Pursuit of Justice. Pamela Tracy

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      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.” СКАЧАТЬ