Trial By Fire

“Good,” Edie said. “I’m glad you have it with you.”

Ali was also carrying her Glock, but she didn’t mention that. Edie was a lot less open-minded when it came to actual handguns.

“Are you staying at a decent place?” Edie continued. “I hope it’s not one of those dodgy hotels your dad is always choosing.”

Ali was relatively sure that her father had never willingly set foot inside a Ritz-Carlton, certainly not as a paying customer, but there was no reason to rub that in.

“No,” Ali told her mother. “It’s a very nice place. I’ll be fine.”

Edie rang off after that, leaving Ali to consider that mothers continue to be mothers no matter how old their children. She was about to go back to reading the article when someone spoke to her. “Ms. Reynolds?”

Ali looked up to find a very tall black man standing in front of her. The name on his badge said Roscoe Bailey, RN, but his tall, thin frame suggested basketball player far more than it did nurse.

“Yes,” Ali answered. “That’s me.”

“Sister Anselm would like a word,” he said. “This way, please.”

It was more a command than a request. Closing her computer, Ali stood and followed him down the hall. She was surprised to find that while she had been reading the article, a security guard-an armed security guard-had been seated on a chair just outside room 814. Sister Anselm stood at the end of the hallway, looking out a window at Camelback Mountain, looming red in the afternoon sun. It was much the same view as from Jake Whitman’s administrative office, but from a higher floor.

The nun glanced away from the window at Ali’s approach. “I’ve always loved the desert,” she said. “For many newcomers, Arizona seems desolate. Not for me. When I see this mountain especially, I know I’m home.”

Ali understood what she meant. During her own years of East Coast exile and while she had lived in California, she had often flown home via Phoenix ’s Sky Harbor Airport. She, too, had always searched eagerly out the windows for that first welcoming glimpse of Camelback.

“You wanted to see me?” Ali asked.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Sister Anselm said, “but not here at the hospital. Are you familiar with the area?”

“Pretty much.”

“Do you know where the Ritz-Carlton is?”

Ali smiled. “I have a room there. Why?”

“That makes sense,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s the closest hotel. I often stay there myself when I’m here at Saint Gregory’s. They serve a marvelous afternoon tea in the lobby. My patient is sleeping. I probably have an hour or two before I’m needed again. Would you care to join me for tea?”

At first Ali was taken aback by the news that Sister Anselm also stayed at the Ritz, but then Ali recalled what she had read in the article about the anonymous benefactor who bankrolled Sister Anselm’s mission.

“Of course,” Ali said. “My car is down in the garage. If you’d like a ride-”

“No,” Sister Anselm said at once. “That won’t do. We shouldn’t be seen leaving the hospital together. Too many people nosing about. You go there and get a table. I’ll join you in fifteen minutes or so.”

Ali got the hint. Sister Anselm wanted to speak to her privately, and in a place where their conferring would be less noticeable than it would be on the grounds of the hospital. Besides, the chance to be briefed by Sister Anselm seemed like a good enough reason to abandon her post in the waiting room.

Fifteen minutes later, Ali was checked into the hotel. Her luggage had been taken up to her room, and she was ensconced at a small table for two just to the right of the entrance to the dining room. The room was alive with people having tea, including a noisy corner spot where several tables had been pushed together to accommodate a lively group of Red Hat Ladies.

By the time Sister Anselm entered the lobby, she had ditched the green scrubs in favor of a dark charcoal-gray pantsuit. The pinstriped outfit looked far more like formal business attire than it did a nun’s habit. Ali noticed that as Sister Anselm walked through the lobby she was greeted warmly and by name by both the concierge and the hostess.

Once she was seated at the table, the waitress hurried over. “The usual?” she asked.

Sister Anselm’s seemingly severe features rearranged themselves into a grateful smile. “Yes, please, Cynthia,” she replied. Ali noticed that Sister Anselm recalled the waitress’s name without having to resort to checking her name badge. “That would be wonderful.”

Cynthia turned to Ali. “What can I get you?” she asked.

Ali had yet to study her menu, and the question caught her off guard. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she said, nodding in Sister Anselm’s direction.

“My pleasure,” Cynthia said, backing away.

Once she was gone, Ali turned to face the woman seated across from her. Ali estimated Sister Anselm’s age to be somewhere around seventy. Her skin had the appearance of someone who had spent long hours in the sun. Liver spots dotted the backs of her hands, but there was no hint of arthritis in the long tapered fingers that could have belonged to a concert pianist.

To Ali’s wonderment, despite what must have been a brisk walk in raging afternoon heat, Sister Anselm showed no sign of being overheated. No sweat beaded her brow. Her face wasn’t red. She wasn’t huffing and puffing.

Sister Anselm leaned back in her armchair and studied Ali with the same kind of concentration. Behind gold-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes gleamed with intelligence.

“I suppose you’re a bit baffled by all this cloak-and-dagger business,” she said. “About my not being willing to talk to you at the hospital.”

“I’m sure you have your reasons.”

Sister Anselm smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do,” she said.

Cynthia bustled over with two pots of tea. “You may want to let it steep for a few minutes,” she said. “Your scones and sandwiches will be right up.”

After she left, Sister Anselm dropped three cubes of sugar into her teacup to await the steeping tea. “Nuns aren’t perfect,” she said thoughtfully. “We’re expected to forgive those who trespass against us, and I do my best, but I’m afraid sometimes I come up short in that regard, especially when people overstep. I believe it’s safe to say that Agent Robson brought out the worst in me.”

Ali couldn’t help smiling. “He did the same for me,” she said. “You merely sent him packing; I wanted to smack him. I’ve never quite mastered the art of turning the other cheek.”

It was Sister Anselm’s turn to smile. She poured her tea and then stirred it carefully, dissolving the sugar.

“I noticed that he claimed his agency, the ATF, is in charge of the investigation,” she said, “as though your department had nothing to do with it.”

“Fu

“Which means Mr. Robson is not above adjusting the truth a little when it suits him,” Sister Anselm observed. “But then it wouldn’t do for me to throw stones, since I’m not, either.”

That last admission came as something of a surprise. Ali said nothing.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘HIPAA’?” Sister Anselm asked.

“I’ve heard of it even, though I don’t remember exactly what each letter stands for,” Ali said. “I believe it means that health care providers are prohibited from releasing information on any patient in their care unless they have been given express permission to do so by the patient him- or herself.”

Sister Anselm nodded. “That’s correct. The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It amounts to federally mandated requirements of confidentiality. I suppose some of the time it’s necessary. There are other times when I think of it as so much federally mandated foolishness.”

Sipping her own tea, hot and strong, the way Leland Brooks always served it, Ali wondered where this conversation was going. Cynthia appeared again, carrying a tray covered with scones and freshly made finger sandwiches.