“That doesn’t seem right somehow,” she said. “You sent me down here to get rid of the reporters who were hanging around the hospital, trying to find out whatever they could about the victim. Now they’re gone, but you’re asking me to do the same thing-find out about the victim.”

“Yes,” Sheriff Maxwell agreed, “but there’s a big difference. They were nosing around in the hope of finding information that would fill up empty airtime and newspaper columns. You’re doing it-we’re doing it-in the hope of finding out who tried to kill that poor woman. Whether she lives or dies, it’s our responsibility to bring her attacker to justice.”

Ali thought about that, but not for long.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said.

“Excellent,” Sheriff Maxwell said. “There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I know you have a concealed weapons permit. I also know that you carry a Glock. Just don’t use it, especially not in Maricopa County. Please. That would set off another whole set of problems that I don’t have time to deal with right now.”

Before Ali could frame a suitable response, one of the doors farther down the hallway swung open and a tall, angular woman stepped into the hallway. She stood for a moment, peeling off an outer layer of protective paperlike clothing and leaving behind a pair of green scrubs. Her hair was steel gray and cut short.

Ali knew without being told that she was seeing the woman called Angel of Death. She had wanted to Google the article on Sister Anselm and read up on her before encountering the woman in person, but that wouldn’t be possible now, not with the nun walking straight toward her.

“I’ve got to go,” Ali told the sheriff abruptly. Closing her phone, she stood up and walked down the hall. “Sister Anselm?” she asked.

The woman frowned and peered at Ali through gold-rimmed glasses. “Yes,” she said. “Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t, but someone told me about you and about your ‘mission,’ I believe she called it.” Ali handed over one of her newly printed business cards. “My name is Alison Reynolds. I’m the media relations consultant for the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Yavapai is the next county north of here.”

“I’m familiar with Yavapai County,” Sister Anselm said firmly. “My home convent happens to be in Jerome. What are you doing here in the burn unit? I thought I made it quite clear to Mr. Whitman that no reporters were to be allowed access to this floor.”

“I’m not a reporter,” Ali said quickly. “Please don’t be misled by what it says on the card. In my case it’s more like a case of media nonrelations. It turns out I was dispatched by both Mr. Whitman and my department to break up the gaggle of reporters who were gathered downstairs in the lobby. Which I did. I sent them all packing.”

“Thank you for that, and good riddance,” Sister Anselm said, glancing briefly at the card and then slipping it into her pocket. “Then I suppose you’ll be leaving as well?”

“Not exactly,” Ali said. “Sheriff Maxwell wants me to stay around and make sure none of the reporters comes prowling around up here.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Sister Anselm said. “I don’t have any say about lobby issues, but here on the unit my wishes do carry some weight, especially as far as the welfare of my patients is concerned. If any of those reporters turns up here, I’m perfectly capable of giving him or her the boot myself.”

Ali was thinking about what she’d been told earlier, that the so-called Angel of Death was often involved in trying to reconnect unidentified victims with their missing loved ones.

“Sheriff Maxwell is hoping I may be able to offer you some assistance in identifying the victim.”

From the quick flash of interest that crossed the nun’s weathered face, Ali knew she had scored a hit.

“How do you propose to do that?” Sister Anselm asked.

“By monitoring any information that may be reported concerning recently reported missing persons cases. One of those may match up with the woman down the hall.”

“You can do that from here?”

Ali sat down in front of her computer and patted it. “Yes, I can,” she said. “I have a portable broadband connection.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Sister Anselm sank down in the chair opposite Ali. “I suppose having access to official information could prove to be very helpful. There have been instances in the past where law enforcement personnel were, shall we say, less than interested.”

She pulled an electronic device of some kind out of her pocket, studied it for a moment, and then slipped it back away. Leaning back in her chair, she studied Ali’s face for some time before she spoke again, and Ali did the same.

Sister Anselm’s countenance was kind and totally devoid of makeup. She wore two pieces of jewelry with her green scrubs-a small gold cross on a chain around her neck and a simple wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand.

“You mentioned that you had heard about me,” Sister Anselm said. “From whom? One of the reporters downstairs?”

Ali nodded and Sister Anselm sighed.

“I suppose it was more of that Angel of Death nonsense,” she said gloomily. “I do wish they’d stop citing that article. I didn’t want to do that interview to begin with, but the bishop insisted. When it came out, Reverend Mother was not amused. She thought it gave the order a bad name. But you know how newspapers are-if it bleeds, it leads.”

Ali smiled at the unexpected comment. “That’s journalism for you,” she said. “But I don’t understand the bad-name part. The woman who mentioned you to me said that you specialize in caring for unidentified and critically injured folks, and that you often work to reunite them with their families.”

“That’s exactly what I do,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, many of the patients I work with do die. Modern medicine can do miracles, but only with the patient’s full participation. When seriously injured people are isolated and alone, they often can’t find any reason to fight back.”

“Because they have no one to get well for and, as a consequence, no reason to live?” Ali asked.

Sister Anselm nodded. “Without the will to live it’s not surprising that many of them die.”

“That makes sense to me,” Ali said.

“Not to Ms. Hazelett,” Sister Anselm said. “According to her, once a hospital requests my participation, it’s a sign that they’ve given up on the patient and that he or she is on his or her way out.”

“Hence the Angel of Death moniker?” Ali asked.

“Yes,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, that name stuck. I doubt most people remember anything else about the article other than that. Ms. Hazelett didn’t come right out and blame me, of course. She didn’t imply that I was somehow responsible for the deaths that occurred, but she made it clear that once I showed up on the scene, death was sure to follow.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “Even when a patient dies, if you manage to locate the victim’s missing family members, you’re at least giving the family someone to bury. You’re also giving them closure and answers. I should think the family members would be most appreciative.”

“Most of the time they are,” Sister Anselm agreed. “Unfortunately that wasn’t the focus of the article. But your reasoning is understandable since you don’t appear to be a Goth.”

“A Goth?” Ali asked. “Who’s a Goth?”

“That’s how Nadine Hazelett refers to herself in her Facebook entry. From the looks of her photos she wears all black clothing, and even black lipstick. I should have checked her entry prior to doing the interview. Once the article came out, however, it was too late.”

Ali liked the fact that Sister Anselm was computer literate and that she noticed things like lipstick colors.

“Having a Goth interview a nun doesn’t sound like a good fit to me,” Ali said. “Who came up with that brilliant idea?”

“I don’t know, but I’m quite sure the article that was published wasn’t what Bishop Gillespie had in mind.”