on up there.”

“All right,” Ali agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

That was an easy commitment to make since she was way ahead of Bishop Gillespie in terms of searching out information concerning The Family. On her way down from Sedona, she had called Stu. Since she had struck out in locating any online information on The Family, she asked him to see if he could find any information on Gordon Tower.

“I’m busy working the Bemidji angle,” Stu had said. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll turn this over to Cami.”

There was a discreet knock at the door to the library and the bishop’s assistant stepped back inside. “Excuse me, Bishop Gillespie,” he said. “Your next appointment is here.”

Taking the hint, Ali rose to leave, but Bishop Gillespie wagged an admonishing finger in her direction. “Remember,” he said with a smile, “I expect both you and that bully-baiting friend of yours to stay in touch and out of trouble. I’m sure Mr. Simpson has my cell number, but I’ll ask my assistant to give it to you as well.”

Ali left the bishop’s residence with his direct number added to her phone’s list of contacts. On the way back to I-17, she stopped off at a FedEx office to drop off the envelope bound for Banshee Group. She was back in the car and headed north when her phone rang with a call from Cami.

“Making any progress?” Ali asked.

“Some. I started by searching county and state databases for Gordon Tower. Both his driver’s license and his voter’s registration list him as living on Tower Road in unincorporated Mohave County. Then I got a satellite photo of Tower Road. There’s only one house on it, a massive-looking place, and several outbuildings—a barn, some Quonset-hut-looking things, and a few others. I found a driver’s license listing at that address for someone named Edith Tower, but there’s no voter registration listing for her.

“I figured if Gordon Tower lived on Tower Road, I’d check out some of the other roads as well, and I struck paydirt. When I went looking through voter registrations for a Johnson living on Johnson Road, I found one—a guy named Wendell Johnson Jr. at 114 Johnson Road. A search of the driver’s-license database for that address shows two licenses, one for Wendell Jr. and one for Anita, but no voter’s registration for Anita. There’s another set of Johnsons in the area, a Wendell Sr. and Vera, but their home address is actually in Colorado City.”

“Let me guess,” Ali interjected. “Vera drives but doesn’t vote.”

“Right you are. That’s true for the entire enclave—two driver’s licenses per household—one for a man and one for a woman, but there are no voter registration listings for any of the women. At all.”

“What enclave are you talking about?” Ali asked.

“That information came from the property records. A little under fifty years ago, a guy named Angus Lowell showed up and purchased three thousand acres of unincorporated land in that part of unincorporated Mohave County. He bought that acreage from the FLDS church. He must have paid cash for the whole shebang because there’s no record of anyone ever carrying a mortgage. The entire property is still deeded over to the Lowell Family Trust.”

“That’s it,” Ali breathed. “That’s probably why they call it ‘The Family.’ Are you saying that none of the individuals you just named actually own the properties where they live?”

“Not that I can tell,” Cami said. “They may pay rent to the trust, but if they do, I can’t find any paper trail. My guess is the roads were unnamed until a few years ago when the state required mandatory compliance and all rural roads were assigned names. At that point, the residents must have opted for the simplest solution and named each road for the family that lived there.”

Ali didn’t say the rest of what she was thinking. If this was a polygamous situation, the oldest wife was the one female in each family who was allowed to drive, but not a single one of the women—not even the most senior—was allowed to vote. And if women in The Family weren’t allowed to drive or to vote, Ali wondered, what else were The Family’s girls and women forbidden to do?

“Is there a Lowell Road?” Ali asked. “If so, who lives on that?”

“No sign of a Lowell Road, but the largest set of buildings is on what appears to be the main drag, which is actually Angus Road. That one has the same kind of house, barn, and outbuilding arrangement as all the others, only the house itself is far larger. In addition, there are two possible public buildings, maybe a church or a social hall of some kind with plenty of parking nearby. There are several somewhat smaller structures in that compound as well.”

“Who lives there?”

“Someone named Richard Lowell. The single licensed female driver at that address is named Helena.”

“How many roads on the property in all?” Ali asked.

“I counted twenty-eight separate houses on the map. That would make for close to thirty families, including Wendell Johnson Sr., whose family evidently lives in town.”

