Книга - Pursuit of Justice

Pursuit of Justice
Pamela Tracy








“You have the right to remain silent–”


Rosa’s foot hammered down on Officer Sam Packard’s instep. His grip loosened. She pulled away and managed to assume a position of flight. He had her on the ground in two seconds and finished giving the Miranda to the back of her head.

“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let me go.”

A bribe! She’d offered him a bribe! His eyes darkened. “Lady, it’s worth a thousand dollars just to find out what’s going on.” He pushed her toward the street where his cruiser’s lights flashed.

She clamped her lips together, and Sam knew he’d get no information from her at the moment. Sam liked challenges, and right now the woman-who smelled like peaches and shot like John Wayne-promised to be an entertaining puzzle.


PAMELA TRACY

lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband (Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. We’re only on year four) and a confused cat (Hey, I had her all to myself for fifteen years. Where’d this guy come from? But maybe it’s okay. He’s pretty good about feeding me and petting me) and a toddler (Newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed!). Pamela was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve (A very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from The Partridge Family). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a B.A. in journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas (And wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy).

Readers can write to her at www.pamelakayetracy.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.




Pursuit of Justice

Pamela Tracy








Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to You I pray. In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait in expectation.

—Psalms 5:2–3


To my husband, Donald Osback,

who watched as I wrote during our honeymoon,

as I edited during road trips, and who

continuously models what a “hero” really is.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




ONE


Flashing lights, on a plain, brown sedan, blinked an unwanted command.

She momentarily closed her eyes, willing the image in the rearview mirror to disappear. When she opened them again, the cop remained. There’d been a time, she remembered, when cops drove cop cars, a time when plain, old, everyday vehicles didn’t suddenly sprout flashing lights. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the speedometer and tried to control the urge to flee.

Every time she saw a cop, she wanted to floor it and veer out of sight. Since she usually obeyed the speed limit, the cop always went around her in pursuit of some other offender. But, no, not this time. The speedometer and rearview mirror informed her that this time, this cop was definitely after her.

She hesitated a moment too long. The traffic signal in front of her switched from yellow to red. She hit the brake and only her seat belt kept her from serious injury.

Run the light!

Now!

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. There’d be no time to get to the trailer and grab her suitcase. No time to pick up her cat.

Checking the rearview mirror again, she watched as the patrol car gained on her bumper. Instinctively, she adjusted her hat, trying to cover her face, and watched the cop motion her toward the side of the road. He was that close.

No, no, no.

Her foot, already poised for the escape she so desperately desired, brushed the gas pedal.

Floor it!

But there was always the chance the cop would just hand over the speeding ticket and be done with it. She slowly pulled off the street and into a deserted grocery store’s parking lot. The front passenger tire bumped over the curb.

Great, just great.

She willed her fingers to cease trembling as she turned off the engine and slipped a bulging manila folder under the passenger seat. She carefully opened the glove compartment and took out the Arizona driver’s license which displayed the likeness of Lucille Damaris Straus complete with a tight smile and short, choppy, black hair.

Please let this be a speeding ticket.

She should never have purchased this car. Statistics showed that red cars were pulled over for speeding more often than cars of any other color. And a Mustang just begged for attention. The car had gotten away from her today.

Why hadn’t she been born an economy car kind of girl? Life sure would have been simpler.

She’d spent the last two years being careful, watching the speedometer, stopping longer at red lights than necessary and making sure she never forgot to use her turn signal. Then, somebody at work fell behind on car payments, house payments, child support, whatever, and needed to sell the Mustang cheap. She half purchased the vehicle in order to help the man. She’d half purchased it because she liked the car. But, no matter, truth was she’d messed up, started feeling safe, given in to impulse and a lead foot.

Bad timing.

The cop finally stepped out of his vehicle. Great, he wasn’t even in uniform. Lucy didn’t want to follow his rigid movements in her rearview mirror. What she wanted to do was stomp on the gas and leave him coughing in exhaust fumes. But, if she did that, there would surely be a problem. If she waited, there might be a problem.

He strode toward her, adjusting his sunglasses and walking ramrod straight. No doubt about this man’s physique. He looked sort of like the Ken doll she’d had as a child. A second look told her that Ken did not hold a candle to this cop—the muscles of his arms about burst out of his sleeves.

Great, and probably he had that Ken doll good-heartedness, too. He wouldn’t fall prey to tears, apologies or coy looks. This one had already started filling out some sort of ticket and most likely had radioed in her license plate number.

The driver’s license stuck to her damp palm as she took a deep breath. Of all places to get arrested, Gila City was on the bottom of her list, and it was a long list.

The cop rapped on her window. “Ma’am, step out of the car, please.” The afternoon sun bounced off his mirrored glasses, giving him a peculiar insect sort of look. She wondered if the glasses were protection against the come-hither attitude of females who wanted to avoid speeding tickets. Well, she wasn’t one of them. She opened the door but didn’t step out. Swallowing before speaking, she tried to sound in control. “Is something the matter, Officer?”

“I need to see your license and registration.”

“I have them right here.”

“I’ll take them.” His voice was textured steel. “Please step out of the car and take off your glasses.”

She complied with the “step out of the car” order but ignored the “take off your glasses” command. Again, she tried to keep her hands from shaking. This cop was after something more than enforcing the It’s-Our-Town-Please-Slow-Down request. She stuck her hands behind her back. “Why do I need to step out of the car?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but a thud against the side of her car drew his attention.

And hers.

Glancing in the direction the bullet had come from, she saw dark-haired men, big dark-haired men, three of them. The Santellises. She hit the ground, knees hard to the pavement, and pressed against the side of her car.

This really wasn’t her day.

Glancing at the police officer she noticed that he looked as surprised as she did. So, maybe, he wasn’t in cahoots with the Santellises who were taking serious risks shooting at her while a cop—maybe an honest cop—was issuing a ticket. This made them all the more dangerous. The realization sent her heart slamming to her throat.

The next thud landed so close to her knee that tiny flecks of red paint settled like drops of blood against her white pants.

“Lady, move!” He pushed her around the car and down. In his eagerness to remove her from the line of fire, he knocked her hat and sunglasses off. His fingers tangled in her hair.

“Just let me—” Her knees hit the pavement as another bullet whizzed over the car. The pressure from his fingers disappeared, and Lucy brushed the hair out of her eyes, slipped her driver’s license and registration in her back pocket and murmured a quick prayer while she tried to scoot back toward her vehicle. Maybe she could still get away. Maybe she—

This time the bullet hit the back window of her car, sending glass raining down.

Months of confiding in the Lord opened her mouth. Her lips moved, but to her sorrow, she couldn’t form the words to pray.



Sam Packard edged to the front of the Mustang, crouched, with gun drawn. “Police! Put your weapons down!” He grabbed the radio from his belt and called a Code One Thousand. The assistance he requested better hurry. Right now, the odds didn’t favor him. Three men ducked behind the aged, brown Chevy that sheltered them a short distance away. One of them, idiot of idiots, had a cell phone pressed against his ear, even as he took aim. Sam couldn’t make any of them.

But the shooters weren’t his only problem. He flinched as a gun’s report rendered him momentarily deaf. Only the sight of one of the gunmen stooping, as a bullet ricocheted off the roof of his car, kept Sam from covering his ears.

“What the—” Sam looked down the length of the Mustang. The woman his scanner identified as Lucille Straus, the woman who moments ago seemed to be praying, was now pressed against the back bumper and taking aim.

She had a Beretta 21!

Without blinking, lips tight, she pulled the trigger. The passenger’s side window of the Chevy shattered. One of the men yelped.

Two steps had him by her side. The lady could handle a gun; she’d been aiming at the man who yelped. No matter, she was a civilian butting into his turf. A civilian who might accidentally shoot him. He wrenched the Beretta from her hand, emptied the chamber onto the ground, set the safety and tossed the weapon through the open passenger window of her car.

“Hey!” Her fingers followed the gun, much as a child chased an errant balloon. The look she shot him was pure venom. With one hand he restrained her from crawling through the passenger window to retrieve the weapon. With his other hand, he kept his gun trained on the Chevy.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Sam pushed the woman behind him. The three men jumped into their car and with tires screeching raced behind the grocery store.

He released her arm. “You stay here!”

She nodded.

Taking the radio from his belt, he sprinted toward his vehicle. Two cruisers pulled into the lot. He motioned toward the back.

Behind him, the engine of the Mustang turned over, revving to life even as the woman put it into gear.

Sam didn’t bother to yell stop. She clearly had no intention of sticking around to answer questions. Looking at the passenger seat of her vehicle, he realized she’d managed to retrieve her gun. Biting back irritation, Sam hoofed it to his car, hit the siren and burned rubber.

Intuition pointed him in the direction of the female instead of the three men. He trusted it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Felony flight was just one of the things he would charge her with, unless she had one whopper of a story.

