The Woman Most Wanted

Gain her trust.

Maureen bought over a cup of coffee, shot Heather a somewhat proprietary look and sweetly said to Tom, “Freshly made. I’ve already got Cook fixing your regular.”

He needed to talk to Maureen. He’d given her a ride home from work a few times when her car didn’t start. Seemed she was reading a bit more into the gesture than he’d intended. He should have noticed before.

“Thanks.” He took a long drink, closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was too close to this case, could blow it because of the kind of emotion he realized he had with respect to it. Opening his eyes, he said, “I’ve spent the last couple of hours investigating you, Heather Graves.”

She started to sputter her indignation, but he held up a hand, expecting her to stop. Most people would have, but she wasn’t most people. Freedom and an hour spent with Father Joe seemed to have loosened her tongue. “You have no right, no—”

He placed a folder on the table, opened it and withdrew two pictures. One, not flattering, was of her just a few hours ago. The other was of a woman, much younger, with darker blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones and a wide mouth. All similar to what Heather looked like, except she wore her hair short.

With two fingers, she drew the photos close to her, squinting as she studied both of them side by side. She started eating again, eliminating half her meal and saying nothing. His hamburger arrived and he took a bite, watching her brow furrow and a frown distort her features.

“I see the resemblance,” she admitted. “This could have been me when I was a teenager.”

“Rachel Ramsey was sixteen when this was taken nine years ago. It was her sophomore year at Sarasota Falls High School.”

“I would have been eighteen and finishing up high school. How come you’re not showing me her police photo?”

“We don’t have one. She was never arrested or charged with anything. She spent a year in foster care, but she was only seven.”

“Father Joe said she made a few poor choices. He didn’t get the chance to tell me what they were. Why don’t you tell me?”

Poor choices? Tom cleared his throat. “Father Joe likes to sugarcoat the truth.”

“He seems like a nice man.”

“He is, but he tends to get involved in situations that hinder more than help.”

“Like mine?”

“No, not really yours. If you’ve created a false identity, you’re out of my league of expertise. Every avenue I explore turns up viable. The man who owns the dental practice in Phoenix says he’d hire you back in a heartbeat. I even managed to call one of the parents who had a little boy in your mother’s childcare. She says her son loved you, and she described you perfectly.” He put his hamburger down, wishing he was better at showing emotion. “You lost your parents such a short time ago. I cannot even imagine the pain you must be in. I’m sorry.”

She blinked, then looked out the window as if the streetlights were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. Finally, she said, “You’re one hundred percent sure I’m not Rachel Ramsey?”

He wanted to answer with a firm “yes.” But he couldn’t, so he admitted, “I’m getting there. Sometimes, I’m a bit slow.”

“Father Joe said I looked like Rachel, but that he could tell the difference.”

“How?” Tom asked, amazed. The only tangible piece of evidence he couldn’t seem to wish away was Heather’s height, or lack of it.

“Before we could get much further into our conversation and I could ask him, he got a phone call. Someone passed away.”

“Who?”

“Lucille Calloway.”

Tom couldn’t help the “umph” that escaped his lips. He’d wanted justice for her, just like he’d wanted justice for Max. Now it was too late for either of them.

“Father Joe was telling me about her and Richard Welborn.”

Father Joe was a talker; most ministers were. As a matter of fact, Joe had been the minister who’d married Tom and Cathy ten years ago. He took his job seriously.

“I was heading to Welborn’s place when I pulled you over,” Tom confessed.

“Where’s it at?” Heather asked.

“Two-one-six Decator.”

She blinked again, looking somewhat taken aback and slightly guilty. Every time he thought he could wrap his mind around her not being Rachel, something spooked him. “You know it?” he asked.

“I drove by it right before you pulled me over.” She pushed the photos back to him, her face wary and full of distrust. If he wasn’t careful, she’d leave, and he had so much he needed to know. She was poised for flight, too, inching toward the end of the booth.

“Tell me about your parents,” he said, quickly, hoping she’d open up.

Instead, she turned and swung both legs to the edge of the booth so she could easily exit, and then she muttered, “Why? Why are my parents important to you? Why don’t you tell me about Rachel Ramsey and her poor choices and why you couldn’t be bothered to listen to me earlier when you pulled me over? It’s innocent until proven guilty in America. You stamped criminal across my forehead without giving me the chance to defend myself. I’ve been scared, humiliated. And I’m annoyed at you.”

He’d been the center of attention many times, usually it wasn’t at the Station Diner. The place was only half-full, but all of the customers were paying more attention to Heather and her words than to their meals.

“You deserve to be annoyed at me,” he said quietly, so no one else could hear, and he hoped she’d lower her voice, too. “I overreacted when I saw you. I thought you were Rachel Ramsey. You look just like her.”

“What exactly did she do?”

