Pursuit of Justice

Nervously, she started to reach for the pen again.

He moved the pen. “Are you a cab driver?”

“No, I do dispatch.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“Almost six months. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“You tell me.”

“Are you bored? Too much free time?” She wanted the sarcastic words back as soon as they left her lips. She needed his sympathy, not his ire.

Briefly, the corner of his mouth twitched, but not enough to be sure of. He shoved the paperwork aside, took a sip of what must have been hours-old coffee and frowned at her. “Why were those men shooting at you?”

“At me?”

“Yes, at you.”

She shook her head, acting indignant. She had to keep him from thinking that maybe she was the target, keep him from thinking she was more than just an ordinary civilian. “They weren’t shooting at me.”

“Lady, those three men were aiming at you. Not only that, but you carry a gun, because for some reason men shooting at you doesn’t appear to be out of the ordinary. A gun you use with some proficiency.” He resumed tapping, this time on a manila folder. “According to this file, you have no right to own a firearm.” He leaned forward. “And according to this file, Lucy Damaris Straus doesn’t possess the mental capability to know how to fire a firearm, let alone which end to aim. Do you want to tell me your real name?”

“I’ve gotten much better. The medicine I’m taking—”

His mouth became a single thin line.

“Have I done something to offend you?” She hated this. How dare he make her feel vulnerable! She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. Normal movements, she reminded herself.

“Lying offends me.”

“You’ve seen my driver’s license. I’m Lucille Damaris Straus.” She checked her watch. “May I go? Do you have the right to keep me here?”

He clutched the well-worn file, with a blue-edged white label and uneven typing, proclaiming a misspelled Lucy Stras.

She could imagine what was inside and then some. After all, Lucy’s first introduction to social services came before she could even walk. Early on there’d been physical and mental abuse at the hands of an alcoholic father. Later on came the truant officers reports. Finally, when Lucy reached legal age, there were misdemeanors: accessory to fraud, shoplifting, public intoxication, until finally the more serious offenses, such as riding in a stolen car and possession. And, of course, there were the hospitalizations. Mental illness ran in the family. Why should Lucy escape the gene?

A paper slipped out of the file and landed faceup on the floor.

A photo.

Well, she’d always known that was a possibility.

This was not what he needed for an end-of-the-week finale. The woman kept her cool better than most. But she was scared. A few times her retorts had had an edge to them, a raw fear that threatened to erupt.

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 parents had died. He was probably dead; they were definitely dead. He had probably been murdered by the Santellises; they had definitely been murdered by the Santellises. From what Lucy could glean, Ruth had become a cop to fight the kind of criminals who had cost her a husband. Lucy had become a fugitive to fight the kind of criminals who had cost her everything.

“I’m pretty sure you have no right to detain me.” Lucy started to stand, but Officer Friendly put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

This cop had also pushed her down in the parking lot and that bullet had whizzed over her head. She owed him. She owed him not to talk. He wouldn’t enjoy the mess she could lead him to.

Atkins spoke again. “We’re obtaining a search warrant now. What will we find in your home, Lucy?”

“Nothing, but you’d better not let my cat out.”

“Do you realize that you face up to thirty days for carrying a concealed weapon?”

If they’d let Lucy Straus do time, without any more background probing, that’d be fine. She’d do it. There were worse places than the county jail.

But, they’d taken her fingerprints.

The moment the cops identified her, she was good as dead. Police stations weren’t safe for her now.

She had to get out of here. “I’m sure any intelligent judge will take into consideration bullets were first aimed in my direction.”

“We have plenty of intelligent judges in Gila City. One thing we do need is your real name for the search warrant. What is it?” Officer Atkins asked.

Lucy looked at Officer Friendly. Why had he been so quick to boil over? She’d bet, when it came to interrogation, that he was more gifted than the female officer.

A gravelly voice came from the doorway. “Sam, I hear you picked up a—”

It was as if a vacuum suddenly sucked the air from the room. Adrenaline pressed against raw nerves, and although it was the last thing she wanted to do, she turned.

She knew the voice; it haunted her nightmares.

“Cliff, what is it?” Officer Packard slowly stepped toward the door. Tension became palpable.

Lucy figured he sensed the same thing she did, that the air in the room was about to implode, and that the victims would lose more than a piece of themselves. She being the biggest casualty.

He didn’t have time to make a difference. It only took two steps before Cliff Handley’s hands reached toward Lucy, opening, closing, as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit her or choke her.

“Rosa Cagnalia. I’m going to kill you.”

TWO

Suspicion turned to incredulity as Sam realized whom he’d arrested.

As Cliff wrapped beefy hands around her neck, Rosa Cagnalia became a Tasmanian devil of movement even as her face turned the color of blood. Cliff went down to one knee as a well-placed kick connected.