Gripping the steering wheel, he inched closer to her bumper. She made a sharp turn, zigzagged past a small park and entered a residential area. He closed the distance, and a school bus did her in. A load of what had to be grade school children spilled onto the sidewalk and meandered toward the center of the street. The Mustang swung left. Both right side tires went over the curb, and the car stalled. Miss Straus disappeared from sight, and Sam wondered if she’d been hurt. Then, her head popped up. She didn’t check the rearview mirror as she exited the car.

His fingers fumbled as he stopped his vehicle, grabbed the keys, clicked the lock and took off after her. Quickly he scanned the area, locating her easily. She crouched between two bushes, stock-still for a moment, one hand patting the ground as if she’d lost a set of keys, then leaped the fence of a small, stucco home.

His peripheral vision took in the kids, parents and bus driver frozen in the background. Then, he took off and followed her over the fence. “Police! Halt!”

A dog trotted by her side, not yapping, not nipping, but seeming to enjoy the sight of a woman charging through its backyard. Lucy Straus. How did he know that name? Now that the ridiculous hat was history, he could see facial features that didn’t deserve to be hidden.

She didn’t crouch or hesitate before climbing this next fence and landing in yet another yard. Maybe she’d gotten her bearings. Sam scrambled over the fence and lunged. His fingers touched the material of her shirt, but the fabric slipped through. She slowed, looking left, then right. Her eyes were wild, like a caught deer. Her indecision gave him the opportunity he needed. His momentum tumbled her down with him right alongside.

Sam scrambled off the ground and yanked her to her feet, grabbed his handcuffs and secured them around her wrists. Then, he relieved her of the gun that was once again stuck in an ankle holster. “You have the right to remain silent—”

Her foot hammered down on his instep. His grip loosened. She pulled away and managed to assume a position of flight. He had her on the ground in two seconds and finished giving the Miranda to the back of her head. She muttered a response, but since her mouth was jammed into the grass, he didn’t catch the words. Had she cursed or begged?

He pulled her to her feet.

Sweat dribbled down the hollow of her neck. Her chest rose and fell with indignation. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let me go.”

A bribe! She’d offered him a bribe! Sam’s eyes darkened. “Lady, it’s worth a thousand dollars just to find out what’s going on.” He pushed her toward the street where his cruiser’s lights still flashed. Some of the kids and their parents had disappeared; others hovered at the edge of the sidewalk mesmerized by the chase. Lucy went willingly until they neared her car. Then she bucked. Sam followed her eyes. Four bullet holes formed an erratic L shape in the driver’s side door. The woman went to her knees so quickly that Sam lost his hold, but she wasn’t running.

“You’re safe. Gila City’s finest are taking care of the shooters right now.”

She clamped her lips together, and Sam knew he’d get no information from her at the moment. He secured her in his backseat, radioed his location and returned to her car. Before stepping in, he glanced back. No movement. Sam liked challenges, and right now, the woman—who smelled like peaches and shot like John Wayne—promised to be an entertaining puzzle.

He straightened her car and turned off the ignition. Then, Sam exited the Mustang and started walking toward his vehicle. He had questions; she had answers. He doubted a liaison would be formed.

He opened the driver’s side door and slid in. “Ma’am, do you want to tell me why you took off?”

At first she looked the other way, and then with short, jerky motions she turned to glare at him.

All thoughts of getting the answers to his questions fled.

Watching her chin jut out in defiance, Sam felt a righteous anger himself. Because the three men had involved him in the exchange of gunfire, Sam thought he had every right to know why they’d been shooting at her.



Police stations always smelled the same: sweat, cigarettes and fear. Gila City’s was no different. The last time she’d been in one, the precinct had been painted this same pond scum green. Somewhere, someone must have found quite a sale on pond scum paint.

Lucy looked at the entrance and then scowled at the man at the desk. A few Christmas cards hung on the wall behind him even though the holiday was weeks past. The handcuff securing her left wrist to the bench clanked as she fidgeted. She’d already raised a welt trying to tug free.

Once, way back when she’d still been an emergency room nurse, they’d brought in a convict who’d needed more than twenty stitches because of how seriously he’d ripped his skin while trying to escape the handcuff.

She hadn’t understood back then; she understood now.

No way would she let them see the fear. If the fear showed, she’d have to accept it. Still, it roiled in her stomach, a constant reminder of a never-ending battle.

Fear wasn’t the only emotion battling for her attention. Guilt tapped her on the shoulder, reminding her that she’d shot a man today. Took aim and pulled the trigger.

Her teeth started to chatter, but she wasn’t cold.

The bench creaked as she shifted her weight. She could not stay here! Tentatively she inched upward. Was anyone looking? Twice she’d stood, and twice the officer at the desk had glared at her. As if she could do anything!

“I have to go to the bathroom.” She leaned forward, her words matter-of-fact. Too bad her heart didn’t beat as calmly. The duty officer picked up a phone and barked a few words. Moments later, a female—the same cop who had earlier searched her and taken her belongings—removed the handcuff and escorted her to a windowless, closet-size excuse for a restroom.

Anger burned while helplessness whispered threats of what if. The nausea rose, but she controlled it by closing her eyes. This time when she tried to find the words to talk with God, they came. Finally, she finished praying, opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.

Surprise, surprise, a normal reflection.

The female officer called, “You all right in there?”

“Fine, just washing up.”

“Hurry.”

She took her time, trying to control her breathing, and was still wiping the water from her palms when she stepped out and almost bumped into the officer who’d arrested her.

He’d taken off the glasses, giving her a good look at him.

She knew who he was!

The day took a turn for the worse. He stood, one foot tapping a restless beat of discontent on the blue-speckled tile. “Lucille Damaris Straus?” He looked at her and through her.

The female officer handed him the handcuffs and disappeared.

Lucy took a breath. “Look, either charge me with something or let me go.” She willed him to dismiss the charges, apologize, something, before she lost it.

He didn’t. Instead, as if this were a normal day, as if she were a typical citizen, he stated, “Nothing’s that simple, lady. I have some questions.”

“Look, I don’t have the answers. Give me the speeding ticket. I don’t care. I just want out of here.” She held out her hand, palm up. She almost smiled. It wasn’t shaking.

“You had a concealed weapon.” His voice rose with each word. “I doubt you have a permit.”

As if realizing he’d gotten too loud, he lowered his voice. “I want the names of the men shooting at us. You hit one of them, by the way.”

“In today’s society, a woman needs a gun.”

“I’d agree, if not for the fact that I was there to protect you. Where did you get the Beretta 21?”

“From my father.”

“And he is?”

Without flinching, she ground out, “Earl Warren Straus.”

He blinked and shook his head. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll be right back.” Before she could protest, the bench caught her behind the knees and guilt wrapped tightly around her.

She hated lying and resented that she’d become so good at it. Not good enough, though. When ole Officer Friendly, real name Sam Packard, ex-partner to Cliff Handley, a man she wanted very much to avoid, ran his search, nothing would surface—at least on any Earl Warren he could attach Lucy to. Then, he’d have even more questions. Cops hated to be lied to. They took it personally.

Before she had time to contemplate the absence of the handcuffs, he was back.

Lucy felt her control slipping. She had to get away from him. She stood. “Look, I’ve done nothing wrong. If you hadn’t pulled me over, I’d never have gotten involved in that exchange of gunfire. I could have been hurt!”

He leaned close, backing her up. “Care to tell me who they were?”

“You didn’t catch them? You said Gila City’s finest was taking care of them.” Her voice raised an octave.

His eyes scanned the room. Lucy followed his gaze and shut up. It was a small station. The last thing she wanted was to be the center of attention in a police station.

He guided her down some stairs, into a small office, and motioned for her to sit. The green plastic chair put her at a disadvantage. She saw that immediately. When he settled in his own scarred, wooden chair, he was able to look down at her instead of eye to eye. She gracefully tucked one leg under her and sat up straight.

His eyes glittered, as if he knew what she was thinking. He pulled some papers from his desk. “Name?”

She leaned her elbow on his desk, rested her chin on her palm, cocked her head and stated, “You know my name.”

“Humor me.”

She pulled her driver’s license from her back pocket and slapped it down. “Lucille Damaris Straus.”

He fit the license under a paper clip on his page. “Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You look older.”

Her eyes narrowed. She glanced at the form he was filling out. A simple information sheet. That was good. She took a pen off his desk and suggested, “I can fill that out for you.”

He reclaimed the pen.

Nervously, she scratched at a shoulder blade. She needed to keep talking. Divert him. Figure out what he wanted. He still looked like her Ken doll. Except that the cop was having a much better hair day. Irrationally, she wished his hair wasn’t so wavy, so chocolate-brown. Why couldn’t she have gotten arrested by an ugly cop?

Okay, she could handle this. “I was on my way to the store. I was probably going a little fast. You pulled me over. Next thing I knew bullets were flying. Now, I’m at the police station, and you’re asking me questions like I’m guilty of something.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Guilty of something?”