He hadn’t spoken about it in detail for years, not since the psychologist the sheriff sent to Sarasota Falls declared Tom fit for duty. He didn’t want to talk about it now.

To his surprise, she leaned closer, looking at him directly in the eyes, and then her expression softened before she settled back in the booth. “Look,” she said, “I get that whatever happened all those years ago was somehow personal. I could tell that by how you behaved when you pulled me over. Just give me the basic facts. What can’t be disputed. I deserve to know.”

He half turned in the booth, held up his cup and said, “Maureen, more coffee.”

“Comin’ up.”

After he’d downed half the fresh cup, he said, “A little over five years ago, my partner was Max Stockard. He was ten years my senior, and when I started on the force, he mentored me. After a few years, he became my partner. More than the academy, Max taught me what policing was.”

He stopped. His dad had been a plumber; his mom, a librarian. Both were amazed that he became an officer of the law, proud, but kind of terrified. There were no police officers in the family on either side.

“I never met anyone as brave as he was. He made me want to be a better man, a better cop. Max died...” His voice cracked. He swallowed, quickly, and went on, “In the line of duty. Rachel Ramsey, more or less, caused his death by pretending to be hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a car accident during a chase. She fell out of the passenger side door and lay there, just lay there. Max thought she was hurt. When he hurried to help, her boyfriend shot Max, point-blank.”

Heather again seemed like she wanted to leave. “And I look exactly like her?”

“Yes. She disappeared that day and hasn’t been heard from since. You’re my first lead.”

“I’m not a lead. I’ve never heard of her until today.”

“I want to believe you. Really I do. What I’m about to ask will sound a little strange, but hear me out.”

She didn’t say anything, but drew back, looking like there wasn’t a chance she’d help him.

“I want a swab of DNA, to compare against Rachel’s mother’s. And I’d appreciate something personal from your mother. Did you keep a hairbrush or—”

“Why?”

“I’m betting you must be related to the Ramseys somehow. For that matter, let’s get something from your father, too.”

To Heather’s credit, she didn’t pretend surprise or indignation. “And if I am, what does that prove?”

Tom opened his mouth, tried to say something and shut it again. She was right. What did it prove? It might prove that Heather Graves was related to the Ramseys, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Rachel. Unless Heather was a master liar and knew where Rachel was.

His eyes narrowed, but before he could say another word, she said, “No,” scooted out of the booth and headed toward the door. He started to follow, but Maureen plopped his bill down.

He wound up paying not only for his hamburger and coffee, but also for her food and Father Joe’s.

It had been that kind of day.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SUNDAY WAS TOM’S day off. Didn’t keep him from stopping by the office to see if Daniel or anyone else had anything new to report. They did and didn’t.

“Lucille Calloway died last night,” Oscar Guzman said. “My wife went over this morning and took a meal. The kids are taking it pretty hard even though it was expected.”

Lucille could have had a few more years if Richard Welborn hadn’t slammed his car into hers.

“I’ll find time to go over today,” Tom said. “Anything else?”

Oscar grinned and nodded. “My aunt says to tell you that Heather isn’t Rachel Ramsey. Seems Bianca noticed the resemblance right away, but, and this is straight from Bianca’s lips, Heather is much too short to be mistaken for Rachel.”

Tom rolled his eyes. More than anything, he wished it was the other way around, that Heather was taller than Rachel. Then he could have argued that she’d grown.

But she’d been wearing tennis shoes yesterday—not enough heel. Combine that with his little talk with her last evening, and he knew he needed to be looking at a different scenario. Still, Tom was frustrated that he hadn’t gotten around to speaking to Bianca. “You get anything else?”

“Yes. Bianca says that Diane Ramsey had a sister. She wonders if perhaps Heather is some sort of cousin to the family.”

Again, this was information Tom knew. “Diane Ramsey had two full sisters that we know of,” he replied. “They came for the funeral.”

“You talked to them?”

“In detail. Neither were surprised their sister Diane was dead. Both were surprised she’d lived as long as she did. Both said she’d had no business raising a child.”

“Rachel was in foster care for a while, right?” Oscar asked. “Any chance she lived with either of her aunts?”

“No—one aunt didn’t have children and clearly didn’t want any. The other had two boys and said no way did she want Rachel’s influence around her sons.”

“Rachel was that bad?” Oscar queried, one eyebrow raised.

“No,” Tom said. “But Rachel did hang around a rough crowd. Takes a special person to guide a young teen into the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of choosing better friends.”

Oscar didn’t shoot back with another question. Unusual for the officer who’d left the fast track of a career with the FBI to protect and serve the small town of Sarasota Falls. Of course, he’d fallen in love with someone here and chosen to be married to her instead of married to his job. Not once had Oscar bemoaned changing his career path. Instead, the man was happy. Tom didn’t think he’d ever been that happy.

