Pursuit of Justice. Pamela Tracy

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