Читать книгу The Woman Most Wanted - Pamela Tracy - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

HEATHER GOT THE feeling that while everyone—everyone, that is, except Chief Riley—knew they’d made a mistake, no one wanted to admit it.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

No one wanted to be the one to admit it and then try to convince Chief Tom Riley he was wrong.

She didn’t get the idea they were afraid of him. More, they were afraid for him.

“I can see why he mistook her for Rachel,” one of the cops muttered. The officer standing next to him nodded.

“I’d avoid Tom for the rest of the day,” another officer advised.

Heather wished she could avoid him, but he stood in the middle of the fingerprinting room, leaning against a counter and grilling the tall officer who’d taken her prints. “Find something,” he ordered.

Luckily, the police officer who’d already introduced himself to her as Daniel didn’t even blink. He just shook his head slowly.

Then came a few moments of waiting: the cops waiting for some action, Daniel waiting to be believed, Heather waiting for someone to yell “April Fool’s” and Tom waiting for what he would never hear because Heather was not Rachel.

“Find something,” Chief Riley repeated, leaning against a counter and staring at her image on the computer. He seemed mesmerized by her likeness.

He was tall; she hadn’t noticed that at first. His hair was a slightly curly and as blue-black as the crows that came to her backyard looking for food and making unnecessary noise.

The same color as her father’s, actually, but the knowledge didn’t encourage a connection of trust.

He looked at her now, but his eyes weren’t as piercing as back when they were on the interstate and he’d pulled her over.

Funny how she’d noticed his dark eyes throughout this whole outrageous venture. They’d gone from shock to hate to murderous. Now they were cloudy, as if some door had closed on an emotion so near to the surface he couldn’t control it unless he locked it away.

“It’s her,” he said. “It’s Rachel, and we can’t let her walk away. We might never find her again.”

“Tom, I agree, physically, in looks, you picked up Rachel.” This cop, the kid who’d retrieved her purse back on the interstate, was the one speaking.

The cop who’d introduced himself as Officer Guzman said, “You didn’t have a warrant, Chief. No other markers, besides the physical resemblance, support your arrest. Electronically, I’m finding no criminal history. Live scan doesn’t have her in their system. We can’t charge her.”

Frantically, Heather tried to think of what to say. Part of her was amazed they were talking so openly in front of her. If the chief of police had made a mistake, why weren’t they having this conversation behind closed doors. When she got a lawyer... No, she wouldn’t need a lawyer. If she needed a lawyer, she could use this conversation in her defense.

“I—”

They stopped talking and looked at her.

Chief Riley frowned, his steely gaze accusing her, making her feel guilty.

“I was only speeding a little,” she squeaked.

The man flinched a bit. Kid Cop managed to portray a hint of compassion—a blink, a slight contortion of his face that was almost a smile—and then he was back concentrating his attention on Tom.

“Look at her,” Chief Riley growled. “Unless Rachel Ramsey has a twin we don’t know about, that’s her. No mistake. There was a witness when Max died. Let’s do a lineup. Bring the convenience store clerk in, also. I guarantee he’ll confirm it’s her. That’s enough probable cause.”

Kid Cop didn’t say anything. When Heather glanced around the room, suddenly the other officers got busy as if there was so much to do in a room without desks, without general everyday conversation, without hope. Finally, an older man, not in uniform, walked over and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “We’ll do an appearance bond for the speeding and see what we can find before the court date. You’ll have at least seventy-two hours to prove you’re right.”

“Seventy-two hours, my foot,” Chief Riley growled again. He was glaring at Kid Cop, who already had a sheepish look on his face. “This isn’t a bailable offense, is it?”

Kid Cop shook his head.

“Which means,” Tom continued, “with an appearance bond, I don’t have enough time to do squat, but it gives her enough time to disappear again.”

“I won’t,” Heather protested, finding her voice. “I’m not guilty of anything, and there’s no need for me to disappear.”

Tom returned to growling. Kid Cop started to nod, but instead gestured to the man coming through the door.

