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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.
