He didn’t even blink. “Name?”
“I’ve told you my name. Three times.”
Detective Samuel Elliot Packard, Robbery Homicide Division, tapped his pen on the form. “Place of employment?”
She knew most of his life story: when he’d graduated, when he’d served time in the military, when he’d joined the police force, when his mother died, when he’d broken up with his last girlfriend, and when he’d stopped attending church.
“Liberty Cab Company.” She barely managed to answer his question. Of all the officers who might have pulled her over, this one could cause more trouble than any other. She should have recognized him back when he first pulled her over, but the glasses hid his face.
If he still looked like his earlier photos, she’d have floored it when he started walking toward her car. Of course, she wasn’t prepared for a detective to be making a routine traffic stop. Just her luck, a slow day in Gila City and she finds a detective looking for something to do.
She never should have stopped, at the abandoned store or on the street. She never should have taken the risk of letting him see her without her hat and glasses.
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