An elderly man wearing a blue cambric shirt tucked into worn jeans with scuffed brown work boots took one step forward. “I’m Father Joseph McCoy,” he said to Heather. “I understand you might need a bit of help.”

Though surprised at the clergyman’s casual attire, Heather felt relief, pure and welcoming. She opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come.

By his stance and the way the cops took him in as one of their own, it was clear he’d been here before. But it wasn’t Heather, the room, or the bunch of cops that Joe looked at. It was Chief Riley.

“Who called him?” Tom demanded.

Joe took another step into the room, running a hand through his hair. “Tom, it’s good to see you.”

They were on a first name basis?

The other cops, spectators really, started to shuffle from the room. Judging by the expressions on their faces, she wasn’t the only one feeling relief.

“Miss Bianca called me,” Joseph McCoy said. “Someone told her that her boarder had been arrested. Bianca seems to think it’s taking a bit too long for you to realize your mistake and release her.” He glanced at Heather and smiled; it went all the way to his eyes. There was a sadness there, though, and Heather wondered what had put it there.

One of the cops muttered, “Trust Miss Bianca.” He was the first to back out of the room. None of the others focused on her, not really. They were focused on Chief Riley as they exited.

If she’d have been anywhere else, Heather would have laughed out loud. It just figured. Even though she’d been the one harassed and accused, it was Chief Riley who needed saving.

* * *

HE’D ACTUALLY VOUCHED for her! Used the word innocent to describe her and claimed that Bianca Flores knew there’d been a mistake.

Tom didn’t know how Bianca could be so sure, and Father Joe was no better, siding with a woman who coldheartedly assisted her boyfriend in murder. Tom watched as Father Joe led the woman going by the name of Heather Graves to his old white truck. Her blond hair swayed in the wind. She held herself stiffly, arms folded as if fighting off a chill that didn’t exist—at least not in Sarasota Falls, New Mexico, in October. They were going to fetch her car. The tow company had retrieved it, the order hadn’t been canceled.

Unlike Tom’s arrest.

Staring out the window at their retreating figures, Tom felt somewhat like a little boy watching as someone important disappeared from his life. Years ago, that someone had been his real father—who hadn’t been much of a father at all. Tom barely remembered him.

Then, five years ago, it had been Max dying.

Later, it had been his wife, who complained that Tom was married to his job. That it took him three weeks to get around to calling her and suggesting he still loved her and—

She’d hung up, and he really hadn’t thought of her again, until this business with Rachel had come up.

Rachel would literally disappear, Tom had no doubt. Heck, maybe this time she’d become a teacher in Miami or a lawyer in Nashville. She was good at reinventing herself.

Joe, well...Joe wouldn’t disappear. Since Max’s death, Father Joe had faithfully—at least once a month—either stopped by the police station or phoned. He always wanted to take Tom out to breakfast, lunch, or even invite him to some sort of social activity. In Tom’s mind, Father Joe was someone to avoid, someone who made Tom worry about choices and how everything came together only to eventually fall apart.

“Really,” Oscar Guzman said, “she might not be Rachel.”

Tom shook his head at the only man brave enough to come back to the room. Oscar’d only joined the force last year, but he’d been FBI before that and a marine even before that.

He was, besides Daniel, the only officer willing to tell Tom he “might” be wrong who still, in his naïveté, had a wide-eyed optimism about people.

Tom had been that young once.

“How can you say that with such certainty?” he asked. Turning to Daniel, he added, “And, judging by the way you’ve been banging on the keys of your computer, it’s looking like Heather’s fingerprints are new to the system.”

“No history,” Daniel agreed.

“Has anyone contacted the convenience store clerk for identification? I don’t care if it starts a media storm. I want it done.” Tom hated the way his words sounded—desperate, human, uncertain.

“It’s not the media that’s kept us from doing more,” Daniel said. “It’s the evidence, or should I say lack thereof. Nevertheless, I emailed him her photo. Now we’re waiting for a response.”