“I confess. I was speeding. What else are you charging me with?”

He didn’t even blink. “Name?”

“I’ve told you my name. Three times.”

Detective Samuel Elliot Packard, Robbery Homicide Division, tapped his pen on the form. “Place of employment?”

She knew most of his life story: when he’d graduated, when he’d served time in the military, when he’d joined the police force, when his mother died, when he’d broken up with his last girlfriend, and when he’d stopped attending church.

“Liberty Cab Company.” She barely managed to answer his question. Of all the officers who might have pulled her over, this one could cause more trouble than any other. She should have recognized him back when he first pulled her over, but the glasses hid his face.

If he still looked like his earlier photos, she’d have floored it when he started walking toward her car. Of course, she wasn’t prepared for a detective to be making a routine traffic stop. Just her luck, a slow day in Gila City and she finds a detective looking for something to do.

She never should have stopped, at the abandoned store or on the street. She never should have taken the risk of letting him see her without her hat and glasses.

Nervously, she started to reach for the pen again.

He moved the pen. “Are you a cab driver?”

“No, I do dispatch.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“Almost six months. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“You tell me.”

“Are you bored? Too much free time?” She wanted the sarcastic words back as soon as they left her lips. She needed his sympathy, not his ire.

Briefly, the corner of his mouth twitched, but not enough to be sure of. He shoved the paperwork aside, took a sip of what must have been hours-old coffee and frowned at her. “Why were those men shooting at you?”

“At me?”

“Yes, at you.”

She shook her head, acting indignant. She had to keep him from thinking that maybe she was the target, keep him from thinking she was more than just an ordinary civilian. “They weren’t shooting at me.”

“Lady, those three men were aiming at you. Not only that, but you carry a gun, because for some reason men shooting at you doesn’t appear to be out of the ordinary. A gun you use with some proficiency.” He resumed tapping, this time on a manila folder. “According to this file, you have no right to own a firearm.” He leaned forward. “And according to this file, Lucy Damaris Straus doesn’t possess the mental capability to know how to fire a firearm, let alone which end to aim. Do you want to tell me your real name?”

“I’ve gotten much better. The medicine I’m taking—”

His mouth became a single thin line.

“Have I done something to offend you?” She hated this. How dare he make her feel vulnerable! She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. Normal movements, she reminded herself.

“Lying offends me.”

“You’ve seen my driver’s license. I’m Lucille Damaris Straus.” She checked her watch. “May I go? Do you have the right to keep me here?”

He clutched the well-worn file, with a blue-edged white label and uneven typing, proclaiming a misspelled Lucy Stras.

She could imagine what was inside and then some. After all, Lucy’s first introduction to social services came before she could even walk. Early on there’d been physical and mental abuse at the hands of an alcoholic father. Later on came the truant officers reports. Finally, when Lucy reached legal age, there were misdemeanors: accessory to fraud, shoplifting, public intoxication, until finally the more serious offenses, such as riding in a stolen car and possession. And, of course, there were the hospitalizations. Mental illness ran in the family. Why should Lucy escape the gene?

A paper slipped out of the file and landed faceup on the floor.

A photo.

Well, she’d always known that was a possibility.



This was not what he needed for an end-of-the-week finale. The woman kept her cool better than most. But she was scared. A few times her retorts had had an edge to them, a raw fear that threatened to erupt.

Detachment, a God-given gift most cops prayed for, left Sam. He’d never been as hard-edged as Cliff, his first partner. What had he stumbled onto here? What secrets did she so fiercely guard with fake identification and a Beretta 21 concealed in an ankle holster, no less.

He studied the photo. “Lucy Straus is a five-foot-three, twenty-two year old, Native American. Who, by the way, I’ve hauled in a few times. She’s been a street person for the last four years. You—” he laid the photo down, faceup “—are about five foot eleven and probably have thirty well in sight.”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes narrowed.

“I’ll have your real identity within minutes. It’s the hard way, but you give me no choice.” He waited.

She shrugged.

Sam gave her time to change her mind. She couldn’t possibly think he was going to go away! The minutes ticked by. “Okay, you had your chance.”

Whatever secrets she harbored made her unreachable and unreasonable. Her shoulders tensed as he took her arm. Did she hate the touch of a man or was it just that he was a cop?

He guided her out of his office, down the hall, up the stairs and into a room where she gave her prints without argument. The mug shot would depict a woman with chewed-off lipstick and wise eyes. Sam leaned against the wall and watched Lucy wash the ink off her fingers. It didn’t fit. Women usually did one of two things when they were fingerprinted. They cried, meaning they were scared. Or they glared, meaning they were angry about being caught. Lucy—what else could he call her—did neither.

But he recognized the look. He’d seen the same expression on the face of a death row inmate. Walter Peabody had been the man’s name. Sam had been a rookie, just twenty-two, invited to his first execution. He’d witnessed the final step of an arrest his partner Cliff had made years earlier. Sam had thrown up after the event. And it was an event. Peabody, convicted of murdering two policemen, had walked to the chair a mere three years after his arrest. He’d never denied the crime, but he’d never acknowledged it, either.

And Cliff had used the arrest to further his career. He’d quickly risen through the ranks and eventually transferred to a Phoenix precinct.

Peabody’s widow insisted her husband was innocent. Peabody’s daughter told newsmen that Peabody couldn’t talk because proving his innocence about the murders would only point to a different crime. Sam still wondered what crime could invoke a punishment worse than the one Walt Peabody had been dealt.



Sam’s hair was no longer Ken perfect. He ran his hand through it every time she gave an answer he didn’t like.

They were back to this? She focused on a stain on the wall behind his head—if she stared hard enough she could make out hand-size angel wings right behind Officer Friendly’s head. Except for that, the interrogation room had about as much personality as the ladies’ restroom.

Periodically, cops peeked in, as if they needed to see the prize fish Officer Friendly had snagged. She took a breath. “I’ve told you my name. You’ve brought up the file on the wrong Lucy Straus. That’s all. I liked your office better. Can we go back there?”

“No.” His hand hit the table, rocking the chipped, brown cup that held his coffee, and spilling tiny drops that looked like mahogany tears onto Lucille Straus’s folder. “Do you realize the seriousness of this situation?”

“I need to call my place of employment. Don’t I get one phone call?”

He sighed audibly. She felt some of the control return. She might actually enjoy sparring with him, if something other than her life were at stake.

The female officers brought in a phone and mentioned something about a delay in obtaining the fingerprints. Lucy dialed Liberty Cab and quickly, without telling them why, begged off her next shift. When she returned the phone to the cradle, she looked at the two-way mirror and exaggeratedly mouthed, “Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you tell them you were being detained by the police?” Sam laced his hands behind his head, pretending to be comfortable.

Lucy ignored his new tactic. “I’ll tell them tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Even the word sounded doubtful. Lucy stopped herself from fidgeting. With effort, she met the cop’s eyes. It wouldn’t do to let him know she was afraid.

He nodded agreeably and leaned forward. “I’m interested in who taught you how to shoot?”

“Well, Earl Warren, that’s my—”

“Lucy Straus’s father’s name was John.”

“That must be the other Lucy.”

“You realize I can verify that?”

“You could try, but Earl was born on the reservation. I’m pretty sure he had no birth certificate. He was named after Hector Warren, who delivered him. Hector was one of those traveling salesmen. You know, they sold elixir. It’s quite a family story. Earl never really held much of a job. Manual labor, mostly.”

“You’re amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. You’re wasting my time. This lying is just prolonging the inevitable. Earl Warren!” He almost spat. “There is no Earl Warren. Of all the names to come up with! Tell me, are you going to commit perjury when you go before the judge? Why can’t you tell me the truth?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.” Her words were low, deadly and displayed the faint hint of desperation.

“Try me.”

A hmm of mirth was the only honest answer she could give him.

Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

When she studied her Bible the words sounded so comforting. Too bad they weren’t always true. In this situation, she was the only one who knew the truth, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t fathom that sharing it would set her free.

Taking a breath, she said, “Earl Warren died suddenly under suspicious circumstances. It got a bit uncomfortable being around the family after that. Mama had a mental breakdown. She really missed Earl Warren—”

“Enough of Earl Warren!” His chair almost fell over as he jumped to his feet.

Lucy turned an innocent smile to the two-way mirror.

The female cop walked back in, righted the chair, turned it around and straddled it. What was this? Good cop, bad cop?

“I’m Officer Ruth Atkins. You really need to let us help you, Lucy.” Atkins’s voice was no-nonsense.

Lucy should have been prepared to see Ruth, but she wasn’t—like she hadn’t really been prepared for Samuel Packard. Of course, her research hadn’t focused on Ruth Atkins. It had focused on Ruth’s missing husband. Dustin Atkins had disappeared more than a year ago, the same week Lucy’s parents had died. He was probably dead; they were definitely dead. He had probably been murdered by the Santellises; they had definitely been murdered by the Santellises. From what Lucy could glean, Ruth had become a cop to fight the kind of criminals who had cost her a husband. Lucy had become a fugitive to fight the kind of criminals who had cost her everything.