After a moment, Oscar said, “You know, this is the first time you’ve ever talked about Rachel Ramsey without snarling.”

“I don’t snarl.”

Oscar only smiled and asked, “But Rachel didn’t kill Max, exactly. Right?”

“She didn’t pull the trigger. Her boyfriend did.”

“How old was Rachel when all this happened?”

“Rachel would have been a teenager, just. She was retained in third grade.”

“And back then Heather Graves would have been, what, early twenties?”

“And in college. Heather’s twenty-seven now. Rachel should be twenty-five.” The same age as Max’s youngest son. “Excuse me.” Tom stood, feeling sympathetic. He’d felt it last night, too, when he’d made his way from the table at the diner, stopped just on the other side of the cash register and watched Heather hurry to her car.

He needed to get close to her, but he didn’t know how.

* * *

HEATHER HAD NEVER been one to have vivid dreams, but since her parents’ death, she’d had more than her share. Last night’s had been a combination. The beginning had made her keep her eyes closed tight with her fist in her mouth to keep from crying.

Her mom and dad had been in her dreams, doing what they did best. Mom was in the living room sterilizing and putting away toys, finding items that had been left behind by the children she cared for, and doing it all to the music of Pink Floyd. Heather used to dance with her mother. Her father was outside mowing the lawn, making sure the sprinklers worked, and adding more tools to his shed. Man, he’d loved those tools. The thought of someone using her dad’s things hadn’t bothered her until now, as she was finally starting to accept that the secrets her parents had kept weren’t just about their identities, but hers, as well.

She opened one eye. The clock face read six. Way too early to get up, so she lay there in the half sleep that usually meant she’d have a headache when she finally did crawl out of bed. So, obviously, she’d have to crawl out of bed and take charge of today, make decisions, do something.

When she’d arrived in town, she’d thought about taking it slow, observing, but after last night, Heather was more than curious. She had two options: the first was to go to the house, but it was a rental and she didn’t want to bother the people living there. Plus, her attempt to check it out yesterday had ended in disaster. Even now, she could feel the hard cement under her body as the police officer handcuffed her and...

She forced herself to stop thinking about yesterday. The memory would only slow her down, and she had things to do.

Her second option was to drop by Little’s Grocery Store. A long shot, yes, but worth her time. Besides, she needed a few healthy snacks. What Bianca provided would put more curve on Heather’s thighs than she wanted or needed. After a shower, she chose a pair of white jeans and a bright pink button-down shirt, along with white tennis shoes with pink laces, as she was a girly-girl. Then, she fixed her face and did her hair before she was ready to greet the day.

She stood at the top of the stairs, listening. Right now, there wasn’t a single sound. Sundays, people probably slept in. Heather, however, didn’t think Bianca the sleep-in type.

She took two steps, then a loud creak came from the third and she paused. Nope, it wouldn’t be easy to make a silent getaway. Last night, she’d pleaded exhaustion when she’d come through the front door, and Bianca had been respectful.

Of course, Bianca had also spent the whole day working and enjoying the Founder’s Day celebration. Then, judging by what Heather had seen, Bianca spent the rest of the evening decorating the bed-and-breakfast for Halloween. Noting all the fake spiders crawling over the walls, the cobwebs in the trees and the witch on a broomstick stuck to the chimney, Bianca had had a busy night, too.

This morning, though, Bianca—all smiles—lingered at the bottom of the stairs, obviously wanting to know what had happened.

“Sit down,” Bianca cheerfully ordered when Heather made it to the bottom step. Heather hesitated and thought about pleading no appetite, but then the aroma of cinnamon rolls swirled under her nose and she lost all resolve.

A tall glass of milk cemented their new friendship.

“Chief Riley doesn’t usually let his emotions rule,” Bianca said a little too casually. “What exactly happened yesterday?”

“He pulled me over thinking I was someone else,” Heather said, thinking to herself that what the chief of police had engaged in yesterday had little to do with emotion and more to do with tunnel vision. “Do you think I look like this Rachel Ramsey?”

“Quite a bit, but not a dead ringer,” Bianca admitted. “I can see why Tom pulled you over. Without hearing your voice, seeing the way you walk, your mannerisms, well, he did what he thought he had to do.”

So, it was her voice, her walk, her mannerisms that Bianca claimed set Heather apart from Rachel.

Their identical looks were still an issue and “dead ringer” was a spot-on description.

Lots of what-ifs filtered through her imagination. In the end, she thought, she really, really, really doubted her dad had ever had a relationship with the likes of Diane Ramsey, but Heather was here to investigate and who knew what avenues she’d need to follow.

“What exactly was Rachel wanted for?”

It took Bianca a moment to answer. “Worst case scenario, first degree murder. Though, there’s a chance it will be accessory to a crime.”

