45

Shepherd was at his desk, eating a chicken taco with too much sour cream, when his phone rang.

“Homicide,” he said through a mouthful of shredded lettuce and cheese.

“Roy?”

He recognized Undersheriff Wheelihan’s voice and took a swig of Diet Coke to clear his throat. “Chuck, what’s up?”

“Just wanted to tie a few loose ends into Boy Scout knots. We found Kaylie’s car, day before yesterday. It was parked on a fire road in the foothills near the hospital. Looks like she hiked to a ridge from there and scoped out Cray’s house. We found her shoe prints in the dirt, and a pair of cheap binoculars in the car.”

“What kind of car?” Shepherd asked, for no reason except curiosity.

“Chevy Chevette, real piece of crap, easily a couple hundred thousand miles on it. According to the registration, she bought it in Flagstaff two years ago. We would’ve found it sooner, but we thought she must have parked somewhere right off the road, so we had our guys going through the arroyos. Finally we had a chopper do a flyby, and the pilot spotted the car in the hills.”

“Anything in the car?”

“One thing that was interesting. Notebook in the glove compartment. She was following Cray for about a month, and she kept a record of all the places he went.” A chuckle came over the line like a dry cough. “Our man Cray gets around, it appears.”

“Does he? Where?”

“Well, if Kaylie’s notes can be believed, he visited a strip club on Miracle Mile. Maybe you know the place—strictly in your professional capacity, of course.”

There was only one club of that kind in that district. Shepherd nodded. “I know it. Where else?”

“Bikers’ bar in South Tucson, for one. I happen to have spent an evening there once, some years ago, definitely not in a professional capacity, and please don’t ask me for any details. Fairly rough clientele, as I recall. I was glad to get out of there with my privates intact.”

Shepherd’s lunch lay cooling on his desk, long forgotten. “Doesn’t sound like a place where a man like Cray would want to hang out.”

“You never can tell about people, though.”

“I guess not.”

“I mean, hell, look at Kaylie’s father-in-law.”

Shepherd frowned. “What about him?”

“Didn’t I tell you? He’s dropped by our office three times since we informed him of Kaylie’s arrest. You’d think he’d be happy she’s finally back under wraps, where she belongs.”

“But he isn’t?”

“Far from it. He seems mightily pissed off, don’t ask me why. First time he comes in, he asks how they can hold her in the institute without an arraignment. So I explain to him that she’s still under the original indictment, and she’s being kept for observation to determine her competency to stand trial. He goes away, but a couple days later he’s back.”

“Why?”

“Seems he went over to Hawk Ridge, tried to get in to see her. They wouldn’t let him. I think Cray personally nixed the idea. Said she was in no condition to receive visitors, and seeing Justin’s father would only upset her.”

“Makes sense,” Shepherd said.

“I thought so too. But not him. He’s red in the face, he’s so ticked off. Keeps saying they’re keeping Kaylie from him, and it’s not right. Weird, huh? So I ask him, why would you want to talk to that little bitch anyhow, after what she did to your boy?”

“And?”

“He doesn’t answer. He just asks me if I know any good lawyers. Which, as a matter of fact, I do. I told him about this attorney from Scottsdale who keeps a vacation home in Kimball, northwest of here.”

“You said there were three visits.”

“Yeah, he put on a repeat performance just this morning. Dropped by to thank me for recommending that attorney. Looks like he’s hired the guy to help him force his way into the institute. He’s obsessed with seeing Kaylie. Won’t let it go. But that wasn’t the weirdest thing.”

“Then what was?”

“How he looked. He had Justin late in life, and he’s maybe seventy now, but until this morning he could’ve passed for twenty years younger. Now it’s like—like he was up all night crying.”

“Crying?”

“Well, his eyes were red as hell. He said it was allergies. I don’t know. He said to me, Kaylie’s all alone in the world. She’s got no folks—they died when she was growing up. No relatives by blood. There’s only him.” Wheelihan exhaled a deep, thoughtful sigh. “I just hated seeing him that way. Anson’s always been a rock. Even when his kid died, he took it like a man. So why’s he all teary-eyed now?”

Anson, Shepherd thought, noting the name. Anson McMillan.

“Well,” he answered, “you said it yourself. You just never know about people.”

“Isn’t that the damn truth. Hey, I’d better let you get back to your lunch. I could hear I interrupted you.”

The taco was cold by now. Shepherd figured he’d throw it out. “Okay, Chuck,” he said. “Thanks for the update.”

“Hey, thank you. After all the local coverage this case has gotten, the sheriff thinks he’s a shoo-in for reelection. And since you’re not around, he’s showering his gratitude on me.” Wheelihan laughed. “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”

Shepherd cradled the phone, then stared at the cold taco in its nest of wax paper, not quite seeing it, not seeing anything around him.

Cray had gone to a strip club, a barrio bar. No crime in that, but it seemed out of character, or perhaps Shepherd simply didn’t know Cray’s true character.

And there was Anson McMillan, showing a solicitous concern for the woman who’d shot his son in the heart.

Unusual name. There couldn’t be more than one Anson McMillan in Graham County. Easy to find him. Easy, maybe, to get him to talk ...

“It’s not your case, Roy.”

The voice belonged to Hector Alvarez, who’d appeared at the desk without so much as an audible footstep or a snap of chewing gum to warn of his approach.

Shepherd blinked, wondering if Alvarez was psychic. “What?”

“Kaylie McMillan.” Alvarez grinned. “I overheard you say good-bye to Wheelihan. And now I see the expression on your face.”

“What expression?”

“That lost-in-thought, grim-determination, unfinished-business look. Last time I saw it, you were getting ready to run the sting that nabbed Kaylie. If you recall, I said to you at the time ...”

“It’s not my case.”

“Right.”

“Sound advice.”

“But you didn’t take it.”

“Well, I’m stubborn that way.” Shepherd rose and picked up the half-eaten taco. “You ought to know that by now. Hector.”

“Roy.” The smile was gone from Alvarez’s face. “Just let it go, huh? The girl’s guilty. She’s a nut. She’s in the crazy house, where she belongs. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world. And you got a full caseload.”

Shepherd almost argued, but hell, Alvarez had a point. Didn’t he?

“You hear me, Roy?”

“I hear you.” Shepherd wadded up the wax paper and pitched his lunch into the trash. “And you’re right. Really.” He meant it, too.

At least he was almost sure he did.