Cold Betrayal

“Maybe Stu can figure something out,” Ali suggested. “Where are the floppies now?”

“I brought them home with me. Are you still in town?”

“I’m on my way to Kingman right now. I’ll probably come back through town on my way home to Sedona. I’ll stop by to pick them up then if that’s all right.”

“Sure,” Andrea said. “Call me when you know your ETA. What about that other thing we talked about last night? My plan was to spend today alerting the folks in my network that our shelter may need overflow help at some time in the near future. Do you have any better idea how many women and children we’re talking about and do you know what the time frame is?”

“No to both,” Ali answered. “If we do need help, it may be sooner than later, but please, don’t give out any details. Something big is about to happen in Colorado City, but the fewer people who know about it in advance, the better.”

“Understood,” Andrea agreed.

When that call ended, Ali wasted no time in dialing Stu. “Hey,” he said. “Good to hear from you. I’ve got some news that will interest you. I’ve got a line on one of the ATMs used in many of those debit-card transactions. It’s located in the lobby of the Setting Sun Casino northwest of Bemidji. I’d say that one or both of Athena’s parental units has a serious gambling problem. I suspect they may be using Betsy’s money to stay afloat or at least to hide the losses.”

“Will you be able to prove it?”

“I’m requesting security-camera feeds,” Stu said. “Those have to go through official cha

Ali laughed. “I didn’t know there was anywhere on earth that you didn’t have personal co

“What’s that?”

“I’m on the trail of a box of nineties vintage computer disks from a long-dead Toshiba laptop that may have some bearing on the Colorado City situation. Is there any way you can retrieve data from those and turn it into currently searchable files?”

“No problemo,” Stu answered. “You’ve never seen my storage unit, have you? It’s chock-full of ancient computers, starting with my dad’s first Commodore 600. I’ve got an Eagle or two, a few Epsons, a whole flock of Toshibas, an HP or two, and any number of Dells among others. They all work, too. At least, they were working when I put them in storage. We could use a simple USB-compatible external drive for the floppies, but I’d love a chance to play with the old beauties. You give me the floppies, and I’ll give you the info.”

“Will do,” Ali agreed. “I’ll pick them up tonight and have them to you first thing in the morning.”

The remainder of the two-hour trip Ali spent plotting strategy. She decided her best bet was to approach the problem obliquely. By starting with the Deputy Sellers issue and assessing Alvarado’s reaction to that, she hoped to gain some insight into how much more, if anything, she should tell him.

The responsibility Sean Fergus had laid on her shoulders was a heavy one. Lives were at stake. She was gratified that the Interpol agent had placed so much trust in her but puzzled about it, too. Eventually she figured it out. It was only because of her involvement, along with Sister Anselm’s, that any of this had come to light. Sean needed to trust someone to make the right call, and she was it.

Squaring her shoulders, Ali paid attention as the GPS directed her off the freeway in Kingman. Within minutes she pulled up outside a long one-story building that bristled with ante

“Sheriff Alvarado is in a meeting just now. Was he expecting you?”

“No,” Ali said. “I’m glad to wait.”

Just to the left of the desk was a wall that held a glass display case that included photos of each of the men who had served as county sheriff. Only the most recent ones were in color. When she reached Sheriff Alvarado’s photo at the far end, she stopped short. From his name, she had expected him to be Hispanic. But this guy had bright blue eyes and a mop of reddish-blond hair.

“Ms. Reynolds, I presume?” said a pleasant voice close to her shoulder. “That’s probably not what you expected. You most likely pictured some roly-poly little Hispanic guy.”

When Ali turned to look, she found herself facing the man whose features and uniform matched those in the photo. “You’ve got me there,” she admitted.

Alvarado laughed. “You’re not alone,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it in welcome. “My mother came from Sweden originally as a military wife who was widowed when I was tiny. The man she married after that, my stepfather, Umberto Alvarado, grew up right here in Kingman. When my mom died a few years later, Umberto came back home to be close to his family. My stepfather’s mother, my nana, raised me.

“Kingman may have been home for my stepfather, but growing up here wasn’t easy for me. I was too Anglo to hang out with the Mexican kids and too Mexican to hang out with the Anglo kids. Alone in a crowd as it were. That’s why I spent my senior year as an exchange student in Sweden and even got to meet a few of my mother’s relatives. In a pinch, I could probably still speak some Swedish, but there’s not much call for it here.”

“Not too many Swedish tourists in Kingman?” Ali asked.

“Not many.” He gri

Listening to the brief recitation of his biography, Ali realized that most of what Alvarado had told her—including his exchange-student stint in Sweden—was information Cami had already passed along to her. As she followed the sheriff across the lobby, through a security door, and through a labyrinth of hallways to his private office, she wondered about that. Was he telling her his life’s story in an effort to put her at ease, or was he attempting to deflect her attention away from something else?

After directing Ali into a visitor’s chair, Sheriff Alvarado took a seat behind a desk that was awash in paperwork topped by a pack of Marlboros. With a glance in Ali’s direction, he swept the cigarettes out of sight and into the top drawer of his desk. Then he leaned back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head.

“So what can I do for you this morning?” he asked. “If you’re here about the Jane Doe evidence situation, you should have just called rather than driving all the way here. That evidence box still hasn’t surfaced. Believe me, we’ve been searching heaven and earth.”

“This isn’t about that,” Ali told him. “At least it’s not only about that. What can you tell me about Deputy Sellers?”

A flash of wariness crossed Alvarado’s face before he answered. It was there and gone, but not without her seeing it.

“Amos? What about him?”

“Enid Tower is awake and talking.” Ali’s comment elicited no visible reaction. “She told us Amos was chasing her at the time she was hit by the vehicle—that he’s the one who forced her into oncoming traffic.”

“That’s not possible,” Alvarado declared at once. “The site of that MVA was inside Coconino County, not Mohave.”

“But Deputy Sellers was there,” Ali asserted. “Even if he was off duty and just passing by, shouldn’t he at least have stopped to render assistance?”

Alvarado had no answer for that.

“How long has he been a member of your department?”

Alvarado frowned. “Quite awhile. He must be close to forty now. That means he would have been in his late twenties when he signed on.”

“What if the whole time he’s been acting as a sworn deputy for you, he’s also functioned as The Family’s enforcer?” Ali asked. “What if Enid Tower isn’t the only runaway Amos Sellers was sent out to retrieve? Maybe twelve years ago he was dispatched to collect your Jane Doe as well, except, instead of taking her back home, he ended up killing her. In fact, maybe that’s why he went to work for the sheriff’s office to begin with—to lay hands on any evidence that might implicate him in the crime. After all, there’s no way of knowing how long that evidence box has been missing. He might have smuggled it out of your evidence room years ago.”