First degree... It didn’t get much worse than that.

“Can you tell me a bit about the family?”

“Well, the Ramseys aren’t—weren’t—natives,” Bianca continued. “Diane just showed up one day in a burgundy-and-black Studebaker, in such bad shape that it puffed dark clouds into the air. Old Albert Turner was the chief then, so he chased her down and cited her.”

“You remember like it was yesterday.”

“Hard to forget. Diane’s antics guaranteed we’d all remember when she turned up in town.”

“What kind of antics?”

“Getting drunk at a Founder’s Day celebration.” Bianca laughed and held up her hand before Heather could counter with “lots of people get drunk” and said, “Let’s just say she couldn’t sing and no one appreciated the burlesque show.”

“Oh.”

“The town’s barbershop quartet were performing. She stood right on top of a big speaker and interrupted them. She was louder without a microphone. Albert Turner had to haul her down. It made the paper. From then on, I’d say she made the paper about four or five times a year. I always felt like she had something to prove.”

“Are any Ramseys still in the area?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. I don’t know if Diane and Rachel’s father were married when they had her, or if they ever got divorced or what. She and Rachel just stayed.”

“In the house over on State Route 4?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Chief Riley said something about it.” Changing the subject by holding up a cinnamon roll, Heather asked, “You make these?”

“No, I buy them from Shelley Guzman. She has a bakery in town.”

Heather’d been in Sweet Sarasota yesterday. She’d picked up a free Founder’s Day muffin—it actually had a plastic school toothpicked into its frosting in celebration of the deaf school that used to be the mainstay of the town. Then she’d purchased three chocolate chip cookies that had smelled only slightly better than the cinnamon roll she was currently eating.

“You met her husband last night. He works for Tom.” Bianca once again was casual. “He’s a cop.”

Guzman. He’d been the big guy who’d challenged the chief of police. “So,” Heather continued, “what kind of girl was Rachel?”

“I,” Bianca said, somewhat sadly, “didn’t know her very well. I don’t have any kids of my own. They didn’t attend church nor did she play with my nephews when they were in town.”

“So all you really know about is Diane?”

Bianca nodded. “And she died just over a year ago.”

It wasn’t the first time Heather heard this. “How?”

“Hard living is what most of the town thinks.”

“Was she young? Old?”

“Why, I guess she couldn’t be that old. Younger than me. I never gave it much thought. She looked sixtyish, at least she did last time I saw her at the grocery store.” Bianca sat back. “Rachel would have been midtwenties, close to your age, which is why Tom must have gotten so flustered. I imagine Diane was fifty or so when she died.”

“Rachel didn’t come back for the funeral?”

“Most of the town thinks either Rachel has no clue her mother passed away, that Rachel didn’t care enough to come back, or that possibly Rachel herself has died. I hope she’s okay. I hope she ran away from here and found a whole better world. Met somebody who cared for her. She certainly was making some of the same mistakes her mother did. Father Joe had us all praying for her.”

“Thank you for sending Father Joe to get me. How did you know I was in jail?”

Bianca laughed. “The phone started ringing. By the third call, I knew it was serious. As for Father Joe, I know just about everyone, and I knew he’d have the easiest time pulling you out of there. In just an hour I’ll be listening to Father Joe’s sermon. You should come with me.”

Heather was tempted. She wanted to talk to Father Joe, but even more, she wanted to visit with the members of the church and ask questions.

Problem was, after yesterday, she was afraid to start.

* * *

AN HOUR LATER, Heather paid for her small supply of groceries. She’d spoken to the man working behind the meat counter. He looked old enough to have been employed at Little’s for almost thirty years but claimed only five years. She’d talked to the current security guard on duty, and he’d spouted something about privacy laws and paperwork. She’d gone to the manager, who told her the name of the man who owned Little’s and said to contact his secretary.

Then she’d chosen the cashier, who looked closest to her father’s age. Trina Gillespie had been employed by Little’s for over thirty years and thought the name Raymond Tillsbury sounded familiar, but claimed she’d couldn’t remember anything else.

Heather even showed a photo from her cellphone to Trina, but before Trina could say more than “um,” the security guard came over and gave Heather a warning look.

Sunday was not the day to call a corporate office, so Heather added the phone number to her contacts and headed back to the bed-and-breakfast.

She had research to do.

* * *

HEATHER’S PHONE RANG at nine o’clock the next morning. She almost didn’t answer it. She’d paced her room most of the night, unable to sleep and feeling slightly sorry if anyone happened to be in the room under hers. These old Victorians creaked and moaned. Even with the morning sun coming through the window, she felt like she’d just gotten to bed. She wasn’t sure whether to blame it on the time spent in jail, the time spent sitting across from Chief Riley, or spending most of yesterday visiting Little’s Grocery Store and later reading online about the whole Ramsey family.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.