“I’m pretty sure you have no right to detain me.” Lucy started to stand, but Officer Friendly put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

This cop had also pushed her down in the parking lot and that bullet had whizzed over her head. She owed him. She owed him not to talk. He wouldn’t enjoy the mess she could lead him to.

Atkins spoke again. “We’re obtaining a search warrant now. What will we find in your home, Lucy?”

“Nothing, but you’d better not let my cat out.”

“Do you realize that you face up to thirty days for carrying a concealed weapon?”

If they’d let Lucy Straus do time, without any more background probing, that’d be fine. She’d do it. There were worse places than the county jail.

But, they’d taken her fingerprints.

The moment the cops identified her, she was good as dead. Police stations weren’t safe for her now.

She had to get out of here. “I’m sure any intelligent judge will take into consideration bullets were first aimed in my direction.”

“We have plenty of intelligent judges in Gila City. One thing we do need is your real name for the search warrant. What is it?” Officer Atkins asked.

Lucy looked at Officer Friendly. Why had he been so quick to boil over? She’d bet, when it came to interrogation, that he was more gifted than the female officer.

A gravelly voice came from the doorway. “Sam, I hear you picked up a—”

It was as if a vacuum suddenly sucked the air from the room. Adrenaline pressed against raw nerves, and although it was the last thing she wanted to do, she turned.

She knew the voice; it haunted her nightmares.

“Cliff, what is it?” Officer Packard slowly stepped toward the door. Tension became palpable.

Lucy figured he sensed the same thing she did, that the air in the room was about to implode, and that the victims would lose more than a piece of themselves. She being the biggest casualty.

He didn’t have time to make a difference. It only took two steps before Cliff Handley’s hands reached toward Lucy, opening, closing, as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit her or choke her.

“Rosa Cagnalia. I’m going to kill you.”




TWO


Suspicion turned to incredulity as Sam realized whom he’d arrested.

As Cliff wrapped beefy hands around her neck, Rosa Cagnalia became a Tasmanian devil of movement even as her face turned the color of blood. Cliff went down to one knee as a well-placed kick connected.

Sam let go of the breath he’d been holding.

He’d found Rosa Cagnalia.

Atkins reacted first, grabbing Cliff by the waist and trying to tug him away.

Sam added his weight to Atkins’s and wrenched Cliff’s fingers from around Rosa’s neck. Another officer hurried in and used his baton as a wedge. Using the wall as leverage, Sam managed to get his hand between Cliff and Rosa. His ex-partner emitted a sound, much like an angry bear, and rammed Rosa into the wall. Her head flew back, solidly connecting with the solid structure. Sam expected some noise from her then, but all she did was sink into the chair.

Executing a headlock, Sam pushed Cliff into the restricting arms of two fellow officers. Shoving them out of the room, Sam slammed the door shut, barely noticing that Atkins left with the crowd.

Rosa remained in the chair with her knees pressed together, her hands clutched at the edge of the seat, and her face full of a combination of disdain, fear, regret—so many emotions that Sam couldn’t even begin to know which ones predominated. The only indication she gave of fear was the pale tinge of her skin.

She hadn’t been this white when he pulled her over.

His eyes went to her neck. Cliff’s fingerprints were there. Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, should be gasping.

But why should he care? She straddled a line he didn’t dare approach, and the majority of her weight wasn’t on his side of the law.

And, as much as Sam understood Cliff’s pain, he sure didn’t, couldn’t, support his actions. The grief spilling from the man explained why video cameras sometimes caught America’s Finest using extreme force. Cliff hadn’t seemed aware that he’d been choking a woman. All Cliff knew was that he’d found one of the people responsible for his son’s death.

They were alone in a room that now reeked of hate and anger. Sam stared at Rosa for a long time, waiting for her to move, speak, do something! This woman was partly responsible for the ruination of Sam’s mentor, one-time partner, and full-time friend, Cliff Handley.

How could she look so ordinary?

She’d been there when Jimmy Handley, a rookie, a third-generation police officer, forfeited his life in the line of duty. Jimmy had been a mere Boy Scout when Sam teamed up with his father: a twelve-year-old carbon copy of his father. Jimmy had been sixteen when, thanks to commendations and promotions, Cliff had moved his family to Phoenix. Jimmy had been twenty-one when he put on his own badge and twenty-four when the coffin lid closed.

The funeral had been just two years ago this month: a cold, gray January day.

Sam took a deep breath. Contemplating what he had in front of him. Finding Rosa Cagnalia was tantamount to finding gold, fool’s gold. She didn’t look like a woman who could sit back while—

Well, this certainly explained her marksmanship this morning. And that answered another question. Now that Sam knew who she was, it explained who the men in the parking lot were. The Santellises. How had they stumbled upon her on the same day Sam had? But since she was supposedly on their side, why were they shooting at her?

And Cliff being in Gila City was just as coincidental. Just three weeks ago, Cliff retired and returned to his hometown. He used his limp—he’d been injured striving to bring justice to those responsible for Jimmy’s death—as a crutch and bore no resemblance to the once-proud police officer who had bagged Walter Peabody.

Luck had turned her back on Rosa Cagnalia and dumped her in Sam’s lap. Of course, in many ways, it was her own fault. What was she doing in Gila City: Cliff’s hometown and a known haunt of the Santellis family?

Her chair was still flush with the wall. Her hair hung in her face, and she didn’t move a hand to pat it back into place.

“You’re Rosa Cagnalia?” Disgust accented his words. How could someone so beautiful be so flawed?

She flinched and unclasped her grip on the rim of the chair, folding her hands in her lap. “No.” The word was directed at her hands. She wove her fingers so tightly together that the skin turned white, and then she looked up at him and whispered, “You have to let me be Lucy.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Her eyes blazed, and for a moment he remembered what had attracted him.

“Do you realize that by finding me, you’ve signed my death warrant?”

“You did that yourself, lady. You chose your way of life a long time ago.”

“Oh, were you there?” She glared at him. “You know the choices that came my way?”

He frowned. “I’ve read the files.”

Atkins poked her head in. “You need to back off, Sam. News travels fast. The feds want her.”

“I brought her in.” He stared at Rosa. No way would he be delegated to gofer by special agents. This was his turf. He was responsible.

“I’m sure they’ll thank you.”

He thought for a moment that the words came from Atkins, but they hadn’t, and he was reminded why he had thought Rosa might be a cop. Wisecracks rolled off the tongues of those in blue, partly in jest, and partly as a shield from a daily routine that took them into the armpit of Gila City. Female officers tended to verbally raise their shield a bit more than Sam was used to.

Atkins added, “Sam, I mean it.”

“It’s my case.”

By all rights, he should hate this woman. She had been there when a drug bust spiraled so out of control that Cliff was emotionally crippled, and his son was killed.

She had been there, and she had left without making any attempt to help Cliff or save Cliff’s son.

Funny way for a one-time registered nurse to act.

If she had shown compassion, Jimmy Handley might still be alive and Cliff would wear his badge with pride and determination instead of with grim need. Instead Rosa Cagnalia stepped over the bleeding body of Jimmy Handley, picked up a bag full of money, and in the chaos of the moment, managed to disappear.

Atkins rolled her eyes and backed out of the room. Sam looked at the two-way mirror. So the feds wanted Rosa. Having the FBI take over a case was something like inviting the class bully into your backyard. If you stayed, you got beat up. If you left, he destroyed your yard. Sam didn’t relish turning Rosa over to them, but she deserved whatever she got.

He had nothing to lose by washing his hands of this woman.

And nothing to gain by hesitating. So why was he? He flipped the handcuffs from his belt. “Stand up.”

She stood, muttering under her breath.

“What did you say?”

“I need someone to feed my cat.”

“Your cat! Lady, do you realize the trouble you’re in?”

“You keep reminding me.”

“Your cat is the least of your worries.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

“Ms. Cagnalia, surely there’s someone in this town who you can contact to feed the—”

“No, there’s no one. I didn’t make any friends. I was afraid to.”

She meant it. Her face was as serious as a funeral director and just as pale.

“My cat needs food. There’s a key hidden under the garden gnome behind my trailer.”

He waited for a please. It didn’t come.

Reluctantly, he left her with Henry, the duty officer who handled admissions. Feed her cat! Of course, he’d do it. She’d just given him permission to enter her home. He’d probably have to search long and hard for the cat food.

He could hardly wait.



Rosa awoke to more pond scum green. On television they always showed rickety bunk beds and open toilets, but Rosa’s cell didn’t look that domesticated. Last night, after hours of questions, when they’d finally shoved her in here, she’d been too tired to care.

