Hiding His Witness. C.J. Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ Reilly held her shoulder and hip to the ground, pinning her body before she kicked him or Lou somewhere sensitive.

      “Hey! Calm down. We’re helping you,” Reilly said.

      “No, let go!” She bucked her hips in the air and tried to twist her arms free.

      Did he need to call someone in for a psych evaluation? Why were the most attractive ones the most trouble? His breath clouded in the cold night air. “You need medical attention.”

      “No, I don’t,” she said through clenched teeth. She stopped fighting him and instead glowered at him as if he was her worst enemy. Spunk; he liked that in a woman. Another time, another place, Reilly would find her tremendously appealing. But today, she was part of an investigation, one that required his full attention.

      The air between them vibrated with tension. Reilly forced his focus on the case. “This is Lou. He’s an EMT. He’s going to fix your arm.”

      He could see her working the information over in her mind. “Fine,” she replied through gritted teeth. She turned her head toward Lou. “Thank you.”

      The polite words were out of place with the rest of her behavior. But Reilly was on the tail end of a thirty-hour shift, his last before a two-week vacation, and he was in no frame of mind to diagnose the mood swings of a temperamental, yet very pretty, witness.

      “Are you hurt anywhere else?” Lou asked her as he cleaned and bandaged her arm.

      “I’m fine,” she said.

      Same lie she’d told him. What was her opposition to medical treatment? Reilly wouldn’t let her go home without being sure her injuries had been taken care of and she wouldn’t pass out again.

      Lou lifted her chin with his fingertips. “You’ve got some abrasions on your face.”

      She didn’t reply, but flinched when Lou dabbed her chin with another swab. He pressed his hand along her torso. “Does that hurt?”

      “No,” she said, though tears sprang to her eyes.

      If she was hurt, why not say so? The less she said the more Reilly wanted to know about her. He cursed his inquisitive nature and checked his interest. Witness. Firm boundaries.

      “Do you think you can stand?” Lou asked. “I’ll get the stretcher if you can’t. We need to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

      The flash of indignation in her eyes told Reilly she would never allow that. “I can manage without the stretcher, and I’m not going to the hospital.”

      She got to her feet, Lou on one side, him on the other. He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and every muscle in his body flexed in awareness. He ignored the heated rush of sensation. Thin women weren’t usually his thing, but as much as he tried to shut it down, an invisible force attracted him to her.

      “Are you okay? Dizzy? Woozy?” Lou asked.

      “I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

      Reilly was tired of her saying that. She was not fine and he wanted to know why she was lying. If she was in trouble, he could help her.

      “Can you tell me your name?” Lou asked.

      She ignored him.

      “Ma’am, you need to tell us your name,” Reilly said, realizing he personally wanted a name to put with this woman even more than he’d need one for his report.

      “I don’t have one,” she said.

      “Maybe she has a concussion. You really should allow us to take you to the hospital. You need a CT scan,” Lou said, furrowing his brow, stepping closer and pulling a penlight out of his pocket to check her pupils.

      Reilly’s police instincts—which were never wrong—told him she was lying. What was she hiding? “She doesn’t have a concussion. And if she refuses medical treatment and doesn’t tell us her name, then we’re going to go down to the precinct and talk that over. Maybe a night in the county jail will refresh her memory.” An empty threat. He wouldn’t put this woman in lockup. He just wanted her to come clean.

      The woman sighed and leveled a look at him. “My name is Carey.”

      Another lie. He could see it in her eyes. “Okay, Carey. Do you have a last name?”

      “Smith.”

      He’d give her credit for boldness. She didn’t even pretend she was being honest.

      “And what is your address, Ms. Smith?”

      “I don’t have one,” she said.

      Lou smirked.

      Reilly maneuvered to stand in front of her, keeping his hands on her waist. She didn’t appear quite steady on her feet and he didn’t want her passing out again and injuring herself further. “The way you’re behaving, you’re making me think you did something wrong.”

      She lifted her scraped chin proudly, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I did nothing wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. I was walking home. I stumbled on something. That’s all I know.”

      Reilly jerked his head, indicating Lou should take off. The witness might be more forthcoming with less of an audience. Lou shrugged, quiet laughter in his eyes, and trotted toward the ambulance, looking over his shoulder once at them.

      Yeah, she was a riot.

      Carey knew something and she was going to tell him what it was. Reilly closed in on her space, knowing crowding her might pressure the truth from her. “So that’s it? Just walking by?” He barely kept the disbelief from his voice, letting her know he was aware she was lying.

      “Is the man in the alley okay?” Carey asked, pushing his hands away from her and stepping back.

      His palms itched to touch her again. He wasn’t giving her another chance to run. He stepped closer. She hadn’t answered his question. “Not sure.”

      She shifted on her feet. “Can you ask someone?”

      “We can exchange all the information you want. But I tell you something, you tell me something.”

      She glared him and pressed her lips together.

      Even when she was being difficult, she appealed to him on some primal level. Best to quash those feelings, especially when he was on the job. He had to treat her like any other witness. If she didn’t want to talk here, they could talk at the precinct. “Have it your way. I’m hauling you in for questioning.”

      Sitting alone in the Denver police station in Detective Truman’s office, Carey fought the bile that roiled in her stomach. She wished she’d accepted the cola drink he’d offered when they’d first arrived. The bubbles would have settled her stomach, and the caffeine and sugar would have jump-started her brain and helped her think.

      She was cold, hungry and tired.

      Detective Truman hadn’t tossed her into the interrogation room, a small consolation. Instead, she was sitting on СКАЧАТЬ