Pursuit of Justice

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.” His word didn’t affect the cat. Judging by the torn ear and jagged scar that zigzagged down to its eye, not much should affect this cat. A feline tail shot straight up in the air as its owner circled Sam’s legs. He should have gotten the feline’s name from Rosa.

“Back, Cat.”

It was a rectangular box, encased with paneling. And even with the overfed black-and-white cat, who seemed to think that continual rubbing against pant legs was an expected greeting, the place was a residence not a home.

Room one: a combination living room-kitchen. Inside the refrigerator was a six-pack of diet soda and two apples. Outside the refrigerator she had taped a scripture:

Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.

The kitchen table didn’t look as if it had been used. Not even a crumb graced the surface or the floor. There was also a couch, a television and a coffee table. Next to the couch was a basket of sewing. Picking up the sampler, he realized that Rosa seemed addicted to the words on the refrigerator. She was halfway finished with a cross-stitch bearing the same verse.

No knickknacks gathered dust. No pictures graced the walls. Sam opened two cupboards before finding hard cat food and filling the bowl on the floor.

The cat quickly lost interest in Sam and became devoted to its food.

Room two: a bedroom-bathroom. Her bed was made, no surprise. The closet held only a few outfits. If he had figured anything about the woman from her mannerisms, he figured that lack of clothes probably was a real sacrifice. She had a dresser, but only one drawer was utilized. There were a few piles of library books, stacked neatly on top of the dresser. A phone book and well-worn Bible were on the nightstand.

Sam picked up the Bible. Flipping to the personal pages, he found the dedication page.

Presented to: Lucille Straus

By: The Gila City Fifth Street Church.

On: The occasion of her baptism, November 12th

She’d been baptized just two months ago at Cliff’s old church. At one time, it had been Sam’s church, too. Frowning, Sam wondered if he needed to consider that prayer he’d witnessed earlier as a true plea for divine intervention. Or, was there another reason Rosa attended a church where Cliff and his family were well-known even if they had seldom crossed its foyer in more than a decade.

The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d never pulled her over.

The bathroom was stuffed into a small corner of Rosa’s room, wedged between the closet and the dresser. The shower couldn’t accommodate a big man; the sink had a continual drip. A small bag of makeup spilled out next to the faucet. Sam smelled toothpaste and peaches. Ah, the real woman.

Returning to the bedroom, he got down on his knees and looked under the bed. A durable, green suitcase shadowed a back corner. He dragged it out, plopped it on the bed and opened it.

One outfit, a change of underwear, two cans of cat food, two bottles of water, toiletries and an envelope with five hundred dollars.

No, wait.

Another envelope was pushed behind the money. A set of keys tumbled to the bed, and Rosa’s picture smiled out at him from identification belonging to one…Sandra Hill.

She was prepared for flight. If she had to run, all she had to do was crash open the door, shove her makeup back into the bag, nab the cat, grab the suitcase, and the police would have been left with little or nothing to prove that the mobile home had actually provided shelter for Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, aka Sandra Hill.

He closed the suitcase. His hand paused on the handle. What was he thinking? He needed to leave now. The feds could be pulling into the trailer park right this minute, and they would be anything but happy at a local cop tampering with evidence.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He was actually considering taking the suitcase, plus the Bible, and working on the case without the knowledge of, or permission from, his superiors. This was not his usual method.

One mistake and his pension and retirement fund would become a distant memory—not to mention the wear and tear on his conscience.

Sam replaced the suitcase. When he got back to the station, he’d plug Sandra Hill’s identity into his computer and find out what the connection was.

A couple of hours after a dismal breakfast of oatmeal—she’d eaten every bite and asked for more—they’d shoved a short blonde into Rosa’s cell.

So much for solitude. Just her luck to get arrested during the busy season.

“Name’s Marilyn Youngblood.” The blonde blew a bubble and sat down on the ledge as if it were a well-worn recliner. “Whatcha in for?”

Whatcha in for? Rosa wanted to laugh. Yeah, that’s right, a mere twenty-four hours in jail and here was a stranger acting as if sharing personal history was a given. “Speeding.”

Marilyn raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know they arrested people for speeding. They always just give me a ticket.”

“Must be a slow month,” Rosa acknowledged.

“They stopped my boyfriend for speeding.” Marilyn inspected her nails. “When he went to pull out his license, a joint fell out.” Her voice turned sarcastic. “I didn’t know he had a joint.” Her tone indicated that she was more annoyed about the prospect of her boyfriend not being willing to share than about being arrested.

“Bummer.”

“Yeah. So, this your first time in?”

“Yeah, you?” Rosa wondered if Marilyn realized that her blond wig contrasted ridiculously with her dark eyebrows.

“No, this is about my fifth. And all of them because of my boyfriend.”

Rosa had never spent time behind bars, but during her friendship with Eric, she’d learned how to spot undercover police officers. She had little doubt about this blonde’s true identity. Still, she knew the game, so she said, “I’d think about getting a new boyfriend.”