Ali’s call waiting buzzed with a blocked number showing up in the caller ID window.

“All right,” Ali said. “Thanks, Cami. I’ve got to take another call. Keep putting the pieces together. I’ll get back to you.” She switched over to the other line. “Hello.”

“Is this Alison Reynolds?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Danny Alvarado, Sheriff Alvarado from Mohave County. Your name sounds familiar to me. Weren’t you involved in some kind of dustup over near Bullhead City a while back?”

“You have a good head for names, Sheriff Alvarado,” Ali said with a laugh. “And yes. I was the woman in the car trunk.”

“I just had a call from the Catholic bishop down in Phoenix—Bishop Francis Gillespie. I take it you know him?”

“Yes,” Ali replied. “He’s a family friend.” She realized as she said the words that it was no exaggeration. Bishop Gillespie was a friend.

“He was asking me about two unsolved cases from here in Kingman years ago—a young woman and her newborn infant. It turns out I was one of the investigators on that case and remember it well. Bishop Gillespie mentioned there might be a possible connection between those cases and a new situation over near Flagstaff. He said that both girls appeared to be runaways who were very young, very pregnant, and who wore their hair in a similar fashion.”

“Yes to all,” Ali said. “The hairdos were very distinctive—long braids wrapped around the tops of their heads.”

“As I said, I was one of the investigators in the Jane Doe matter, and I remember those very distinctive braids. What I’m not sure is how you came to know about them.”

“I heard about them from someone connected to both cases.”

“That would be the nun Bishop Gillespie mentioned?”

“Yes,” Ali answered. “Her name is Sister Anselm. She’s a special emissary of Bishop Gillespie’s, and functions as a patient advocate where necessary. Twelve years ago, Sister Anselm served in that capacity for both your victims—Jane Doe and her infant. Yesterday morning, by sheer coincidence, she was called out to care for this newly injured mother and child.”

“Has your victim been IDed?”

“Tentatively,” Ali answered. “We believe her name to be Enid Tower and that she ran away from one of the polygamous communities up near Colorado City. While on the run, she stepped into the path of an oncoming vehicle. That’s what put her in the hospital.”

“Not Colorado City again,” the sheriff said with a sigh. “Dealing with those people is a nightmare. Do you happen to know which group?”

“I believe they call themselves The Family,” Ali answered. “I don’t have much more information on them than that. From what I’ve been able to gather, the whole group consists of twenty-five to thirty families, give or take. At the time of your Jane Doe’s death, Sister Anselm attempted to suggest to the investigators that her death was the result of some kind of domestic violence. That idea got no traction at the time. This new case isn’t specifically domestic violence, either, but still . . .”

“The good sister was entirely correct in her assumption. Considering the degree of violence visited on our Jane Doe, that’s what we suspected at the time—that it was a DV case. However, with no additional information as to her origins, we got nowhere. I can see how, with a new lead like this and with a small population to draw from, a near DNA match from either our two victims or yours could lead back to our Jane Doe’s killer. Based on that, we’d be willing to reopen the case.”

Stunned, Ali realized that she had won the DNA argument without having said a word.

“But there’s a problem with that,” Sheriff Alvarado continued. “After I got off the phone with the bishop, I went downstairs to bring the evidence box up from the basement. To my chagrin, it’s nowhere to be found. It’s probably just misfiled. I’ve got my evidence clerk on a search mission, but so far there’s no sign of it.”

“Was any DNA evidence from your crime scene ever processed? Even if the box itself is missing, the state crime lab might still have the results taken from the evidence itself.”

Sheriff Alvarado sent a bark of humorless laughter into the phone. “My predecessor wasn’t a great believer in technology. That’s one of the reasons I’m sheriff now and he isn’t. He kept his eye on the bottom line. Since DNA profiling was expensive back then, he thought of it as an unnecessary frivolity. I’m sorry to say that the answer to your question is no—our Jane Doe’s evidence was collected but never processed.

“In the last two years, my administration has been trying to rework our collection of cold cases, but only as time, personnel, and money allow. Having said that, it may explain why the Jane Doe box is missing. Perhaps one of my guys started focusing on that case without letting me know. Once the box is located and on its way to the crime lab, I’ll let you know.”

