A homeless man. It was never Cray.
The story never had anything to do with Cray at all. She almost stopped reading, too tired to continue. But on the radio, they’d said it was a 911 call. Her call — it must have been.
Scanning the article, she saw 911 embedded in the text two paragraphs down.
The story may have been blown further out of proportion by a separate incident involving a 911 call. Graves confirmed that the department received a call early this morning from an anonymous tipster claiming to know the identity of the White Mountains Killer.
“Somebody’s wires got crossed,” Graves said. “It looks like the arrest and the phone call were both reported at around the same time, and the impression was left that there was some connection between the two. It’s an unfortunate example of the confusion that sometimes occurs in a high-profile case.”
Graves said that the 911 tip was unlikely to represent a legitimate break in the investigation. “Without going into detail, all indications are that the call was one of many false leads we’ve received in connection with this matter. There is no evidence, absolutely none, that would give any credibility to this particular call.”
Graves stressed that members of the public are encouraged to phone the department with any information that may be of value…
Elizabeth lowered her head.
For just one moment she wanted to toss aside the newspaper and walk away, leave town, hear nothing more about the White Mountains case, and never, ever know if the man who had killed Sharon Andrews had been brought to justice.
One of many false leads, the cop had said. No evidence. Absolutely none.
But she had given them all the evidence they could possibly need.
All they had to do, the damn fools, was look at the satchel, just look at it, for God’s sake — was that too much to ask? Was it unreasonable? Was she wrong to expect any help at all, from anyone, ever?
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she had to do everything herself.
Catch Cray. Kill him. Deliver his body to the front steps of the police station, with the faces of his victims pinned to his hide as incontrovertible proof of his guilt.
The faces of his victims…
She blinked, then slowly lifted her head with a thought.
A crazy thought. Yes, crazy. Of course it was.
But for once that word didn’t scare her. Because she wasn’t crazy. She knew that now.
It was the world that was insane.
27
Shepherd was cruising the interstate, three miles from Tucson city limits, when his cell phone chirped. He fumbled it out of the side pocket of his jacket. “Shepherd.”
“Roy, it’s Hector. Something’s come up. Something sort of interesting.”
Alvarez was the phlegmatic type, slow to show excitement, but Shepherd heard a rare intensity in his voice now.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said mildly.
“Well, the fax came in from Graham County.” The sheriff’s file on Kaylie McMillan. After leaving the hospital. Shepherd had called Alvarez and summarized Cray’s story. He’d told Alvarez to watch for the fax. “I took a look at it.”
“And?”
“Decided to post a copy of the lady’s arrest photo on the bulletin board. What the hell. She’s a fugitive, after all. Well, guess what.”
“I’m a real bad guesser. Hector.”
“Couple of patrol guys saw the pic and made her. I mean, they eyeballed her just this morning in a greasy spoon over on Speedway.”
Shepherd’s heart froze for an instant, then kicked into high gear. “They’re sure?”
“Real sure. They said she started acting nervous when they sat down at the next table. Even spilled a cup of coffee all over the table, made a real mess — then left in a hurry. They didn’t think too much of it at the time, but when they saw the photo, it was like, bam, that’s her.”
“What time this morning?”
“About nine.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“Hold on.” Alvarez shouted the question, got an indistinct answer, and said, “Rancheros Cafe.”
Shepherd knew it. “Cross street is Woodland.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m about five minutes east of town right now. I’m going to detour over to the coffee shop and see if I can talk to anybody who remembers her.”
“You want company?”
“It’s not necessary. She must be long gone. But maybe I can take a statement from someone who works there. Who are the patrol cops, by the way?”
“Leo Galston — he’s a T.O. — and Kurt Bane.”
“I know Leo. I want a statement from him and his partner.”
“They’re already writing it up.”
Shepherd took the Kolb Road exit and shot north to Speedway.
He remembered telling Cray that this wasn’t his case. The Graham County sheriff had primary jurisdiction. There was no urgent reason for him to get involved.
But he hadn’t told Cray the whole truth, had he?
Shepherd’s mouth pinched. No. He’d said nothing about Ginnie.
His wife. His late wife.
Roy and Virginia Shepherd had lived on a cul-de-sac off Fort Lowell Road in a modest brick house, ranch style, with pebbles and cacti in the front yard and a small, thirsty, carefully tended garden in the rear. The neighborhood was typical of Tucson — middle-class, quiet except for one neighbor’s dog that never quit barking, bare of shade on hot summer days, untouched by any crime more serious than graffiti.
Shepherd and his wife had been happy there, or happy enough. The marriage hadn’t been ideal. Sometimes Roy had gotten angry with Ginnie for the amount of time she spent in the den, hunched over her computer keyboard, working on her project.
The project was a Web site she had created, a clearinghouse of information submitted by dozens of local agencies and organizations, public and private, all committed to aiding the poor and homeless. Ginnie’s goal was to coordinate the efforts of municipal and county relief agencies with the activities of private charities and churches.
Restaurants could check the inventories of local food banks and allocate surplus cuisine more intelligently. Schedules of AA meetings throughout Pima were posted daily; printouts were posted in shelters. People needing assistance in a variety of foreign languages could be matched to appropriate relief workers who might be working across town or outside city limits.
A worthwhile endeavor, but endlessly time-consuming. Every evening, after a day’s work, Ginnie had downloaded her e-mail from all these scattered sources, then had spent hours updating the site before uploading the new pages to the host server.
Shepherd had worried about her. She wasn’t getting any sleep. And she had no time for him — or for anyone.
It was ironic, in a way. Ordinarily a cop’s wife would complain that he was never home, but Shepherd had always made time for his personal life, and he wanted his wife to share it with him.
After some weeks of argument, an agreement had been reached. Ginnie would give up her job downtown and take on the Web site as a full-time occupation. She would earn no money for the work, but money had never been the point. Anyway, she was paid little more than minimum wage at the health clinic where she worked from eight to five every weekday.