Sam let go of the breath he’d been holding.

He’d found Rosa Cagnalia.

Atkins reacted first, grabbing Cliff by the waist and trying to tug him away.

Sam added his weight to Atkins’s and wrenched Cliff’s fingers from around Rosa’s neck. Another officer hurried in and used his baton as a wedge. Using the wall as leverage, Sam managed to get his hand between Cliff and Rosa. His ex-partner emitted a sound, much like an angry bear, and rammed Rosa into the wall. Her head flew back, solidly connecting with the solid structure. Sam expected some noise from her then, but all she did was sink into the chair.

Executing a headlock, Sam pushed Cliff into the restricting arms of two fellow officers. Shoving them out of the room, Sam slammed the door shut, barely noticing that Atkins left with the crowd.

Rosa remained in the chair with her knees pressed together, her hands clutched at the edge of the seat, and her face full of a combination of disdain, fear, regret—so many emotions that Sam couldn’t even begin to know which ones predominated. The only indication she gave of fear was the pale tinge of her skin.

She hadn’t been this white when he pulled her over.

His eyes went to her neck. Cliff’s fingerprints were there. Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, should be gasping.

But why should he care? She straddled a line he didn’t dare approach, and the majority of her weight wasn’t on his side of the law.

And, as much as Sam understood Cliff’s pain, he sure didn’t, couldn’t, support his actions. The grief spilling from the man explained why video cameras sometimes caught America’s Finest using extreme force. Cliff hadn’t seemed aware that he’d been choking a woman. All Cliff knew was that he’d found one of the people responsible for his son’s death.

They were alone in a room that now reeked of hate and anger. Sam stared at Rosa for a long time, waiting for her to move, speak, do something! This woman was partly responsible for the ruination of Sam’s mentor, one-time partner, and full-time friend, Cliff Handley.

How could she look so ordinary?

She’d been there when Jimmy Handley, a rookie, a third-generation police officer, forfeited his life in the line of duty. Jimmy had been a mere Boy Scout when Sam teamed up with his father: a twelve-year-old carbon copy of his father. Jimmy had been sixteen when, thanks to commendations and promotions, Cliff had moved his family to Phoenix. Jimmy had been twenty-one when he put on his own badge and twenty-four when the coffin lid closed.

The funeral had been just two years ago this month: a cold, gray January day.

Sam took a deep breath. Contemplating what he had in front of him. Finding Rosa Cagnalia was tantamount to finding gold, fool’s gold. She didn’t look like a woman who could sit back while—

Well, this certainly explained her marksmanship this morning. And that answered another question. Now that Sam knew who she was, it explained who the men in the parking lot were. The Santellises. How had they stumbled upon her on the same day Sam had? But since she was supposedly on their side, why were they shooting at her?

And Cliff being in Gila City was just as coincidental. Just three weeks ago, Cliff retired and returned to his hometown. He used his limp—he’d been injured striving to bring justice to those responsible for Jimmy’s death—as a crutch and bore no resemblance to the once-proud police officer who had bagged Walter Peabody.

Luck had turned her back on Rosa Cagnalia and dumped her in Sam’s lap. Of course, in many ways, it was her own fault. What was she doing in Gila City: Cliff’s hometown and a known haunt of the Santellis family?

Her chair was still flush with the wall. Her hair hung in her face, and she didn’t move a hand to pat it back into place.

“You’re Rosa Cagnalia?” Disgust accented his words. How could someone so beautiful be so flawed?

She flinched and unclasped her grip on the rim of the chair, folding her hands in her lap. “No.” The word was directed at her hands. She wove her fingers so tightly together that the skin turned white, and then she looked up at him and whispered, “You have to let me be Lucy.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Her eyes blazed, and for a moment he remembered what had attracted him.

“Do you realize that by finding me, you’ve signed my death warrant?”

“You did that yourself, lady. You chose your way of life a long time ago.”

“Oh, were you there?” She glared at him. “You know the choices that came my way?”

He frowned. “I’ve read the files.”

Atkins poked her head in. “You need to back off, Sam. News travels fast. The feds want her.”

“I brought her in.” He stared at Rosa. No way would he be delegated to gofer by special agents. This was his turf. He was responsible.

“I’m sure they’ll thank you.”

He thought for a moment that the words came from Atkins, but they hadn’t, and he was reminded why he had thought Rosa might be a cop. Wisecracks rolled off the tongues of those in blue, partly in jest, and partly as a shield from a daily routine that took them into the armpit of Gila City. Female officers tended to verbally raise their shield a bit more than Sam was used to.

Atkins added, “Sam, I mean it.”

