Pursuit of Justice. Pamela Tracy

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      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.

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