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“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.