“It’s my case.”

By all rights, he should hate this woman. She had been there when a drug bust spiraled so out of control that Cliff was emotionally crippled, and his son was killed.

She had been there, and she had left without making any attempt to help Cliff or save Cliff’s son.

Funny way for a one-time registered nurse to act.

If she had shown compassion, Jimmy Handley might still be alive and Cliff would wear his badge with pride and determination instead of with grim need. Instead Rosa Cagnalia stepped over the bleeding body of Jimmy Handley, picked up a bag full of money, and in the chaos of the moment, managed to disappear.

Atkins rolled her eyes and backed out of the room. Sam looked at the two-way mirror. So the feds wanted Rosa. Having the FBI take over a case was something like inviting the class bully into your backyard. If you stayed, you got beat up. If you left, he destroyed your yard. Sam didn’t relish turning Rosa over to them, but she deserved whatever she got.

He had nothing to lose by washing his hands of this woman.

And nothing to gain by hesitating. So why was he? He flipped the handcuffs from his belt. “Stand up.”

She stood, muttering under her breath.

“What did you say?”

“I need someone to feed my cat.”

“Your cat! Lady, do you realize the trouble you’re in?”

“You keep reminding me.”

“Your cat is the least of your worries.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

“Ms. Cagnalia, surely there’s someone in this town who you can contact to feed the—”

“No, there’s no one. I didn’t make any friends. I was afraid to.”

She meant it. Her face was as serious as a funeral director and just as pale.

“My cat needs food. There’s a key hidden under the garden gnome behind my trailer.”

He waited for a please. It didn’t come.

Reluctantly, he left her with Henry, the duty officer who handled admissions. Feed her cat! Of course, he’d do it. She’d just given him permission to enter her home. He’d probably have to search long and hard for the cat food.

He could hardly wait.

Rosa awoke to more pond scum green. On television they always showed rickety bunk beds and open toilets, but Rosa’s cell didn’t look that domesticated. Last night, after hours of questions, when they’d finally shoved her in here, she’d been too tired to care.

Gingerly pushing up from the ledge she’d been sleeping on, Rosa tried to focus on what all had happened. She gingerly touched the back of her neck. A dull headache and a slight sore throat remained a souvenir of Cliff Handley’s wrath. It could have been worse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the dumb places to give in to the itch of a lead foot! She deserved to feel the bitter tightness when she swallowed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d given a cop permission to enter her trailer. She didn’t dare hope he’d simply feed Go Away and leave, that simply wasn’t a cop’s nature.

But she had no one to ask. She’d been careful at work to build up a reputation as a loner. She liked her coworkers too much to put them in danger. She’d been even more careful at church to distance herself and that hadn’t been easy. She dropped off casseroles at potlucks, crocheted pale pink or blue blankets for baby showers she didn’t dare attend, anonymously donated money for catastrophe relief, and all the while managed to convince the friendly folk of the Fifth Street Church that she was too busy to get involved more than a church service hello.

She didn’t dare call Wanda Peabody.

She’d been so careful, except for the cat. Oh, she’d tried. When the stray showed up outside her trailer, she’d refused to feed it. She’d said “Go Away” every day for a week. Then, when she found her next-door neighbor Seth tormenting it, she’d gone all indignant.

She brought attention to herself, made an enemy of Seth and his girlfriend, and she’d wound up with a pet she didn’t dare keep. Once she brought it into her trailer, cleansed its wounds—oh, it felt good taking care of a living being again—and had given it some food, well, the cat stayed.

Officer Friendly should feed Go Away. It was his fault Rosa was in jail. He was already involved, and nobody was likely to kill him as a way to get back on her. Plus, everything she’d discovered about Sam Packard while she’d been researching Cliff Handley suggested he was an honest, hardworking cop.

And a wayward Christian.

His name was in the directory of her church: the one he never attended. Hadn’t attended since his mother died. Well, before that, really. Yet, everything about him shouted believer. He was the Gila City cop who spoke about choices at the local high school. He was the Gila City cop who actually helped parolees find jobs—two of the cab drivers at her company owed Sam thanks. He looked to be a decent man, a giver.

Pretty amazing since he’d first been assigned Handley as a partner?

Handley was a taker.

Still, even before she’d realized the name of the cop who had pulled her over, her first impression had been one of honesty. Dear Lord, she was scared. Clasping her hands together she prayed and tried to get a handle on how she should be feeling, what she should be doing, what Jesus would do.

Worry wouldn’t add one moment to her life. God knew about the sparrows so he knew about her.

Oh, she so wanted the concept to work for her. But, she never seemed to be able to cease the internal dialogue that constantly played in her head: the dialogue that listed her sins.

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.