“Great,” Ali said.

“How are your two victims doing, by the way? Did you say the mother’s name is Enid?”

“Yes, Enid Tower. I can’t tell you much about her condition, but as far as I know, both she and her baby are still alive. The baby was premature, but so far so good.”

“Excellent,” Sheriff Alvarado said. “Glad to hear it. If you learn anything more, keep me posted, and I’ll do the same.”

“One more thing,” Ali said. “What kind of a presence does your department maintain in the Colorado City area?”

“Not much. As you no doubt know, it’s part of my jurisdiction but difficult to reach by car. Back in the old days, all of us had to pull a few weeks of duty over there every year, living in a beat-up mobile home that doubled as the local substation and taking care of whatever came up. Then, about ten years or so ago, the department hired a guy named Amos Sellers who actually lives there. Deputy Sellers spends part of his time working out of the substation and part of it working out of his own home. He’s done a good job keeping a lid on things. Since he’s part of the community, people there tend to trust him. I haven’t had any complaints about him—at least none that made it as far as my desk.”

“Was there any kind of missing person report called in to him at the time Enid Tower took off?”

“Not that I know of. Had there been, it would have been forwarded to my attention.”

“All right, then,” Ali said. “Thank you so much for your help. Let’s stay in touch.”

As soon as Ali hung up, she immediately called Cami back. “Tell me something, have you happened to come across the name Sellers anywhere in that bunch of names?”

Cami didn’t have to think twice before she answered. “Just a few minutes ago. Sellers Road. The people listed there are Amos Sellers and a woman named Elizabeth. Same old, same old. She drives but isn’t good enough to vote.”

“Thanks, Cami,” Ali said. “Thanks a lot.”

Amos Sellers—Deputy Amos Sellers. According to Sheriff Alvarado, he was the law of the land in Colorado City, but if he was part of The Family, as Cami’s research clearly indicated, how come Sheriff Alvarado hadn’t provided that telling detail? And if Amos was the representative of law and order in Colorado City, that meant that anyone being mistreated or abused inside The Family would have nowhere to turn for help—nowhere at all.

As for Sheriff Alvarado? Ali was more than a little pissed at him. When she had mentioned The Family, since he hadn’t mentioned that his deputy was part of the group, was it possible that Alvarado himself had some connections to The Family?

Ali called Cami back. “I know you’re busy, but I need one more thing. Find out what you can on Danny Alvarado, the sheriff of Mohave County.”

Ali pressed on the gas, urging the Cayenne forward and northward at a good ten miles over the posted 75 mph limit.

19

Despite her concerns about Sheriff Alvarado, the last thing Ali had expected was for him to be a willing ally in reopening the Kingman Jane Doe case. She was sure Sister Anselm would be surprised and gratified about that, too, especially considering her misgivings about collecting the current DNA samples. Once the Kingman Jane Doe evidence box was located, any DNA materials inside it could be sent out for processing with an excellent possibility of there being a match.

Instead of taking Highway 179 and going back to Sedona, Ali stayed on the freeway and drove straight to St. Jerome’s in Flagstaff. When she arrived in the maternity floor waiting room, Sister Anselm was in the nursery, sitting in a rocker with a tiny wrapped bundle of baby cradled in the crook of one arm and a bottle of formula held in her other hand. Using baby formula in this instance made complete sense. The mother of a newborn, especially a premature newborn, couldn’t be expected to nurse the child when she herself had undergone major lifesaving surgeries. Whatever kinds of pain medications were being administered to the mother would go straight through her system and into the baby’s.

Ali was still waiting for the baby’s mealtime to finish when Stu called. “Did Athena mention anything to you about her parents having financial difficulties?”

“No, why?”

“James and Sandra Peterson aren’t paying their property taxes. The taxes on both their home and on the building where the dental practice is located were due six months ago, and a new bill would have been issued right after the first of the year. So far neither one is listed as paid.”

“What does that mean?”

“In my experience, when folks run short of moolah and don’t have enough to cover expenses, property taxes are the first thing they let slide. Tax collectors are a lot slower on pulling the collection-agency trigger than banks and credit-card companies are.”