“Call him.”

“I did.” Daniel sounded a bit exasperated. “He didn’t answer. Even if he says it’s not—”

“You haven’t proven Heather is not Rachel.” Tom’s words weren’t an accusation, but were simply a statement of fact.

“And you haven’t proven she is.” Daniel looked a little guilty, as if he personally was at fault. But it wasn’t Daniel’s fault that Rachel had avoided being fingerprinted. She’d gotten lucky, more than once, possibly had gotten lucky again today...except now they did have the woman’s, Heather’s, fingerprints.

Tom glanced out the window and watched Father Joe shut the passenger side door and walk to the driver’s side of his truck. Before opening his door, he looked up and his eyes locked with Tom’s.

Father Joe was getting old, soft. And right now, he looked a little distressed. Not a look Tom had seen on Father Joe.

“I wonder why Father Joe is getting involved?” Daniel said.

“I’m going to find out,” Tom promised. What Tom wanted to know, more than anything, was why Bianca had called Joe instead of coming herself. She’d never been one to shy away from a sticky situation, and apparently she liked Heather.

One thing Tom couldn’t argue, Joe was the kind of preacher who greeted everyone as if they were already friends and wouldn’t know a foe if the person outright threatened him. That didn’t mean Joe wasn’t smart, though. The friend-rather-than-foe attitude had alleviated more dangerous situations than Tom’s badge and gun ever had.

Joe’s presence had diffused this one. The other cops went back to work as Joe drove Heather away from the station, and Tom turned to head back to his office.

“Think of it this way,” Daniel said. “In my quest to prove she’s not Rachel, I just might prove she is. Except for that height thing.”

Tom wished he didn’t have to listen to logic. He wanted time alone, time to think, time to look into just when Heather Graves arrived in town, where she was working and what friends she’d already made.

“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” Daniel complained.

“I’m listening,” Tom murmured, watching as Joe and Heather disappeared into traffic.

Tom started to get irritated but then noticed how intently Daniel studied his computer. “You got something?” Tom finally asked.

“I do,” Daniel said. “There’s quite a few things to think about when it comes to this case. Let’s face it. The resemblance between Rachel and Heather, it’s uncanny.”

“They have to be related.” Tom walked over and stood behind the captain.

Daniel nodded. “That’s what we need to investigate.” He hit a few more buttons and Heather’s photo shrunk to half the page. Then, Daniel arranged the grainy shots of Rachel—the most recent they had, taken at the convenience store the day Max died—next to Heather. After a moment, he shrunk the two photos so they took up a third of the screen. Then, photo after photo appeared in the center box, hundreds, before finally, one froze in place. The woman was blonde, but it looked poorly dyed. Her hair was short and jaggedly cut, but there was something about the turn of the head, the way the older woman’s chin jutted out, the somewhat pointy eyebrows.

“This, my friend,” Daniel said, as if Tom needed a reminder, “is Rachel Ramsey’s mother.”

“Was,” Tom reminded him.

Diane Ramsey had a fairly extensive rap sheet and Tom had followed her through Sarasota Falls’s underbelly, sometimes to arrest her, but most often to keep an eye out for her daughter. Diane had changed her hair color weekly, wore wild clothes, although nothing cosmetic could hide her battle with drugs and alcohol.

Rachel Ramsey had been a pretty girl. It was anyone’s guess if she took after her mother.

Daniel worked his magic with the computer, going through dozens of photos of Heather Graves, who had a web presence. The officer enlarged, shrunk, stretched, sharpened. Then, he said, “This one.”

“Got it.”

“Yes!” And the image of an older woman appeared onscreen, again blonde, but not poorly dyed, this lady had a tired but happy smile on her face.

Finally, satisfied with his findings, Daniel said, “Heather’s mother, taken from her driver’s license. Now we have Heather’s photos and fingerprints, and I’m sure Diane’s DNA is still in the system. We should run a comparison.”

Tom agreed. “Anything to get us closer to catching a killer.”