“I’ll try,” Andrea said, “but those old files are a mess, so don’t expect miracles. Anything else?”

“Well, yes,” Ali said. “There is one other question. What would happen if The Family got broken up and the women and children who lived there were left homeless. Would you be able to help them?”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“That’s not clear. We estimate there are twenty-five to thirty families involved, but each of those families most likely includes more than one wife and probably several minor children as well.”

“So seventy-five to a hundred women and maybe twice again that for the children?”

“That would be my guess.”

Andrea took a deep breath. “Well, obviously we couldn’t handle them all here, but we do have contingency plans with other shelters and agencies. What do you know of these folks’ situations?”

“The girls aren’t allowed to leave home or vote or learn to drive. Fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds are forced into arranged marriages and turn up pregnant.”

“That sounds like a form of domestic abuse to me,” Andrea said. “Of course we’d find a way to help them. Is this going to happen anytime soon?”

“I’m not sure it’s going to happen at all,” Ali answered. “But just in case, if I were you, I’d make a few calls and have your ducks in a row.”

“I will,” Andrea said. “And as soon as I hang up with you, I’m heading for the basement.”

Reassured by Andrea’s quiet strength, Ali turned to the next piece of the puzzle—how to find out what was really keeping The Family afloat. The first and most obvious source of easy cash would be some kind of involvement in the drug trade. A steady cash crop of marijuana could be worth millions, especially if there was no need to smuggle it across the border. Using those isolated buildings as grow houses suddenly made all kinds of sense. So did the airstrip. The problem was, all this was nothing more than conjecture on Ali’s part.

Sheriff Danny Alvarado might be her best buddy as far as reopening that long-cold Kingman Jane Doe case was concerned, but without that missing evidence box, it would take compelling evidence to provide enough probable cause for Alvarado to stick his small department’s finger into The Family’s mess. Neither would the feds, up to and including the DEA, want to get involved without real evidence of wrongdoing. But if law enforcement’s hands were tied, what about private citizens? If Ali drove up there to scope out the place, the worst she could be charged with would be trespassing. Entering from the BLM side would reduce the risk of being seen . . .

She stopped short because, in that very moment, she came up with an answer. Picking up the phone, she dialed Stu.

“What do you know about drones?” she asked.

Ali’s own experience with drones had come about several years earlier when she had stumbled across someone who, under contract to dismantle military drones, had instead been rehabbing and repurposing them as vehicles to smuggle drugs into the United States. Compared to current technology, those models would all be completely out of date by now.

“Not a whole lot,” Stu answered. “Don’t fly ’em myself, but I know people who do. Why?”

“Did you happen to take a look at the satellite images Cami found of The Family’s compound outside Colorado City?”

“Not yet. I’ve been pretty busy with Bemidji all day,” he said. “I’m researching Betsy’s son’s and daughter’s financials. As for Betsy? Her system is completely operational now. In fact Athena came by earlier to give me her thumbprint and 3-D image, so that’s all out of the way, too. What do you need?”

“I’d like you to examine the images Cami sent me. Pay close attention to the structures that look like greenhouses at the northernmost section of the property. I’d like to have a better idea of what those are. The group is supposed to be fairly self-sufficient, so the greenhouses may be nothing more than a way of growing vegetables during the winter, unless, of course, they aren’t.”

“Is that why you’re asking about drones?” Stu wondered. “You’re looking for a drone operator who can fly in and out and take a look-see without anyone being the wiser?”

“That’s it.”

“Let me work on it and get back to you,” Stu said. “Where are you?”

“In Flagstaff, with Sister Anselm,” she answered. Giving Stu more detailed information than that risked having him pass it along to B. She fully intended to tell her husband what was going on, of course, but in her own good time. B. wouldn’t be any happier on the course of action she and Sister Anselm had decided on than Leland Brooks was.

The entrance doors swished open and the aroma of pizza wafted into the lobby. Two people rose and stepped forward to intercept the delivery boy. That meant Ali wasn’t the only hospital visitor ordering pizza for dinner that night.

“Gotta go, Stu,” she said. “Our pizza just arrived.”

“Mine, too,” he told her. “Bon appétit.”

“So you picked up a bit of French lingo on your trip to Paris?” she asked.

“A little,” he admitted. “But good pizza isn’t easy to find there.”

24

Ali was still giggling about that as she went up to the reception desk to collect the pizza. As the delivery guy accepted the tip, he apologized. “Sorry for the delay. We kept yours hot, but when we ended up with two other deliveries coming here to the hospital, my manager decided to make it just one trip.”

Ali was turning away with the pizza in hand when the entrance door opened again and two men walked into the lobby—a uniformed cop and a man in civilian clothing. The man in civvies—a suit and tie—was a complete stranger, but after a moment Ali recognized the second one. He hadn’t been in uniform at the time, but he had been part of Gordon Tower’s entourage during both hospital confrontations. He had said nothing but had stood in the background watching the proceedings. He had also offered to drive Edith Tower home. Ali knew his name even before he walked up to the receptionist and pulled out his badge.

“I’m Deputy Sellers,” he announced, “and this is Richard Lowell. We’re here to see a patient named Enid Tower. What room is she in?”

Goose bumps prickled the back of Ali’s neck. The tale Ali had spun about Enid being moved to another facility had worked. Deputy Sellers’s presence made it clear that someone inside The Family didn’t want Enid moved anywhere out of reach. Knowing which house was his, Ali had an idea about who Richard Lowell was and why he was here. Enid represented a dangerous leak. He was there to plug it.

Ali glanced at her watch. Almost an hour had passed since she had come down to the lobby. Had that been enough time for Sister Anselm to clear the maternity floor?

“Ms. Tower isn’t being allowed visitors at the moment,” the receptionist replied primly after typing in the name and checking her screen.

“I’m not a visitor,” Sellers replied. “I’m a police officer investigating a traffic incident. This man is Enid’s father. Now, are you going to give me the room number or not?”

Richard Lowell was Enid’s father? That was news.

Hoping not to attract any attention, Ali took her pizza in hand and bailed. She slipped across the lobby and into the elevator, then held her breath in hopes that the two men wouldn’t follow her fast enough to join her in the elevator car.

When the door opened onto the maternity floor, Ali darted off. Sister Anselm was seated on a love seat. The coffee table in front of her held two cups of vending machine coffee, paper plates, plastic silverware, and a supply of paper napkins.