Gingerly pushing up from the ledge she’d been sleeping on, Rosa tried to focus on what all had happened. She gingerly touched the back of her neck. A dull headache and a slight sore throat remained a souvenir of Cliff Handley’s wrath. It could have been worse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the dumb places to give in to the itch of a lead foot! She deserved to feel the bitter tightness when she swallowed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d given a cop permission to enter her trailer. She didn’t dare hope he’d simply feed Go Away and leave, that simply wasn’t a cop’s nature.

But she had no one to ask. She’d been careful at work to build up a reputation as a loner. She liked her coworkers too much to put them in danger. She’d been even more careful at church to distance herself and that hadn’t been easy. She dropped off casseroles at potlucks, crocheted pale pink or blue blankets for baby showers she didn’t dare attend, anonymously donated money for catastrophe relief, and all the while managed to convince the friendly folk of the Fifth Street Church that she was too busy to get involved more than a church service hello.

She didn’t dare call Wanda Peabody.

She’d been so careful, except for the cat. Oh, she’d tried. When the stray showed up outside her trailer, she’d refused to feed it. She’d said “Go Away” every day for a week. Then, when she found her next-door neighbor Seth tormenting it, she’d gone all indignant.

She brought attention to herself, made an enemy of Seth and his girlfriend, and she’d wound up with a pet she didn’t dare keep. Once she brought it into her trailer, cleansed its wounds—oh, it felt good taking care of a living being again—and had given it some food, well, the cat stayed.

Officer Friendly should feed Go Away. It was his fault Rosa was in jail. He was already involved, and nobody was likely to kill him as a way to get back on her. Plus, everything she’d discovered about Sam Packard while she’d been researching Cliff Handley suggested he was an honest, hardworking cop.

And a wayward Christian.

His name was in the directory of her church: the one he never attended. Hadn’t attended since his mother died. Well, before that, really. Yet, everything about him shouted believer. He was the Gila City cop who spoke about choices at the local high school. He was the Gila City cop who actually helped parolees find jobs—two of the cab drivers at her company owed Sam thanks. He looked to be a decent man, a giver.

Pretty amazing since he’d first been assigned Handley as a partner?

Handley was a taker.

Still, even before she’d realized the name of the cop who had pulled her over, her first impression had been one of honesty. Dear Lord, she was scared. Clasping her hands together she prayed and tried to get a handle on how she should be feeling, what she should be doing, what Jesus would do.

Worry wouldn’t add one moment to her life. God knew about the sparrows so he knew about her.

Oh, she so wanted the concept to work for her. But, she never seemed to be able to cease the internal dialogue that constantly played in her head: the dialogue that listed her sins.

One, she was partly responsible for Jimmy’s death. She hadn’t pounded on his chest, tried CPR or anything. She had no doubt he was dead, irreversibly dead. Still, it had been against her moral code to leave him there—and her a registered nurse. The cops had no problem reminding her about that little detail, over and over, yesterday.

Two, because of her, her family had forfeited any hope of old age. An inadvertent-seeming car crash—just one year ago—severed the last ties to anyone who would, could, believe her. Cliff and the Santellises knew how to punish people who got in their way.

Three, her best friend Eric was in jail because she wasn’t able to find the evidence that would clear his name. Guilt by association. Nobody cared that an innocent man sat in jail. They only cared that his last name was Santellis. In Arizona, Santellis and crime were synonymous.

And, four, she had taken more than half a million dollars in drug money and didn’t know how to make things right.

Okay, feeling sorry was allowable but not for long. She couldn’t hope to get out of this mess if she gave in to self-pity. What were the positives?

Yesterday, she’d managed to ditch the evidence. That cop had been so close, she had hardly dared breathe as she grabbed under her seat for the manila envelope, vacated the car, and hoofed it through the residential area. And, thank goodness for the rosebushes by that first fence.

What if it rained?

What if some little kid found the envelope?

What if Samuel Packard remembered her hesitation and returned to the fence and found her pile of documents linking Cliff Handley to the whole mess.

What if—

No, she had other things to worry about. The folder was hidden, for now.

At least now she could start thinking of herself as Rosa again which was another positive. When she had first taken Lucy’s identity, she’d taped the name and played it over and over on her cassette player. As she drove her car, as she lay in bed, even in the bathroom, she had listened to the name over and over, until she claimed ownership of it. She couldn’t afford to think of herself as Rosa. It had taken weeks, but she’d learned to turn automatically when someone said Lucy’s name.

She couldn’t think of any more positives. Then again, she had heard of fugitives, who when they were finally apprehended, only felt relief. She wasn’t one of them. She had thought Gila City safe enough for a very careful stay—a stay designed specifically for gathering evidence to prove to the world what Cliff Handley really was. She’d done all she could on the Internet. Now, she needed to casually speak to people off the record, find out what he’d been doing before his stint in Phoenix.

For almost six months, she’d felt safe enough here. She’d shopped in the dress shop his mother owned, managed to meet some of his friends, and when she had nothing, when her life was as empty as could be, she’d entered Cliff’s church looking for someone who might point suspicion his way. She found something besides evidence. She’d found God.

He was the only one on her side in this dismal cell. A cement ledge protruded from the wall, a jutting giant step that had been her bed. Instead of a cell with bars, she was in a room with a door. An unyielding green door that bore the wrath of previous occupants whose names and insults were scraped into the paint. A small window gave a blurry view of an inner room with an aged picnic table. She could hear a washer and dryer humming. A television blared to the left. Men’s voices came from the right.

How had things gotten so out of hand? The Santellises, Eric’s brothers, had been in the parking lot! Did they just luck upon the scene of Rosa Cagnalia getting a speeding ticket? If so, coincidence had a sick sense of humor.

She really hoped Officer Friendly had taken care of Go Away. If she had any insight into the character of Officer Friendly, he would find a way.

Sighing, Rosa sat on the cement ledge and tried to piece together the events of the last twenty-four hours. She’d crawled out of bed at ten, a little earlier than usual. Mondays were her favorite day for getting things done. She’d dropped a handful of bills off at the post office, found her favorite computer at the library and again scanned old Gila City Gazette papers looking for any mention of Cliff Handley’s name, any early instances of drug dealings, who was involved and possibly still alive. Then, finally, she’d headed home. She’d wanted to spread out the few new tidbits she’d uncovered. She wanted to read them at leisure, see if she’d missed anything.

She’d been hurrying home.

Could somebody who knew the Santellis family have seen her, recognized her? She had put on fifteen pounds since running. Weight put on intentionally. She wore jeans and T-shirts instead of the designer clothes she’d once thought necessary. Her hair, once long, wavy, and streaked with highlights the color of burgundy, now flowed jet-black and straight. The real Lucy Straus had short, uneven midnight hair. Rosa had copied Lucy’s style, and she still felt surprised when she washed her hair. Since childhood, it had been down to her tailbone.

She had cried when she cut it. Then, she had cried because cutting her hair was actually the least of her concerns.

A gray blanket was folded at one end of the cement ledge. She pulled it toward her, wrapped it over her shoulders—ignoring the stains—and leaned against the wall.

Mildew and strong detergent wafted to her nose. Throwing the blanket to the ground did nothing to end her frustration.

Now might be a good time to call a lawyer.

Unfortunately, the only lawyer she knew was Eric’s lawyer.



Sam circled the trailer park twice before parking in Rosa’s carport. The place was fairly empty. Most had already left for work, school or other vices.

Excessive paperwork and a need for sleep kept him from getting here last night.

In some ways, showing up to feed her cat was a stupid move on his part. Not even twenty-four hours since her arrest and already his life spun out of control. Still, he felt propelled by a continuous nagging that there was something he should know but didn’t.

Her mobile home was nothing to get excited about. The first contradiction he could account for was the comparison of where she lived to what she drove. Now, to Sam’s mind, a guy might pay out major bucks for a vehicle and live in a dive, but few women seemed to prefer first-rate wheels to a first-rate address.

He had searched the interior of her car. Nothing, not even a gum wrapper. Rosa kept no spare change, no tissues, not even a map of Arizona for the glove box. The Owner’s Manual for the Ford lay in the glove box along with a slim wallet carrying more Lucille Straus identification. The spare tire, a tow chain and jack were in the trunk. She could walk away from the vehicle, and no one could trace it to her—especially since a quick search showed it still registered to a guy she worked with at Liberty Cab Company.

Not even a breeze tried to interfere as he snagged the key from the garden gnome. She’d picked a residence—it wasn’t a home—where neighbors were not neighborly, where lawns were replaced by rock, and where a cement wall kept the world at bay.

As Sam put the key to the mobile home, he wondered if the inside would be as barren as the outside. He pushed the door open. The cat yowled and brushed against his foot.

“Back.” His word didn’t affect the cat. Judging by the torn ear and jagged scar that zigzagged down to its eye, not much should affect this cat. A feline tail shot straight up in the air as its owner circled Sam’s legs. He should have gotten the feline’s name from Rosa.

“Back, Cat.”

