“You’re safe. Gila City’s finest are taking care of the shooters right now.”
She clamped her lips together, and Sam knew he’d get no information from her at the moment. He secured her in his backseat, radioed his location and returned to her car. Before stepping in, he glanced back. No movement. Sam liked challenges, and right now, the woman—who smelled like peaches and shot like John Wayne—promised to be an entertaining puzzle.
He straightened her car and turned off the ignition. Then, Sam exited the Mustang and started walking toward his vehicle. He had questions; she had answers. He doubted a liaison would be formed.
He opened the driver’s side door and slid in. “Ma’am, do you want to tell me why you took off?”
At first she looked the other way, and then with short, jerky motions she turned to glare at him.
All thoughts of getting the answers to his questions fled.
Watching her chin jut out in defiance, Sam felt a righteous anger himself. Because the three men had involved him in the exchange of gunfire, Sam thought he had every right to know why they’d been shooting at her.
Police stations always smelled the same: sweat, cigarettes and fear. Gila City’s was no different. The last time she’d been in one, the precinct had been painted this same pond scum green. Somewhere, someone must have found quite a sale on pond scum paint.
Lucy looked at the entrance and then scowled at the man at the desk. A few Christmas cards hung on the wall behind him even though the holiday was weeks past. The handcuff securing her left wrist to the bench clanked as she fidgeted. She’d already raised a welt trying to tug free.
Once, way back when she’d still been an emergency room nurse, they’d brought in a convict who’d needed more than twenty stitches because of how seriously he’d ripped his skin while trying to escape the handcuff.
She hadn’t understood back then; she understood now.
No way would she let them see the fear. If the fear showed, she’d have to accept it. Still, it roiled in her stomach, a constant reminder of a never-ending battle.
Fear wasn’t the only emotion battling for her attention. Guilt tapped her on the shoulder, reminding her that she’d shot a man today. Took aim and pulled the trigger.
Her teeth started to chatter, but she wasn’t cold.
The bench creaked as she shifted her weight. She could not stay here! Tentatively she inched upward. Was anyone looking? Twice she’d stood, and twice the officer at the desk had glared at her. As if she could do anything!
“I have to go to the bathroom.” She leaned forward, her words matter-of-fact. Too bad her heart didn’t beat as calmly. The duty officer picked up a phone and barked a few words. Moments later, a female—the same cop who had earlier searched her and taken her belongings—removed the handcuff and escorted her to a windowless, closet-size excuse for a restroom.
Anger burned while helplessness whispered threats of what if. The nausea rose, but she controlled it by closing her eyes. This time when she tried to find the words to talk with God, they came. Finally, she finished praying, opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.
Surprise, surprise, a normal reflection.
The female officer called, “You all right in there?”
“Fine, just washing up.”
“Hurry.”
She took her time, trying to control her breathing, and was still wiping the water from her palms when she stepped out and almost bumped into the officer who’d arrested her.
He’d taken off the glasses, giving her a good look at him.
She knew who he was!
The day took a turn for the worse. He stood, one foot tapping a restless beat of discontent on the blue-speckled tile. “Lucille Damaris Straus?” He looked at her and through her.
The female officer handed him the handcuffs and disappeared.
Lucy took a breath. “Look, either charge me with something or let me go.” She willed him to dismiss the charges, apologize, something, before she lost it.
He didn’t. Instead, as if this were a normal day, as if she were a typical citizen, he stated, “Nothing’s that simple, lady. I have some questions.”
“Look, I don’t have the answers. Give me the speeding ticket. I don’t care. I just want out of here.” She held out her hand, palm up. She almost smiled. It wasn’t shaking.
“You had a concealed weapon.” His voice rose with each word. “I doubt you have a permit.”
As if realizing he’d gotten too loud, he lowered his voice. “I want the names of the men shooting at us. You hit one of them, by the way.”
“In today’s society, a woman needs a gun.”
“I’d agree, if not for the fact that I was there to protect you. Where did you get the Beretta 21?”
“From my father.”
“And he is?”
Without flinching, she ground out, “Earl Warren Straus.”
He blinked and shook his head. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll be right back.” Before she could protest, the bench caught her behind the knees and guilt wrapped tightly around her.
She hated lying and resented that she’d become so good at it. Not good enough, though. When ole Officer Friendly, real name Sam Packard, ex-partner to Cliff Handley, a man she wanted very much to avoid, ran his search, nothing would surface—at least on any Earl Warren he could attach Lucy to. Then, he’d have even more questions. Cops hated to be lied to. They took it personally.
Before she had time to contemplate the absence of the handcuffs, he was back.
Lucy felt her control slipping. She had to get away from him. She stood. “Look, I’ve done nothing wrong. If you hadn’t pulled me over, I’d never have gotten involved in that exchange of gunfire. I could have been hurt!”
He leaned close, backing her up. “Care to tell me who they were?”
“You didn’t catch them? You said Gila City’s finest was taking care of them.” Her voice raised an octave.
His eyes scanned the room. Lucy followed his gaze and shut up. It was a small station. The last thing she wanted was to be the center of attention in a police station.
He guided her down some stairs, into a small office, and motioned for her to sit. The green plastic chair put her at a disadvantage. She saw that immediately. When he settled in his own scarred, wooden chair, he was able to look down at her instead of eye to eye. She gracefully tucked one leg under her and sat up straight.
His eyes glittered, as if he knew what she was thinking. He pulled some papers from his desk. “Name?”
She leaned her elbow on his desk, rested her chin on her palm, cocked her head and stated, “You know my name.”
“Humor me.”
She pulled her driver’s license from her back pocket and slapped it down. “Lucille Damaris Straus.”
He fit the license under a paper clip on his page. “Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You look older.”