“What makes you think someone tipped me off?”

“Why do you answer every question with another question?”

“Do I?”

Gretchen sighed heavily and continued to scan for Tutu. She rolled down the window and called Tutu’s name. The more Gretchen thought about the police search at her mother’s house, the more certain she became that the police had known not only what they were looking for, but also where they were looking for it. “Did it ever occur to you,” she said, “that your tipster might have planted the evidence?”

“Vivid imagination,” Matt said. “You must be some sort of artistic type. What do you do for a living?”

“Nothing at the moment. I’m unemployed. I have another question for you.”

“Of course.”

“Who claimed Martha’s body?”

Matt stopped the car and studied her, his brows furrowed. Eventually he said, “I guess telling you won’t hurt the case. Her body and personal effects haven’t been released yet, but Joseph Reiner is making arrangements.”

Gretchen was surprised. “The same Joseph Reiner I met at Nina’s house yesterday?”

Matt nodded. “He’s Martha’s nephew.”

“Why didn’t he mention that?”

“I didn’t know myself until late last night when he called me. He seemed embarrassed by the family connection. That explained all the nervous twitching I observed at the meeting.”

In Gretchen’s mind, that didn’t explain anything. It only led to more questions.

“Okay,” Matt said. “I shared information with you. What do you have for me?”

“Nothing yet,” Gretchen said, thinking of the photocopy in Nacho’s notebook and the note on the back in her mother’s handwriting. “I have the doll. Hide the trunk.”

Gretchen felt a confusing mix of anger and fear for her mother. What in the world had her mother gotten herself into? Sitting in the car next to Matt, she realized she was clenching her fists, and she forced herself to relax.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and Tutu appeared from the side of a house, her tongue hanging out so far it almost scraped the ground.

“There she is,” Matt said. “We’ve got her.”

“How was I supposed to know she couldn’t be trusted outside alone?”

“The backyard is fenced for a reason,” Nina said, alternating between sending Gretchen piercing glares and rubbing her face in the schnoodle’s fur. “Poor baby, lost alone in the big world.”

“How’s Wobbles?” Gretchen asked.

“Obviously he enjoyed more care and attention than Tutu.”

Gretchen stuffed her purse with the contents of Nacho’s notebook, slipping the picture of the French fashion doll into her wallet.

“I can’t bear sitting around doing nothing,” Gretchen said. “I’m taking your car for a few hours. You start calling everyone my mother knows, including relatives you might not like.”

She realized the chances of proving her mother’s innocence were evaporating with every piece of new evidence. Instead of uncovering information that would lead to a new suspect, she was cementing the case against her. She could see the headlines now: “Daughter Leads Police to Prove Mother Is Killer.”

At the moment, unsubstantiated evidence pointed to a conspiracy between Caroline and Nacho to steal the French fashion doll from someone. Why else would they discuss hiding the doll and the trunk?

“We have to find out who owns the doll,” Gretchen said.

“How are we going to do that?”

“We’ll find Nacho and make him tell us. He’s the link. And we are going to pay a visit to Martha’s nephew and ask him why he’s creeping around the doll club and concealing his identity.”

“Who? Who?” Nina said, sounding exactly like a great horned owl. “Who is Martha’s nephew? I think I missed something.”

“Joseph Reiner.”

“No,” Nina said in disbelief. “Martha was his aunt? He never said a word.” She plunked the car keys into Gretchen’s outstretched hand. “I should come along to protect you,” she said in a small voice.

“I won’t be gone long. Start making phone calls.”

Caroline stood in the incessant rain staring at Rudolph Timms’s condominium complex, a small figure lost in the early morning mass of humanity swarming around her. She clutched the case containing her laptop close to her body. It was her last hope.

She had spent the night in the Amtrak train station, acutely aware of the indigents attempting to blend with legitimate travelers, seeking dry benches to pass the night. She had become one of them, her remaining dollars slipping through her fingers as her body demanded nourishment. Soon, out of desperation, she would take a chance and use a credit card.

Her Phoenix source had apprised her of the latest developments, and she knew that a warrant had been issued for her arrest. A wanted woman. Also wanted by a more dangerous force than the local authorities.

She turned off Michigan Avenue and sought cover under the canopy of the entrance to the Holiday Inn. Glancing back once more toward the opulent Timms home, she realized there wasn’t anything more she could do in the center of downtown Chicago. She had to keep moving.

“Dead,” the voice had whispered. “You are next unless you give me what I want.”

Caroline understood the message perfectly.

She was dead either way.

12

Gretchen sped along Lincoln Avenue toward downtown Phoenix, feeling released from the claustrophobia she always experienced when she spent too much time around other people. The only personal space she’d managed to find in the past three days was on a rocky mountain in arid summer heat where risking death by bugs or reptiles seemed more desirable than one more minute with Nina and her cast of loony fuzz balls.

In honor of the moment, she purchased lunch at a convenience store-a large bag of potato chips and a sugar-laden soda-and vowed to eat until the chips were history. The challenge was eating, drinking, and driving with only one good arm, but she smiled smugly at her ability to adapt to adverse conditions. She popped another chip into her mouth.

As long as her cell phone didn’t ring or Detective Albright didn’t appear in her rearview mirror, she could handle this level of multitasking. So far, there was no sign of the dogged detective who seemed to have no social life. When did the guy take a day off?

Gretchen chomped chips and admired the scenery. Luxury homes dotted the hillside along Lincoln like embedded jewels, and palm trees lined the boulevards. The weather-man reported the current pollen count.

Phoenix reminded Gretchen of the setting for a fantasy novel or science fiction movie. It even smelled foreign and exotic. As she descended from the hills into the base of the city’s valley, a brown cloud of pollution rose to greet her, the consequence of building a city’s hub in a protected basin. A strong rain or high winds would clean up the air, but Gretchen doubted that it rained much in July.

She maneuvered into a parking space near the Phoenix Rescue Mission and, after studying the outside of the building, she walked inside and approached a wizened woman behind a desk.

“Everybody gone. Eight o’clock,” she replied in broken English. “Back to street. Find work or go church or what.”

“Thank you,” Gretchen said, noticing a sign at the desk reminded all guests to vacate the premises by eight in the morning.