It was a rectangular box, encased with paneling. And even with the overfed black-and-white cat, who seemed to think that continual rubbing against pant legs was an expected greeting, the place was a residence not a home.

Room one: a combination living room-kitchen. Inside the refrigerator was a six-pack of diet soda and two apples. Outside the refrigerator she had taped a scripture:

Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.

The kitchen table didn’t look as if it had been used. Not even a crumb graced the surface or the floor. There was also a couch, a television and a coffee table. Next to the couch was a basket of sewing. Picking up the sampler, he realized that Rosa seemed addicted to the words on the refrigerator. She was halfway finished with a cross-stitch bearing the same verse.

No knickknacks gathered dust. No pictures graced the walls. Sam opened two cupboards before finding hard cat food and filling the bowl on the floor.

The cat quickly lost interest in Sam and became devoted to its food.

Room two: a bedroom-bathroom. Her bed was made, no surprise. The closet held only a few outfits. If he had figured anything about the woman from her mannerisms, he figured that lack of clothes probably was a real sacrifice. She had a dresser, but only one drawer was utilized. There were a few piles of library books, stacked neatly on top of the dresser. A phone book and well-worn Bible were on the nightstand.

Sam picked up the Bible. Flipping to the personal pages, he found the dedication page.

Presented to: Lucille Straus

By: The Gila City Fifth Street Church.

On: The occasion of her baptism, November 12




She’d been baptized just two months ago at Cliff’s old church. At one time, it had been Sam’s church, too. Frowning, Sam wondered if he needed to consider that prayer he’d witnessed earlier as a true plea for divine intervention. Or, was there another reason Rosa attended a church where Cliff and his family were well-known even if they had seldom crossed its foyer in more than a decade.

The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d never pulled her over.

The bathroom was stuffed into a small corner of Rosa’s room, wedged between the closet and the dresser. The shower couldn’t accommodate a big man; the sink had a continual drip. A small bag of makeup spilled out next to the faucet. Sam smelled toothpaste and peaches. Ah, the real woman.

Returning to the bedroom, he got down on his knees and looked under the bed. A durable, green suitcase shadowed a back corner. He dragged it out, plopped it on the bed and opened it.

One outfit, a change of underwear, two cans of cat food, two bottles of water, toiletries and an envelope with five hundred dollars.

No, wait.

Another envelope was pushed behind the money. A set of keys tumbled to the bed, and Rosa’s picture smiled out at him from identification belonging to one…Sandra Hill.

She was prepared for flight. If she had to run, all she had to do was crash open the door, shove her makeup back into the bag, nab the cat, grab the suitcase, and the police would have been left with little or nothing to prove that the mobile home had actually provided shelter for Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, aka Sandra Hill.

He closed the suitcase. His hand paused on the handle. What was he thinking? He needed to leave now. The feds could be pulling into the trailer park right this minute, and they would be anything but happy at a local cop tampering with evidence.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He was actually considering taking the suitcase, plus the Bible, and working on the case without the knowledge of, or permission from, his superiors. This was not his usual method.

One mistake and his pension and retirement fund would become a distant memory—not to mention the wear and tear on his conscience.

Sam replaced the suitcase. When he got back to the station, he’d plug Sandra Hill’s identity into his computer and find out what the connection was.



A couple of hours after a dismal breakfast of oatmeal—she’d eaten every bite and asked for more—they’d shoved a short blonde into Rosa’s cell.

So much for solitude. Just her luck to get arrested during the busy season.

“Name’s Marilyn Youngblood.” The blonde blew a bubble and sat down on the ledge as if it were a well-worn recliner. “Whatcha in for?”

Whatcha in for? Rosa wanted to laugh. Yeah, that’s right, a mere twenty-four hours in jail and here was a stranger acting as if sharing personal history was a given. “Speeding.”

Marilyn raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know they arrested people for speeding. They always just give me a ticket.”

“Must be a slow month,” Rosa acknowledged.

“They stopped my boyfriend for speeding.” Marilyn inspected her nails. “When he went to pull out his license, a joint fell out.” Her voice turned sarcastic. “I didn’t know he had a joint.” Her tone indicated that she was more annoyed about the prospect of her boyfriend not being willing to share than about being arrested.

“Bummer.”

“Yeah. So, this your first time in?”

“Yeah, you?” Rosa wondered if Marilyn realized that her blond wig contrasted ridiculously with her dark eyebrows.

“No, this is about my fifth. And all of them because of my boyfriend.”

Rosa had never spent time behind bars, but during her friendship with Eric, she’d learned how to spot undercover police officers. She had little doubt about this blonde’s true identity. Still, she knew the game, so she said, “I’d think about getting a new boyfriend.”

“I really should.” Marilyn inspected her nails again, then asked, “So where ya from? Me, I’m from Texas.”

Okay, so the woman was persistent. That was to be expected. “I’m from here.” Rosa recited her Lucy Straus history, pleased to note the disbelief in Marilyn’s eyes.

“No kidding. You don’t look Indian.”

“We prefer Native American. And I’m only half.”

The door creaked. The mumbler peeked in. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d escorted her to the cell. This man made the old Maytag repairman look energetic. Rosa didn’t understand his words, but Marilyn perked up. “Lunch.”

The mumbler marched them to the wide room outside their cell. The picnic table had been scooted away from the wall. Two bowls, with slices of bread covering their lunch’s identity, waited. Milk, from a miniature carton, was to be the drink of choice.

“Noodle soup,” Marilyn said disdainfully.

After a few minutes, Rosa sopped up the last of the broth, left the picnic table and went to look out the window. She could actually see a functioning washer and dryer but nothing else. A door next to the picnic table led to the outside. On the off chance, Rosa tried the knob.

“There’s no way out,” Marilyn said. “I’ve been here before. And the television you hear, that’s in the men’s area. They get to have noodle soup and watch reruns at the same time.”

Rosa leaned back against the wall.

“So is anybody coming to get you?” Marilyn asked.

“Nope.”

“Have you called anybody?”

“Nope.”

“When my uncle comes to get me, I could make a call on the outside for you.”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”

“Really, it’s no problem. I know what it’s like to be in here and not know what to do.”

“I know what to do.”

Marilyn leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”



Sandra Hill’s past history was a carbon copy of Lucille Straus’s, only Sandra had a few more years under her belt. When the photo of Sandra popped up on Sam’s computer screen, he sucked in his breath. He knew this woman, too. He’d picked her up for vagrancy more than once.

Rosa Cagnalia couldn’t have…No, she wasn’t capable of…She hadn’t fired the gun that killed Jimmy Handley; she’d been there with her boyfriend Eric Santellis. The big question was who had pulled the trigger: had it really been Eric Santellis as a jury had ruled or an outsider?

Rosa knew.

And Sam wanted to know what Rosa knew. He wanted some sort of justice for Cliff. His ex-partner was a stranger now, a broken man who’d first lost Jimmy and then a year later his wife, Susan, divorced him.

He had a daughter, too, who looked a lot like Jimmy. Sam hadn’t seen Katie since Jimmy’s funeral.

He punched in Lucy Straus as a keyword and watched as more than twenty hits returned. Lucy had been a busy girl since Rosa assumed her identity. She’d rented a home, gotten a job, joined a church and donated to charity.

Was this how she was spending her stolen fortune: on sporty cars and the needy?

Sam pushed away from his desk, reached for his keys and barked at Atkins to get hold of the Tribal Police and have them be on the lookout for the real Lucy.

His phone rang before he could leave.

Within moments he’d been assigned to sit watch on Rosa’s mobile home. Glancing at his watch, he figured he’d have time for a quick look for Sandra before he started surveillance.

If he found Sandra, there’d be questions.

If he didn’t find Sandra, there’d be even more.

An hour later, Sam was no closer to the truth.

The homeless loved the park at the edge of town. It offered a sanitary, somewhat overly fragrant, bathroom, which never had toilet paper; a duck pond which drew children who often threw away a half-eaten Happy Meal; and enough trees to provide shade for any vagrant who wanted to slumber.

Sandra Hill was not there.

After a few minutes of questioning, Sam knew that Sandra hadn’t been seen in over six months.

Exactly the amount of time Rosa had been in town.

One more piece to figure into the puzzle that was Rosa Cagnalia.




THREE


The Desert Caravan Mobile Home Park had a nightlife. Rosa’s neighbors to the left had propped open their front door, and loud rock music boomed. The mobile home to the right had at least three carloads of visitors. According to the profile the feds had already gathered, neither of Rosa’s neighbors could be termed “desirable.”

Three jogging-suit clad women walked the drive that circled the park. One had weights strapped to her wrists; another mimicked an animated member of a marching-band; and the last strolled in between as if just along for the gossip.

Rosa’s cat poked its head between the curtains for about the fifth time. Sam wondered if the feline was watching for Rosa’s return and dinner. It would be a long wait.