“Athena’s in class right now,” Ali said. “I won’t be able to talk to her about any of this until after school is over for the day.”

“Don’t,” Stu advised. “Let me get a little better handle on what’s going on before you discuss it with her. In fact, don’t discuss it with her at all. Once we have her thumbprint she’ll have access to all her grandmother’s financial dealings and so will we without anyone crossing over into forbidden territory.”

Hacking into unauthorized servers was something Stu Ramey did very well, but there were always risks involved, and hacking into financial accounts when it wasn’t necessary was stupid.

“Fair enough,” Ali said as Sister Anselm emerged from the nursery. “Keep me posted.”

Just then the elevator door whispered open and four people swarmed out of it. Gordon Tower led the way. He was followed by Edith Tower and a man in a suit who looked to Ali suspiciously like a defense attorney. Last to emerge was a paunchy and somewhat younger man, a guy in his mid– to late thirties, who was dressed in a red flannel shirt. Ali recognized him as the one who had volunteered to drive Edith Tower back home to Colorado City the previous evening.

Sister Anselm showed no dismay about coming face-to-face with the man behind the black-and-blue handprint that now graced her cheek. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tower,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and stepping directly into his path. “Nice to see you out and about.”

Tower made a sour face. “I’m here to see my wife.”

“I’m sorry,” Sister Anselm countered. “Do you have any proof that my patient is your wife?”

“Of course, she’s my wife! I already told you.”

“Do you have any actual documented evidence?” Sister Anselm asked. “Something like a marriage certificate, for example, one that’s actually valid in the state of Arizona?”

“I don’t think my marriage certificate is any of your business,” Tower sneered. “I want to see my wife.”

“I’m afraid HIPAA prohibits that from happening.”

“Hip what?” Tower demanded.

“It’s a federal law that mandates patient privacy rules,” Sister Anselm replied. “Only people specifically authorized by the patient are allowed to have access to either the patient or to the patient’s records. I can assure you, there is no such list with Gordon Tower’s name on it.”

Nurse Mandy, emerging from the nurses’ station, had taken up a position just to the right of Sister Anselm. “The good sister’s assessment is quite correct in that regard,” the charge nurse said. “To my knowledge the patient in question has yet to authorize any visitors.”

Because she’s still unconscious, Ali thought, standing up to take a defensive position alongside the other two.

“That’s a load of bull and you know it,” Tower growled. “Then let me see my baby. Don’t try to tell me she needs to sign some stupid visitors’ form, too.”

“The problem is,” Nurse Mandy said, “mother and child came in as a unit. Until we’re notified otherwise, the mother’s wishes or lack thereof hold sway. Now, sir, it would probably be best if you left. Otherwise we’ll be forced to summon security. Again,” she added pointedly.

Other relatives in the waiting room, including two newly minted fathers, watched the escalating drama with growing alarm. Not only that, the three women barring Tower’s way were also blocking the window to the nursery. Ali knew that Sister Anselm had left Enid’s baby in a bassinet in the farthest corner of the room. Even if Tower gained access to the window, the baby would be out of sight.

Nurse Mandy’s threat of calling security caused some of Gordon Tower’s bluster to fade. He spun around, turning on the man in a suit. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you do something about these obnoxious women? Doesn’t a father have some rights here?”

“I’m afraid the law backs them up on this one,” the attorney said quietly. “For right now, I don’t think there’s much to be done.”

“There is one more thing,” Sister Anselm said.

Tower turned back to her. “What’s that?”

Jabbing at the keypad, she unlocked the door to the nursery and ducked back inside. She returned a moment later holding a cotton swab, which she handed to Gordon Tower.

He stared at it blankly. “What’s this for?”

“It’s to swab the inside of your cheek,” Sister Anselm explained. “It’ll give us a DNA sample. That way, even without a birth certificate, we’ll be able to determine if you’re actually the baby’s father or if someone else is.”

Tower’s eyes bulged. Ali could tell from the stunned expression on his florid face that the idea the baby might not be his had never crossed his mind. He paled slightly. Doubling his fists, he turned to glare at Edith, as though the possibility of Enid’s having been unfaithful was clearly Edith’s fault. The way she shrank away from him, as if expecting a blow, told Ali there had been blows before. When Gordon turned his furious glower back on Sister Anselm, Ali fully expected him to fling the swab into her face.

