Free Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter Page B

this is all over, you’re not going back to a homeless shelter.” He took a bite of his BLT, sat back, looked at her thoughtfully, and said, “No, you weren’t going to do that in any case, were you? You’re planning to hotfoot it out of town once this is over, aren’t you?”
    She didn’t raise her head, just slowly and steadily ate her way through the pile of french fries on her plate. They were well done, brown and crispy, just the way she liked them.
    She said, “You’re right, yes. When this is over, I’m gone. I’m thinking about the Southwest. It’s really warm there during the winter months.”
    “At least you’re telling me some of the truth now. Hey, you like french fries.”
    “It’s been a while since I’ve had any. They’re wonderful.”
    “Michael loved french fries, too, claimed they helped him concentrate better on the football field and made girls think he was wearing a really nice aftershave lotion. Who knows?”
    She raised her head. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom now?”
    He nodded, took another bite of his sandwich, watched her eat one more fry, sigh, and push the plate away. She looked like she wanted to cry. “They’re so good, but I just don’t have any more room. I didn’t know Father Michael Joseph liked french fries. It never came up.”
    “No, it probably wouldn’t have. Do you want to go back to the shelter? Do you have anything there you need?”
    “No, thank you. The fact is, if someone does have anything of value, they learn to strap it to their bodies or it’s gone in five minutes.”
    “Sort of like car parts in a bad part of town?”
    He wondered what she had strapped to her middle. Papers that would tell him who she was? What or who she was running from?
    He listened to the sound of the shower running. He rose and walked to the phone. He’d nearly dialed his sister’s number when he slowly laid the receiver back down. No, he couldn’t imagine Eloise dealing with Ms. Jones. It would be unfair to both of them. Too much grief on Eloise’s part, too much fear on Ms. Jones’s. Not a good mix, too much, certainly, to ask of his sister. He’d have to trust her to stay there in the hotel while he was out with Delion. He carefully wrapped her water glass in a handkerchief. There was, at the very least, a nice clear thumbprint.
    When she walked out of the bathroom nearly an hour later, Dane nearly dropped his coffee cup. The bag lady was gone. She was scrubbed, her hair clean and blow-dried, and the recycled clothes looked just fine on her.
    She looked like a college kid with that fresh face of hers. He hadn’t realized it, but her hair was more blond than brown now that it was clean, but there were lots of different shades, and it was on the curly side. She had it clipped again at the back of her neck. Her eyes, clear and sharp with intelligence, were a mix of gray and green. She was, he saw, quite nice-looking.
    “You look fine now,” he said, satisfied that he sounded only mildly pleased. The last thing he needed was for her to fear that he’d jump her. “I’ve got to go back to Homicide. I want you to stay here, in this room. Watch TV, or, if you want, go downstairs and buy some paperbacks, whatever. Just don’t leave the hotel. Okay?”
    He gave her fifty bucks even though she just kept shaking her head until he stuffed it in her jeans pocket. He realized then that she hadn’t answered him.
    He said again, “Listen to me. Promise you won’t leave the hotel.”
    Finally she said, “Oh, all right. I promise.”
    He really hoped she wasn’t a liar.
    He called his sister on his cell phone on his way back to Bryant Street, listened to her arrangements for their brother’s funeral.
    Michael was dead. They were actually talking about burying him. Dane couldn’t stand it. Instead of going to the Hall of Justice, he drove back to St. Bartholomew’s, at his sister’s request, to see that everything was being handled. Father Binney, red-eyed, a slight