Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [84]
He couldn’t walk away from this. Ginnie’s ghost would never forgive him.
“So,” Alvarez said, “you’re gonna call Graham County. Right?”
Slowly Shepherd nodded. “I’ll call that guy Kroft knows—Chuck Wheelihan—the one who was promoted to undersheriff.”
“I don’t think you need to talk to the undersheriff.”
“Oh, yeah.” Shepherd smiled, a secret smile that puzzled the two patrol cops and worried Alvarez. “Yeah, I think I do. But first I need to get in touch with somebody else.”
“Who?”
“Cray.”
The phone in the room might have Kaylie’s prints on it, so Shepherd used his cell phone instead. He stood outside for a clearer transmission and found the number he needed in his memo pad.
There were four rings at the other end of the line, and then a receptionist—no doubt the woman in the lobby who’d been bent over her computer keyboard, the woman who’d reminded him briefly of Ginnie at her desk—answered. “Hawk Ridge Institute.”
He identified himself. His call was transferred to Cray’s secretary, then to Cray himself.
“Yes, Detective?” The man sounded harried and tired. “How may I help you?”
“We just had a close encounter with your former patient.”
“With Kaylie?” Instantly the weariness was gone from Cray’s voice. “Is she under arrest?”
“I’m afraid not. She eluded us, but just barely. Before she left, she did a lot of damage to her motel room.”
“Damage?”
Cray seemed surprised by the news. Distantly Shepherd found this odd. The man knew what Kaylie had done to his Lexus, after all.
“She messed up the place pretty badly,” he said. “Apparently she’s still in a violent frame of mind.”
“I see.” Peculiar hesitation there. “Well, I suppose you intend to warn me again that I need to watch out for her. I do appreciate your concern—”
“Actually, I’m calling for a slightly different reason.” It was Shepherd’s turn to hesitate. “I want to ask you for help.”
“Help?”
“In apprehending this woman. Tonight.”
“You want my assistance ... in catching her. I see.”
There was something new in Cray’s tone, something Shepherd could not quite define. Under other circumstances, he might have thought it was a note of sly amusement. But the cell phone’s reception was muddy, and he was sure he’d misinterpreted what he heard.
“It may entail some risk,” Shepherd said, choosing his words with care. “And I haven’t contacted the sheriff’s department to work things out with them. But if I can get their cooperation, can I count on yours, as well?”
He waited. On the other end of the line, Cray exhaled a long, slow breath.
“Detective,” Cray said, “when it comes to putting Kaylie safely in custody where she belongs, I assure you I’ll do everything I can.”
37
Chuck Wheelihan, undersheriff of Graham County, stood by the side of his Chevy Caprice cruiser in the desert night.
Three deputies loitered nearby. They wore tan short-sleeve shirts, open at the collar, and brown trousers encircled by gun belts, and they had yellow-bordered patches on their shoulders and silver badges on their chests. They were young. Damnably young, Wheelihan thought.
One was smoking a cigarette, another had just returned from taking a whiz in a creosote patch, and the third was drumming his fingers restlessly on the hood of Wheelihan’s car.
“So, Chuck,” the drummer said, “what do you think the odds are of this working?”
Wheelihan took a moment to think it over. The great quiet of the desert loomed around him, and above the high peaks of the Pinaleno range the stars dazzled.
“One in three,” he answered at length.
“That guy from Tucson seems to think our chances are a good deal better’n that.”
“That’s because he thinks the girl is watching Cray’s house.”
“And you don’t?”
“Way I see it, she ran to the border or to another state. Or she’s layin’ low.”
“If she’s sensible, sure. But she’s crazy, they say.”
There was eagerness in the young man’s voice. He wanted to go up against somebody crazy, somebody dangerous, even if it was only a woman.
Not much action