“You can tell from this?” he demanded, holding the swab in the air and shaking it in Sister Anselm’s face. “From this little thing?”

“Yes,” Sister Anselm assured him. “We can.”

Without another word, he shoved the swab into his mouth, ran the end of it up and down his cheek, and then handed it back to Sister Anselm.

“There!” he said. “If I find out that little bitch cheated on me, I’ll—” He stopped in mid-sentence without finishing the threat. Then he turned and led the way back to the elevator.

Once the door closed behind them, Nurse Mandy turned on Sister Anselm. “What in the world was that all about? Why do you need his DNA? Do you think the baby really isn’t his?”

“I have no doubt that Mr. Tower is the baby’s father,” Sister Anselm said with a triumphant smile. “But now he does. It’ll give him something to think about.”

“Look,” Nurse Mandy said angrily, “we already know how volatile the man is. You had no business provoking him. What do you think will happen to that poor girl and her baby when they finally have to go back home?”

“We’ll have to see to it that they don’t,” Sister Anselm responded.

Unconvinced and shaking her head, Nurse Mandy stomped off to the nurses’ station.

“I believe yanking his chain like that is generally referred to as getting a little of your own back,” Ali observed.

During the confrontation, Sister Anselm’s system had been fired with adrenaline. As that drained away, Ali was concerned at how weary she looked.

“Maybe a little,” Sister Anselm agreed somewhat sheepishly. “After all, nuns are people, too. I’ll need to address that in confession this week, but that wasn’t the main reason I ran him up and down the flagpole.”

“What was it, then?” Ali asked as Sister Anselm pulled another Ziploc bag out of her pocket, placed the swab inside, zipped it shut, and handed it to Ali, who stared at it for a time. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Do you think you could send this to that friend of yours, the one with the DNA lab? I’d like to have this one tested along with the others.”

“Why?”

“As I said, to prove categorically he is the baby’s father.”

“But . . .”

“Just because Gordon Tower claims he and Enid are married doesn’t make it true—at least not as far as the state of Arizona is concerned. Married or not, however, fathers are expected to pay child support. You see, Enid has no intention of going back home ever, and I can’t say that I blame her.”

“You know that for sure? How?”

“She told me.”

“She’s talking, then?”

“Not really talking, more like semiconscious babbling. It happened overnight. I’m sure the jabber is partially due to the medications she’s on, but enough of her story leaked out to start making sense. Evidently someone was chasing her, someone who was sent to find her and take her back home. That’s why she darted into traffic—to get away from him.”

“A him?”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention a name?”

“No, but that’s what she said, over and over. Don’t let him get me. Don’t let him send me home. They’ll take my baby away. They’ll send me to the pigs.”

“To the pigs?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but based on the idea that people are threatening her life and well-being, I’ve taken some precautionary measures. She’s terrified that the guy who was after her still is. It wouldn’t surprise me that she’s not the only one who’s worried. Taking someone away against his or her will constitutes kidnapping. The guy who was after her will be concerned that once she comes around, she’ll be able to point fingers and name names.”

Ali nodded. “What kind of precautions?” she asked.

“As of right now, the nursery is on lockdown and can only be accessed by way of the keypad. Enid is still listed as being in the room she was in yesterday. The door to that room is to remain locked, but she’ll be moved to the room directly across from the nurses’ station. We can maintain that subterfuge as long as the original room isn’t needed for another patient.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes,” Sister Anselm said. “There is. I finished off the rest of Mr. Brooks’s pasty for breakfast, but that was several hours ago. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay here in the waiting room for a time and keep watch while I go check into my hotel room, freshen up, and have a bite to eat.”

“Of course,” Ali said. “Glad to. Stay away as long as you like. You look like a nap wouldn’t be out of order.”

Sister Anselm nodded. “No can do. Baby Ann is on a two-hour feeding schedule.”

“Baby Ann?” Ali asked. “I thought Gordon Tower referred to his daughter as Sarah.”

“Baby Ann is what Enid calls her,” Sister Anselm replied. “That’s good enough for me.”