The bright orange sun faded to a murky tangerine and began its slow disappearance behind the horizon. Sam blinked away fatigue. This was not where he wanted to be. He wanted to be back at the precinct, digging through records and trying to figure out what Rosa Cagnalia was doing in Gila City. She hadn’t run far enough, that was sure. Gila City was too close to Phoenix. Rosa should have headed for North Dakota or Alaska, someplace far away from her roots and the scene of her crime.

Why was she hiding here?

It had to have something to do with that night and something Rosa had seen. If he remembered correctly, the bust and Jimmy’s murder had resulted in ten arrests, one that stuck: Eric Santellis. In the aftermath, Rosa’s description had hit the radio, and cops for miles went on the lookout. Sam remembered pulling over cars and shining flashlights into the interior of every vehicle driven by a dark-haired beauty.

Her picture still hung on one of the station’s bulletin boards. Sam picked up his thermos and refilled the semiclean cup. He made a face, drank it anyway and stared at Rosa’s home. Surveillance had never reached first place on Sam’s to-do list. He’d sat with his first partner, Steve Conner, back in the rookie days. Conner had been two months from retirement and counting the days. He’d also been a religious man and started each surveillance job with a prayer for both criminal and victim. They spent many long evenings waiting for movement; some hint that the evening hadn’t been a complete waste. Then, Sam got paired up with Cliff, and surveillance was still too long, stuck in limbo, with no proximity to a restroom. He had stared through the windshield at many a trailer. Some like this one, complete with repugnant neighbors.

In many ways, surveillance gave a man too much time to think. What Sam was thinking about now was Rosa, and her penchant for praying at the strangest times—like while getting shot at!

Sam had stopped praying during surveillance after he’d been assigned to Cliff. Although they went to the same church, Cliff didn’t seem to need God. Sam hid his light under a bushel. Then, after his mother died, the light died.

Yep, too much time to think, otherwise Sam wouldn’t be getting this melancholy.

A faint, unfamiliar sound interrupted Sam’s meandering thoughts, a tinkling in the distance. He sat up, listening, alert. Laughter came from the space to the right of Rosa’s. A man opened the door and stumbled out, holding up two beer bottles and laughing. Sam looked at Rosa’s trailer and then back at the man.

Putting the beer bottles on the front step the man kicked at a hissing cat.

Rosa’s cat.

Rosa’s cat outside!

Sam’s fingers twisted around the car’s door handle even as Rosa’s trailer shattered in a thousand pieces of aluminum and wooden paneling. A whoosh of sound billowed upward, swirling in flames and smoke to meld with the evening.

“What the—” Sam stumbled out of his car so fast he lost his footing and had to brace himself with one hand on the ground. Scrambling back inside, he picked up the radio and called dispatch. “This is Packard, I’m at 811 Elm, space 13. There’s been an explosion.”

The scent of heavy smoke and cinders scorched his nostrils as he hurried across the street. The sound of screams mingled with sirens. Fatigue disappeared as a gust of wind blew a piece of aluminum siding toward his car. Sam ignored the heat.

Rosa’s neighbor was facedown on the ground. Sam’s fist clenched as he hurried across the drive.

People poured out of the man’s trailer. Maybe it was the shock of having their next-door neighbor’s home blow apart, or maybe the drugs impeded conscious thought, but none of them had the presence of mind to deal with the fallen man. Sam dropped to his knees, pulling plastic gloves from his pocket and putting them on. A woman wailed and knelt beside him. Gingerly, after making an assessment of the injuries, he turned the man over. Blood gushed from a gash above the man’s eye, but Sam doubted it was serious. Head wounds made the biggest fuss for the smallest affliction.

“Is everyone else accounted for?” Sam plucked glass from the fallen man’s hairline.

“Yes, no, I don’t know,” the sobbing woman blustered. “Is Seth all right? He just stepped out for a moment. He wanted to—”

Through blistered, bleeding lips, Seth uttered, “Shut up, Margie.”

A fire truck arrived. Neighbors drifted back, mesmerized by the excitement but as obedient as schoolchildren when Sam herded them out of the way.

Sam watched the firemen take care of Seth. Only a fluke kept the houses next to Rosa’s safe. And the cat? Where was the cat? Too many people crowded the street. Sam set about separating potential witnesses from thrill-seekers.

The feds arrived and within moments were both talking into cell phones: their faces stone serious. A few moments of standing in front of them, waiting, told Sam they didn’t have time for him.

The neighbor, Margie, huddled on her front step watching the ambulance attendants. Sam’d come back and talk to her later, when her mind wasn’t distracted by the sight of her boyfriend’s vital signs being taken—when her boyfriend wasn’t telling her to shut up. Sam would play on her sympathy. After all, he’d been the Good Samaritan when Seth was moaning on the ground. She might not have made him for a cop.

Sam scanned the crowd, looking for the three exercisers. They might not even realize if they’d seen something, heard something. Anything. If statistics were to be believed, then whoever had set the explosion would want to view his handiwork. These women might be able to make identification. Unfortunately, if statistics were to be believed, then all three women would have different recollections.

His questions netted nothing. The women had been busy verbally dissecting a daytime soap. They’d greeted two park residents, and they’d noticed him. He, they specified, was the only stranger they’d noticed. Of course, maybe the man he wanted them to identify wasn’t a stranger to the Desert Caravan Mobile Home Park.

Every question he wanted to ask, every detail he wanted to pursue paled in comparison to what he already knew. A beleaguered woman trying to comfort her man. The man who had stepped outside with two beers.



The feds hadn’t been as rankled as Sam had expected. All in a day’s work for them, he guessed. Of course, they’d treated him like a gnat that needed to be swatted away. He might very well be the only Gila City police detective to have a stakeout literally blow up in his face. This would be hard to live down.

It was after midnight when Sam pulled into the precinct’s parking lot. He brushed a hand through hair dusted with soot. The need for sleep had disappeared along with Rosa’s roof. He would look into the Lucy Straus, Sandra Hill—and the need for those fake ID’s—angle later. Right now he wanted to figure out who Rosa’s real enemies were and what she was doing in Gila City.

Sam snagged a bottled water from the machine before heading downstairs. Sitting at his desk, he logged on to the computer and typed in his code. The scent of neglected cigarette smoke settled around him like a lonely cloud looking for a home. The desks outside his office were accusing in their isolation. Daytime at the precinct was a pulsating, heartbeat of energetic activity. Between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. was a morgue of oppressive silence.

A picture of a much younger Rosa froze on the screen. She was one good-looking woman. Sam hit Enter a couple of times and finally the next file opened. Rosa’s background was sketchy at best. She apparently had bypassed any youthful acting out. Although, Sam would call hanging out with the Santellises a crime. There were no reports of shoplifting, cruising violations or truancy. Now, her older brother was a different story. His name was cross-referenced with Rosa’s, and Sam would need weeks to sort through Frank’s file. Still, after what went down with Jimmy Handley, her fingerprints should have been on file.

Intrigued, Sam printed a few files and put them in a folder with a copy of the rest of Rosa’s information. Her personal data had tripled since the feds arrived. They wasted no time. The fax machine had belched at about five, and Rosa’s life story, as the feds knew it, was seared on paper for all to see by seven.

Sam separated the papers into three piles: personal information, newspaper clippings and FBI reports. The first pile chronicled birth through legal age. She’d broken an arm in third grade; she’d won a district spelling bee in sixth; and her wisdom teeth had been removed in eighth. This information was worthless. How could an arm broken in third grade be pertinent to Rosa’s crime? The feds must be desperate for information about the woman. Sam had been right—she was older than twenty-two.

Sam scanned the newspaper clippings next. Her career as a news item started with Jimmy’s death. One of the tabloids had a picture of Eric Santellis and her on the cover. The inside story said that she dated the drug dealer just for excitement. Hmm, interesting concept. The press had been hard up for photos of Rosa. Most seemed to be from a distant observer’s sketchy photo album. Sam studied Rosa’s high school graduation photo, and another of Rosa and Eric standing at the helm of a boat.

They looked happy, and for some reason that bothered him. The last few photos were of the “Have you seen…” type.

Sam started at the top of the FBI’s current file. Her GPA from high school earned her a scholarship. She’d taken a tour of Europe instead of going straight to college. This didn’t sound like a girl who would date a drug dealer for excitement. A glossy photograph fell at his feet. He picked it up and turned it over.

“Wow.” He whistled appreciatively and shook his head. Too bad the baggage she carried had organized crime stamped on it. Sam guessed this was what she looked like about two or three years ago: a bit skinnier, her hair somewhat curly and with that deep reddish shade so many women seemed to covet. Her eyes maintained a glimmer of innocence.

How could the woman have innocence in her eyes? It must be a trick of the camera.

Resolutely, he put the photo down, took a paper out of his desk and began charting a time line for Rosa. He figured out that up until age twenty-one, Rosa’s only flaws had been a wild big brother and her connection to the Santellises.