“I really should.” Marilyn inspected her nails again, then asked, “So where ya from? Me, I’m from Texas.”

Okay, so the woman was persistent. That was to be expected. “I’m from here.” Rosa recited her Lucy Straus history, pleased to note the disbelief in Marilyn’s eyes.

“No kidding. You don’t look Indian.”

“We prefer Native American. And I’m only half.”

The door creaked. The mumbler peeked in. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d escorted her to the cell. This man made the old Maytag repairman look energetic. Rosa didn’t understand his words, but Marilyn perked up. “Lunch.”

The mumbler marched them to the wide room outside their cell. The picnic table had been scooted away from the wall. Two bowls, with slices of bread covering their lunch’s identity, waited. Milk, from a miniature carton, was to be the drink of choice.

“Noodle soup,” Marilyn said disdainfully.

After a few minutes, Rosa sopped up the last of the broth, left the picnic table and went to look out the window. She could actually see a functioning washer and dryer but nothing else. A door next to the picnic table led to the outside. On the off chance, Rosa tried the knob.

“There’s no way out,” Marilyn said. “I’ve been here before. And the television you hear, that’s in the men’s area. They get to have noodle soup and watch reruns at the same time.”

Rosa leaned back against the wall.

“So is anybody coming to get you?” Marilyn asked.

“Nope.”

“Have you called anybody?”

“Nope.”

“When my uncle comes to get me, I could make a call on the outside for you.”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”

“Really, it’s no problem. I know what it’s like to be in here and not know what to do.”

“I know what to do.”

Marilyn leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Sandra Hill’s past history was a carbon copy of Lucille Straus’s, only Sandra had a few more years under her belt. When the photo of Sandra popped up on Sam’s computer screen, he sucked in his breath. He knew this woman, too. He’d picked her up for vagrancy more than once.

Rosa Cagnalia couldn’t have…No, she wasn’t capable of…She hadn’t fired the gun that killed Jimmy Handley; she’d been there with her boyfriend Eric Santellis. The big question was who had pulled the trigger: had it really been Eric Santellis as a jury had ruled or an outsider?

Rosa knew.

And Sam wanted to know what Rosa knew. He wanted some sort of justice for Cliff. His ex-partner was a stranger now, a broken man who’d first lost Jimmy and then a year later his wife, Susan, divorced him.

He had a daughter, too, who looked a lot like Jimmy. Sam hadn’t seen Katie since Jimmy’s funeral.

He punched in Lucy Straus as a keyword and watched as more than twenty hits returned. Lucy had been a busy girl since Rosa assumed her identity. She’d rented a home, gotten a job, joined a church and donated to charity.

Was this how she was spending her stolen fortune: on sporty cars and the needy?

Sam pushed away from his desk, reached for his keys and barked at Atkins to get hold of the Tribal Police and have them be on the lookout for the real Lucy.

His phone rang before he could leave.

Within moments he’d been assigned to sit watch on Rosa’s mobile home. Glancing at his watch, he figured he’d have time for a quick look for Sandra before he started surveillance.

If he found Sandra, there’d be questions.

If he didn’t find Sandra, there’d be even more.

An hour later, Sam was no closer to the truth.

The homeless loved the park at the edge of town. It offered a sanitary, somewhat overly fragrant, bathroom, which never had toilet paper; a duck pond which drew children who often threw away a half-eaten Happy Meal; and enough trees to provide shade for any vagrant who wanted to slumber.

Sandra Hill was not there.

After a few minutes of questioning, Sam knew that Sandra hadn’t been seen in over six months.

Exactly the amount of time Rosa had been in town.

One more piece to figure into the puzzle that was Rosa Cagnalia.

THREE

The Desert Caravan Mobile Home Park had a nightlife. Rosa’s neighbors to the left had propped open their front door, and loud rock music boomed. The mobile home to the right had at least three carloads of visitors. According to the profile the feds had already gathered, neither of Rosa’s neighbors could be termed “desirable.”

Three jogging-suit clad women walked the drive that circled the park. One had weights strapped to her wrists; another mimicked an animated member of a marching-band; and the last strolled in between as if just along for the gossip.

Rosa’s cat poked its head between the curtains for about the fifth time. Sam wondered if the feline was watching for Rosa’s return and dinner. It would be a long wait.

The bright orange sun faded to a murky tangerine and began its slow disappearance behind the horizon. Sam blinked away fatigue. This was not where he wanted to be. He wanted to be back at the precinct, digging through records and trying to figure out what Rosa Cagnalia was doing in Gila City. She hadn’t run far enough, that was sure. Gila City was too close to Phoenix. Rosa should have headed for North Dakota or Alaska, someplace far away from her roots and the scene of her crime.

Why was she hiding here?

It had to have something to do with that night and something Rosa had seen. If he remembered correctly, the bust and Jimmy’s murder had resulted in ten arrests, one that stuck: Eric Santellis. In the aftermath, Rosa’s description had hit the radio, and cops for miles went on the lookout. Sam remembered pulling over cars and shining flashlights into the interior of every vehicle driven by a dark-haired beauty.

