Читать книгу The Woman Most Wanted - Pamela Tracy - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

TRAFFIC ALWAYS MADE Police Chief Tom Riley want to jump out of his SUV and redirect vehicles until every lane ran smoothly. Sitting still, waiting longer than he deemed necessary for his turn to exit, annoyed him. He didn’t like it, didn’t want it and even his badge could do nothing about it.

Truthfully, his little town of Sarasota Falls seldom required a vehicle to suffer through one rotation from the traffic light. Today, however, was Founder’s Day and Tom was idling in front of Sweet Sarasota, the town’s bakery, far enough back to know it would take two turns before he got to hang a left.

He had something to do, it was police-related, and he was half-tempted to engage the siren.

The town’s hundredth year. Mayor Rick Goodman had gone overboard with marketing the event, at least in Tom’s opinion, and for the last few days the town experienced a boon as family, friends and past residents made their way back, all to celebrate.

Tom hadn’t participated in the pumpkin-toss competition and he hadn’t played horseshoes, although he’d wanted to, but he had ridden the celebration train this morning—as security.

Rah, rah. It had gone a mile down the tracks, turned and ended abruptly.

Tom had also worked late last evening and had personally driven five inebriated people home from the Hoot & Holler. None had been in a police car before. All except him had found it a joyous occasion. They’d even tried to tip him. Then, he’d also changed a flat, found a lost kid and received a proposal of marriage.

He hadn’t minded the flat. He hadn’t minded finding the lost kid, who’d just taken off with a family member who’d been more than surprised because she insisted she’d informed the family of who was going where and when. But Tom had been somewhat taken aback by the marriage proposal, which came from a woman more than forty years his senior. She’d been at the front-desk area at ten last night, holding a bag of the town’s finest chocolate chip cookies and wanting to thank the police for the good job they were doing.

He’d honestly told her it was the best offer he’d had all day, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t looking for the next Mrs. Riley. What he didn’t tell her was that his heart still had a hole in the center from the ex–Mrs. Riley.

Eighty-three-year-old Helen Williams had slipped her phone number in his hand and said should he ever make it to Arizona to give her a call.

He had a gut feeling she’d been at the Hoot & Holler, too. He’d taken a cookie and thanked her. Then, he’d followed her out the door, grateful, and watched her walk one block to a small motel.

He’d finished up his paperwork and gone home, and now at four the next afternoon, he was back on duty. Man, he’d be glad when Founder’s Day festivities ended. He much preferred tourists to people he shared a history with.

At least a dozen had asked about his ex-wife.

Two hadn’t known about Max’s death. He’d given them the condensed version. Partner killed in the line of duty; when they buried Max, Tom buried himself in work. The next thing he knew his house was empty and his wife gone.

Everyone agreed it was bad.

Didn’t matter. Tom finally got the green light, turned left and twenty minutes later was on the outskirts of town, where houses were few and traffic nonexistent. Most of the people who lived out here just liked open spaces. Some, however, lived in the middle of nowhere so they’d not be observed.

Case in point: Richard Welborn, who’d been arrested not quite a year ago and had taken off before his court date, leaving his mother alone in a rental house she could barely afford. She claimed she didn’t know where Richie was. But Tom knew she got checks from Richie.

Welborn needed to own up to his responsibility for driving drunk and putting an elderly woman in the hospital. She’d been through months of physical therapy and now almost a year of pain.

Tom drove by the Welborn house a few times a month, even though Richie’s mother shot him dirty looks and the sight of the house brought back memories he’d prefer to keep at bay.

He willed Welborn to show up so he could arrest him and never have to drive to this particular address again.

This time, being out on bond wouldn’t be an option.

To Tom’s annoyance, even this fairly remote section of Sarasota Falls had traffic.

The woman in the white Chevy ahead of him had Arizona plates. Maybe a relative of Helen Williams? Even from behind he could tell the driver was under thirty, with long blond hair. Something niggled at his subconscious, but Helen—who’d been friends with Tom’s grandmother—didn’t have children, so that guess seemed unlikely. Tom gave his head a shake. During the past few days, with so many out-of-towners, he’d paid close attention, driven by the motels and through neighborhoods, keeping his town safe.

Little Miss Sunshine blocked his way and needed to either speed up or pull over. He had more things to do before he could head home, and thanks to an unexpected speeding ticket he’d given out as he headed this way, he was now running behind.

He might get even further behind because something about the woman in the car tugged at his memory: might be the hair color, the shape of her head, or a gut feeling. Something.

He needed to pull this woman over.