Her family had moved during junior high school, right after her older brother died of an overdose, and that seemed to have been enough to sever her and Eric’s adolescent romance. Chalk one up for Papa Cagnalia.

A snitch reported seeing her with Eric Santellis a month after her twenty-fifth birthday. Jimmy had been shot right after Rosa’s twenty-sixth birthday.

This scenario wasn’t making a whole lot of sense.

What happened after Rosa turned twenty-five? Why had she hooked back up with Eric?

He brought up Jimmy Handley’s file. Grabbing a pencil, he jotted down the names of the people present at the shooting. Sam didn’t bring up Eric’s file. He knew it by heart.

Eric was doing twenty to life in the state prison in Florence. The Santellises were, for the most part, well-known in the Gila City area—their father legitimately owned a used car lot there. Illegitimately, the man laundered money in his establishments, operated a chop shop, was a known associate of drug dealers—probably more, and was so slick nothing could be pinned on him. The file on Eric wasn’t as extensive as his big brothers. Both Tony and Sardi were more than well-known, and theirs rated as epics. Little brother Kenny’s file indicated a desire to catch up but nothing major, yet. There was a sister, too, Sam remembered. Most of her file could be blamed not on her brothers, but on her husband.

Until Jimmy Handley’s murder, Eric had been the least-known Santellis. Of course, he just might have been better at hiding his sins. Sam could attribute the same skill to Rosa.

Sam punched in the name of Terrance Jackle, Tony Santellis’s newly paroled best friend. It had been Jackle’s apartment where all had gone wrong. The photo whirled onto the computer screen. A sentence blinked on, and off, bright green, before freezing. Jackle had bought it a few weeks ago, in the back of his head.

Strange.

Frowning, Sam punched in another name. This one wasn’t a Santellis, just a hanger-on. Jason Hughes hadn’t done hard time for being present at Jimmy’s death. But that didn’t matter, hard time might be preferable. The man had been dead for sixteen months, drug overdose. A suspicion hovered and then took over Sam’s thoughts.

Two corpses.

Okay, time to try another name. Sam chose Mitchell Trent, a small-time dealer who’d never chosen friends wisely.

Three corpses.

Trent had been dead for almost a year. Trent apparently drove a vehicle with a brake problem. The report mentioned Trent’s girlfriend, Lindsey, had also died in the crash.

Four corpses.

The news didn’t surprise Sam. She’d been present at Jackle’s the day of Jimmy’s death, too, the only female besides Rosa.

No, no way.

Eric Santellis was the only one still serving time. It took Sam twenty minutes to ascertain that besides Rosa, Eric was also the only one still alive.

And now, thanks to Sam, Rosa had a known address, albeit currently the Gila City County Jail.

And her previous address had blown up a few hours ago.

Pushing his chair back, Sam stood up and stuck the files in a drawer. It was almost three-thirty. Time to head home. After a few hours of sleep, all this might make some sense, although he doubted it.

The brown sedan would have to suffice as transportation since one of the memos on his desk reminded him that the Exxon station had called at noon saying his truck was ready. A lot of good that did him now.

He flipped the light switch and headed toward the stairs. This time of morning in the Gila City precinct meant solitude and paperwork. Sam glanced out the window. Cliff’s car was now parked between a paloverde tree and a trash receptacle. Suddenly, Sam doubted that sleep was anywhere in his near future. Rosa and Eric the only ones alive?

Cliff was behaving strangely.

What were the odds?

The women’s area occupied the left corner of the station. It had one cell that opened into a type of foyer. They’d turned it into a women’s holding area back in the sixties. A few female picketers had gotten carried away at a peace march and suddenly the town needed a separate cell for women. Sam didn’t know, or care, what it had been used for before that.

The duty officer’s radio played to a nonexistent audience. Sam curled his fingers around the handle of his gun. This was his station, his home, his turf. Why was he feeling that some outside force had violated his space?

He heard Henry’s voice, a low mumble even in a quiet night. Okay, that meant at least one person was where he was supposed to be.

Supposed to be?

That’s what had been bothering him.

Cliff’s showing up this morning.

Cliff had only been back in Gila City a few weeks. He’d told Sam that haunting his old precinct wasn’t something he intended to do. Something about out with the old and in with the new. And this morning had been the first time he’d entered the doors. This morning, of all mornings, the morning Lucy Straus, Rosa Cagnalia, was apprehended.

And now he was back.

More than coincidence?

Cliff had said, back when he and Sam were partners, not to believe in coincidence.

For the first time, Sam truly understood what his ex-partner had been trying to teach him.




FOUR


The police station represented family to Sam, but, right at this moment, he felt out of place. Something—make that someone—he’d believed in was proving to be a crumbling cornerstone. Cops weren’t supposed to take things personally. Cliff was, and who could blame him? But he seemed to be trying to get revenge on Rosa at any cost.

Sam decided to walk around a bit, try to shake off the disturbing feeling. Three women were in the dispatch room. Two detectives were on the second floor, staring at a wall of photos and arguing. Each photo was marked with large, red, chronological numbers. The number of cars stolen in Gila City had increased from fifteen a month to more than thirty. The mayor promised action; the police worked longer hours. The car thieves probably laughed.

He settled back at his desk and picked up her file. No way should he feel obligated to keep an eye out for her. He had arrested her, but he’d arrested lots of people and figured most—if not all—of them were guilty. Maybe that was the problem. The more he investigated, the more he heard about the interrogation the feds had conducted yesterday, the more he wondered about what else she was guilty of, besides making off with drug money. There had to be something else involved here. The number of corpses certainly supported that theory.

And maybe there’d be one less corpse if she adhered to the Good Samaritan law by sticking around and helping Jimmy. She was a registered nurse. A few minutes of her time might have meant the difference between life and death for Jimmy.

What made her turn her back on a young man dying, literally, at her feet? She could have saved Jimmy, copped a plea and continued life as she knew it. She had no priors and almost every deposition taken after the bust painted Rosa as one of the good guys. She was well liked at work and by her neighbors. Her family supported her. Something was very wrong with the whole picture. If she was such a nice girl, why did so many people want her dead?

“Sam.”

If he were inclined to give credit, he just might thank God for sending him the accomplice he needed. But he’d stopped asking God for anything a long time ago, so there was no need for thanks.

Ruth had dark circles under her eyes and looked as tightly wound as Sam felt.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” he asked.

“I can’t sleep. We arrested someone connected to the Santellises,” she said softly. “I don’t think we asked her enough questions before the feds took over.”

Sam nodded. “Not only did we not ask her enough questions, but we didn’t ask her the right questions.”

“Do you think she knows what happened to Dustin?”

“No.” Sam gathered his notes and a few printouts. “I don’t think she knows anything about your husband’s disappearance. And I think I can convince you that she’s a pawn in somebody else’s game.”

Ruth hadn’t been on the Gila City force during Cliff’s tenure. She’d still been in high school. She might be able to stay unbiased. Especially if she thought it would bring down the family she blamed for her husband’s death. She took the seat that Rosa had occupied, and just like Rosa, she picked up a pen and started fidgeting. Finally, she asked, “So, what’s going on?”

“I’m putting two and two together and I’m not getting four. Someone’s out to kill her.”

“She’s connected to the Santellises. That’s why I’m here. And, someone’s always going to be out to kill her.” Ruth set the pen down and for a moment Sam thought she might leave, might turn her back on what she didn’t want to hear.

Swallowing, he voiced the words that might begin to hammer the nails of his onetime friend’s virtual coffin. “I don’t think Cliff showed up by accident this morning. I think he knew she was there.”

“What?”

“Whoever was shooting at Rosa, probably the Santellis brothers, I think they somehow got a hold of Cliff and told him she’d been arrested.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions. He’s feeling raw. It’s to be expect—”

“He knew we had her before we knew we had her.”

Atkins shifted. “I don’t think I buy that.”

“Stay with me for one more thing, then tell me what you think. I’ve been going through the files. Everyone who was present at the shooting of Jimmy is dead except for Rosa and Eric Santellis. Three of the people present at Jimmy’s death have been killed in drive-by shootings. What are the odds?”

“How many dead in all?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve.” Ruth sounded incredulous.

Sam continued, “Five went down within the first three months after Jimmy’s death. All in the Phoenix area. The rest were spread out a bit. Think about it. Eric’s alive but in prison, and Rosa dropped out of sight. Now, Rosa’s back in the picture, and Cliff immediately tries to kill her. That’s a pretty bleak picture even without her mobile home blowing up.”

“What Cliff did was purely an emotional reaction. I can’t believe you’re implicating him.”

Sam watched her chin come up. He knew this woman. He’d been friends with her and her family since before she’d joined the force. Her late husband had caught Sam’s pitches way back when Gila City High only had two hundred students and a baseball team with no uniforms. Ruth had changed his mind about the abilities of female cops.

And although she was protesting, he knew she was starting to believe.





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