Her picture still hung on one of the station’s bulletin boards. Sam picked up his thermos and refilled the semiclean cup. He made a face, drank it anyway and stared at Rosa’s home. Surveillance had never reached first place on Sam’s to-do list. He’d sat with his first partner, Steve Conner, back in the rookie days. Conner had been two months from retirement and counting the days. He’d also been a religious man and started each surveillance job with a prayer for both criminal and victim. They spent many long evenings waiting for movement; some hint that the evening hadn’t been a complete waste. Then, Sam got paired up with Cliff, and surveillance was still too long, stuck in limbo, with no proximity to a restroom. He had stared through the windshield at many a trailer. Some like this one, complete with repugnant neighbors.

In many ways, surveillance gave a man too much time to think. What Sam was thinking about now was Rosa, and her penchant for praying at the strangest times—like while getting shot at!

Sam had stopped praying during surveillance after he’d been assigned to Cliff. Although they went to the same church, Cliff didn’t seem to need God. Sam hid his light under a bushel. Then, after his mother died, the light died.

Yep, too much time to think, otherwise Sam wouldn’t be getting this melancholy.

A faint, unfamiliar sound interrupted Sam’s meandering thoughts, a tinkling in the distance. He sat up, listening, alert. Laughter came from the space to the right of Rosa’s. A man opened the door and stumbled out, holding up two beer bottles and laughing. Sam looked at Rosa’s trailer and then back at the man.

Putting the beer bottles on the front step the man kicked at a hissing cat.

Rosa’s cat.

Rosa’s cat outside!

Sam’s fingers twisted around the car’s door handle even as Rosa’s trailer shattered in a thousand pieces of aluminum and wooden paneling. A whoosh of sound billowed upward, swirling in flames and smoke to meld with the evening.

“What the—” Sam stumbled out of his car so fast he lost his footing and had to brace himself with one hand on the ground. Scrambling back inside, he picked up the radio and called dispatch. “This is Packard, I’m at 811 Elm, space 13. There’s been an explosion.”

The scent of heavy smoke and cinders scorched his nostrils as he hurried across the street. The sound of screams mingled with sirens. Fatigue disappeared as a gust of wind blew a piece of aluminum siding toward his car. Sam ignored the heat.

Rosa’s neighbor was facedown on the ground. Sam’s fist clenched as he hurried across the drive.

People poured out of the man’s trailer. Maybe it was the shock of having their next-door neighbor’s home blow apart, or maybe the drugs impeded conscious thought, but none of them had the presence of mind to deal with the fallen man. Sam dropped to his knees, pulling plastic gloves from his pocket and putting them on. A woman wailed and knelt beside him. Gingerly, after making an assessment of the injuries, he turned the man over. Blood gushed from a gash above the man’s eye, but Sam doubted it was serious. Head wounds made the biggest fuss for the smallest affliction.

“Is everyone else accounted for?” Sam plucked glass from the fallen man’s hairline.

“Yes, no, I don’t know,” the sobbing woman blustered. “Is Seth all right? He just stepped out for a moment. He wanted to—”

Through blistered, bleeding lips, Seth uttered, “Shut up, Margie.”

A fire truck arrived. Neighbors drifted back, mesmerized by the excitement but as obedient as schoolchildren when Sam herded them out of the way.

Sam watched the firemen take care of Seth. Only a fluke kept the houses next to Rosa’s safe. And the cat? Where was the cat? Too many people crowded the street. Sam set about separating potential witnesses from thrill-seekers.

The feds arrived and within moments were both talking into cell phones: their faces stone serious. A few moments of standing in front of them, waiting, told Sam they didn’t have time for him.

The neighbor, Margie, huddled on her front step watching the ambulance attendants. Sam’d come back and talk to her later, when her mind wasn’t distracted by the sight of her boyfriend’s vital signs being taken—when her boyfriend wasn’t telling her to shut up. Sam would play on her sympathy. After all, he’d been the Good Samaritan when Seth was moaning on the ground. She might not have made him for a cop.

Sam scanned the crowd, looking for the three exercisers. They might not even realize if they’d seen something, heard something. Anything. If statistics were to be believed, then whoever had set the explosion would want to view his handiwork. These women might be able to make identification. Unfortunately, if statistics were to be believed, then all three women would have different recollections.

His questions netted nothing. The women had been busy verbally dissecting a daytime soap. They’d greeted two park residents, and they’d noticed him. He, they specified, was the only stranger they’d noticed. Of course, maybe the man he wanted them to identify wasn’t a stranger to the Desert Caravan Mobile Home Park.

Every question he wanted to ask, every detail he wanted to pursue paled in comparison to what he already knew. A beleaguered woman trying to comfort her man. The man who had stepped outside with two beers.

The feds hadn’t been as rankled as Sam had expected. All in a day’s work for them, he guessed. Of course, they’d treated him like a gnat that needed to be swatted away. He might very well be the only Gila City police detective to have a stakeout literally blow up in his face. This would be hard to live down.