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I shook my head.
I told her that Strawberry Death was somehow connected with her husband and the diamond theft. She had first appeared after the crime, when we were on our way to Ash Fork.
“That was the DPS officer?”
“Yes. Same woman. This was not a coincidence. When she confronted me on the front lawn, she said, ‘Where are my stones?’ She said she’d made Mike a promise. What the hell does that mean?” I described her and asked Sharon if she remembered Peralta mentioning anyone like that.
“Does she sound like anyone you know? Anyone you remember seeing?”
“No, David. Why are you badgering me?” She started crying again, but when I reached out she pushed my hand away. “I’m trying to help you. I think I understand the stress you’re under but you need to let the FBI and the police do their job.”
“Well, the FBI is officially labeling Mike an armed fugitive.”
“That’s absurd!”
“I believe that. I think he’s working undercover. But if he is, this new Special Agent in Charge doesn’t know about it or he’s a damned good liar.”
I didn’t know who to trust. I said, “You need to go back to the Bay Area. It’s not safe here. This woman who shot Lindsey deliberately came after me. She’s still out there. You are probably next on her list.”
She stood straighter. “We’re not leaving. I can take care of myself. Jamie and Jennifer can, too. We’ll take shifts with you watching Lindsey.”
I said, “At least don’t be exposed at night. This woman likes the night.”
“So do you,” she said. And she was right.
Back upstairs, we waited. I was allowed in to see Lindsey four more times. IV bags were changed. A blood-pressure cuff was attached to her arm and periodically inflated and deflated, sending the data to the monitors. A nurse with an elaborate cart containing additional monitoring equipment came in once—another time I was instructed to leave the unit. I napped for short periods in chairs, leaving kinks in every muscle.
A police technician used a laptop computer to generate a likeness of Lindsey’s assailant. The problem wasn’t the quality—it was a pretty good rendering. The problem was that she looked like scores of other average-attractive thirtysomething women walking around the malls of Phoenix. This was no doubt an advantage in her trade.
At seven p.m. Sunday, the three Peralta women sent me home to rest, promising to call if anything changed.
Sharon walked me to the door. It was black night outside and I realized I hadn’t seen the sun for more than a day. Then the question that had been sitting under my feet like a land mine finally detonated.
“Why are you here?”
She looked at me strangely. “For you and Lindsey. Why?”
“No, I mean what brought you to the hospital? How did you know we’d be here?”
“The call.”
I was suddenly twitchy. The feeling of imaginary ants marching up the back of my neck was so pronounced that I reached back to brush them off.
“What call?”
She said, “I got a call from the hospital. They said you asked them to call me and say Lindsey had been shot and please come. What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t tell anyone to make a call. Man or woman’s voice?”
“A man.”
I stared through the glass door at the night street. “Accent?”
She shook her head.
I looked back at her. “Could it have been Mike?”
“No.”
