The Woman Most Wanted. Pamela Tracy

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      They stopped talking and looked at her.

      Chief Riley frowned, his steely gaze accusing her, making her feel guilty.

      “I was only speeding a little,” she squeaked.

      The man flinched a bit. Kid Cop managed to portray a hint of compassion—a blink, a slight contortion of his face that was almost a smile—and then he was back concentrating his attention on Tom.

      “Look at her,” Chief Riley growled. “Unless Rachel Ramsey has a twin we don’t know about, that’s her. No mistake. There was a witness when Max died. Let’s do a lineup. Bring the convenience store clerk in, also. I guarantee he’ll confirm it’s her. That’s enough probable cause.”

      Kid Cop didn’t say anything. When Heather glanced around the room, suddenly the other officers got busy as if there was so much to do in a room without desks, without general everyday conversation, without hope. Finally, an older man, not in uniform, walked over and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “We’ll do an appearance bond for the speeding and see what we can find before the court date. You’ll have at least seventy-two hours to prove you’re right.”

      “Seventy-two hours, my foot,” Chief Riley growled again. He was glaring at Kid Cop, who already had a sheepish look on his face. “This isn’t a bailable offense, is it?”

      Kid Cop shook his head.

      “Which means,” Tom continued, “with an appearance bond, I don’t have enough time to do squat, but it gives her enough time to disappear again.”

      “I won’t,” Heather protested, finding her voice. “I’m not guilty of anything, and there’s no need for me to disappear.”

      Tom returned to growling. Kid Cop started to nod, but instead gestured to the man coming through the door.

      An elderly man wearing a blue cambric shirt tucked into worn jeans with scuffed brown work boots took one step forward. “I’m Father Joseph McCoy,” he said to Heather. “I understand you might need a bit of help.”

      Though surprised at the clergyman’s casual attire, Heather felt relief, pure and welcoming. She opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come.

      By his stance and the way the cops took him in as one of their own, it was clear he’d been here before. But it wasn’t Heather, the room, or the bunch of cops that Joe looked at. It was Chief Riley.

      “Who called him?” Tom demanded.

      Joe took another step into the room, running a hand through his hair. “Tom, it’s good to see you.”

      They were on a first name basis?

      The other cops, spectators really, started to shuffle from the room. Judging by the expressions on their faces, she wasn’t the only one feeling relief.

      “Miss Bianca called me,” Joseph McCoy said. “Someone told her that her boarder had been arrested. Bianca seems to think it’s taking a bit too long for you to realize your mistake and release her.” He glanced at Heather and smiled; it went all the way to his eyes. There was a sadness there, though, and Heather wondered what had put it there.

      One of the cops muttered, “Trust Miss Bianca.” He was the first to back out of the room. None of the others focused on her, not really. They were focused on Chief Riley as they exited.

      If she’d have been anywhere else, Heather would have laughed out loud. It just figured. Even though she’d been the one harassed and accused, it was Chief Riley who needed saving.

      * * *

      HE’D ACTUALLY VOUCHED for her! Used the word innocent to describe her and claimed that Bianca Flores knew there’d been a mistake.

      Tom didn’t know how Bianca could be so sure, and Father Joe was no better, siding with a woman who coldheartedly assisted her boyfriend in murder. Tom watched as Father Joe led the woman going by the name of Heather Graves to his old white truck. Her blond hair swayed in the wind. She held herself stiffly, arms folded as if fighting off a chill that didn’t exist—at least not in Sarasota Falls, New Mexico, in October. They were going to fetch her car. The tow company had retrieved it, the order hadn’t been canceled.

      Unlike Tom’s arrest.

      Staring out the window at their retreating figures, Tom felt somewhat like a little boy watching as someone important disappeared from his life. Years ago, that someone had been his real father—who hadn’t been much of a father at all. Tom barely remembered him.

      Then, five years ago, it had been Max dying.

      Later, it had been his wife, who complained that Tom was married to his job. That it took him three weeks to get around to calling her and suggesting he still loved her and—

      She’d hung up, and he really hadn’t thought of her again, until this business with Rachel had come up.

      Rachel would literally disappear, Tom had no doubt. Heck, maybe this time she’d become a teacher in Miami or a lawyer in Nashville. She was good at reinventing herself.

      Joe, well...Joe wouldn’t disappear. Since Max’s death, Father Joe had faithfully—at least once a month—either stopped by the police station or phoned. He always wanted to take Tom out to breakfast, lunch, or even invite him to some sort of social activity. In Tom’s mind, Father Joe was someone to avoid, someone who made Tom worry about choices and how everything came together only to eventually fall apart.

      “Really,” Oscar Guzman said, “she might not be Rachel.”

      Tom shook his head at the only man brave enough to come back to the room. Oscar’d only joined the force last year, but he’d been FBI before that and a marine even before that.

      He was, besides Daniel, the only officer willing to tell Tom he “might” be wrong who still, in his naïveté, had a wide-eyed optimism about people.

      Tom had been that young once.

      “How can you say that with such certainty?” he asked. Turning to Daniel, he added, “And, judging by the way you’ve been banging on the keys of your computer, it’s looking like Heather’s fingerprints are new to the system.”

      “No history,” Daniel agreed.

      “Has anyone contacted the convenience store clerk for identification? I don’t care if it starts a media storm. I want it done.” Tom hated the way his words sounded—desperate, human, uncertain.

      “It’s not the media that’s kept us from doing more,” Daniel said. “It’s the evidence, or should I say lack thereof. Nevertheless, I emailed him her photo. Now we’re waiting for a response.”

      “Call him.”

      “I did.” Daniel sounded a bit exasperated. “He didn’t answer. Even if he says it’s not—”

      “You haven’t proven Heather is not Rachel.” Tom’s words weren’t an accusation, but were simply a statement of fact.

      “And you haven’t proven she is.” Daniel looked a little guilty, СКАЧАТЬ