Cold Betrayal (23 page)

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.”

20

T
he elevator door had barely closed behind Sister Anselm when Ali’s phone rang.

“Hi, Cami,” she said. “What have you got for me?”

“Angus Lowell,” Cami answered. “I found information about him on the Internet under The Lowell Family rather than The Family. Somewhere along the way they dropped the Lowell part.”

“Who’s Angus?” Ali asked.

“He was the great-grandson of a Scottish industrialist named Angus McCutcheon who made his fortune as an arms dealer. He was one of those money-grubbing guys who had no scruples about selling his wares to both sides in any given conflict. When his underhanded dealings started coming to light, he took himself and his fortune out of the UK, settling first in Morocco and later in the Cayman Islands. That’s where the Lowell Family Trust is located, by the way, the Caymans.

“About the time he ended up there,” Cami continued, “Angus’s great-grandson and namesake, Angus Lowell, was living in the United States. He had flunked out of Stanford and gotten hooked up with some druggie fellow dropouts. After doing his share of LSD, he ended up living in a hippie commune somewhere in the wilds of Northern California. At that point, Angus the elder staged an early version of an intervention and carted the kid off to the Caymans, where he underwent a course of treatment of some kind, had a religious conversion, and became an outspoken back-to-the-earth kind of guy. When the old man died a few years later, he left his fortune to his great-grandson, bypassing both his daughter and granddaughter in the process.”

“The old man was a bit of a chauvinist, maybe?” Ali asked.

Cami laughed. “Do you think?”

“Where did you find all this stuff?”

“Newspaper archives mostly. Angus returned to the U.S. in 1966, purchased the land near Colorado City, and established a church he called The Lowell Family. Then he went to California, where he rounded up a collection of like-minded individuals, probably old pals from his commune days, and brought them to northern Arizona with him. At that point they all seem to have disappeared from public view.”

“Is Angus still in charge?” Ali asked.

“Probably not. The guy who signs the checks and whose name is on the motor vehicle registrations for their fleet of cars, trucks, and SUVs is someone named Richard Lowell.”

“One of Angus McCutcheon’s progeny?”

“That’s my guess.”

“What happened to Angus the younger?”

“No idea. Since someone else has taken over the helm, I have to assume that Angus is no longer with us, but that’s another interesting thing about the group. If they keep any kind of birth and death records, they don’t bother passing that information along to Mohave County.”

“How many families are we talking about?”

“Twenty-nine all told—at least that’s how many we’ve been able to find with addresses on the existing named streets. There may be others, like the Wendell Johnson family, where with two generations, one lives in town and the other doesn’t.”

“Where are we now?” Ali asked.

“Once I finished creating my driver’s license/voter registration list, I handed it over to Stuart,” Cami said. “So far he’s only checked on a couple of the names, but the results are interesting. Apparently, each family receives a small allowance from the church that goes to the head of the household. Members dutifully file an income-tax report on that, but none of them makes enough money to trigger any tax liabilities or to attract the attention of the IRS.”

“Income-tax fraud?” Ali asked.

“Maybe, but it’s doubtful,” Cami said. “Without birth certificates or Social Security numbers, they wouldn’t be able to claim any dependents. As for the houses? They evidently belong to the group rather than to the people who live in them. The property taxes are paid for by the church. Ditto for the fleet of vehicles. They belong to the church, too.”