Problem was, she wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Tags up to date: check. Speed limit observed: check. Tom looked at the time on his dashboard. Not even five. The Hoot & Holler didn’t get rowdy until about ten or eleven most nights, so she probably hadn’t just left. Then again, Founder’s Day changed everything. His officers, all ten of them, had been working overtime.

He wondered if he was on a fool’s errand. Tom didn’t for a moment believe Welborn might return to his last address, but in the name of good police work, the importance of paperwork and the promise he’d made to a victim, Tom intended to do his job.

His turn was still a far distance ahead. He checked the lane next to him, glanced in his rearview mirror and started to edge over for the pass as the center line had gone from solid to striped. He wanted to see the driver.

Simultaneously, the white Chevy increased its speed so he could no longer safely pass. He was in no mood for this. The driver continued to be a pain.

Problem was, he couldn’t decide what to do. Technically, she had the right of way. At first, she’d been going so slow that he figured she was looking for a turnoff. Now, she was slowing down and speeding up. Usually, this indicated someone under the influence. Since she hadn’t started this type of maneuver until she’d seen him, he was willing to hold off. Something was up with her.

He sped up more, thinking to get ahead of her.

He started to flip on his siren, but decided that was overkill, and he always tried to put rational thought before reaction.

Once the opportunity arose, he went for the pass, slowing to look at her as he was beside her.

She looked back.

And he almost lost control of the SUV as the image from a police wanted poster stared at him from the driver’s seat.

Rachel Ramsey in the flesh!

It only took a second to catch his breath. He loosened his death grip on the steering wheel and activated the siren with one hand while motioning for her to pull over with the other.

Her blue eyes widened in innocent surprise.

Innocent? Not a chance. He’d been hunting her from the moment his partner, Max, had been shot in cold blood during a convenience-store robbery right in Sarasota Falls.

She’d been the passenger, not the driver, back then. Her boyfriend, Jeremy Salinas, was a punk kid who’d been sent to Sarasota Falls to live with his aunt. The idea had been that maybe a small town would be good for him.

That hadn’t quite worked out.

Rachel hadn’t pulled the trigger, but according to the witness, she’d been the distraction.

Every bit as guilty.

Watching Rachel’s every move—no way was she escaping this time—he radioed in a 10-29 so his men would know where he was and what he was doing, then, not even giving her an inch, he motioned for her to pull over.

If she tried to lose him, he’d use his car as a weapon.

He cared that much.

She carefully coasted to a stop on the shoulder, apparently pretending to be nothing other than a law-abiding citizen.

How could Rachel seem this safe or look even remotely carefree? Obviously, she didn’t recognize him. Well, he’d enjoy nothing more than shoving a photo of his partner in her face. He’d make sure it was an eight-by-twelve complete with Max’s wife and kids. He intended to tattoo their likenesses on Rachel’s brain. He wanted to remind her of what she’d destroyed. She hadn’t just killed a cop, she’d helped erase a husband, son, brother...

* * *

HEATHER GRAVES DIDN’T feel at home in Sarasota Falls, New Mexico, and doubted she ever would. Already she missed her job working as a dental assistant in Phoenix.

She’d been safe there.

She wasn’t so sure she was safe here.

Friday, two full weeks ago, had been her last day of work. She’d spent the next few days packing up her parents’ house—she’d let it go too long, even paying rent on a home with no occupants—keeping only what had memories for her, like a train clock that had a different whistle for every hour. No matter where they lived, she’d grown up with the sound.

When she’d finished, she gave the house keys to the rental company and her own apartment key to her best friend, Sabrina. Sabrina thought Heather was foolish. Heather figured Sabrina was right.

Heather had been in Sarasota Falls ever since, renting a room at Bianca’s Bed-and-Breakfast, a quaint older house that came with a happy, somewhat mothering proprietress.

Yes, she was foolish, but she also liked to think of herself as brave. According to the lawyer who’d reviewed her parents’ will with her, she now owned a farmhouse in this town, one with the same tenant for the last twenty-five years.

Her parents had acquired the farm and acres around it when she was a little over one year old. Yet, to her memory, neither they nor she had ever stepped foot in Sarasota Falls. The lawyer had provided the name of the local company that handled collecting the rent as well as maintaining its upkeep. Apart from her parents’ basic details, the leasing office wasn’t much help.

Heather kept trying every avenue, though, because she had a lot of questions and knew of very few people who might have the answers.

She’d also gone out to the farmhouse and knocked on the door. No one answered. It looked empty; it felt unloved. It didn’t look like the type of house her city-loving parents would invest in. There was too much land, the location was too remote.

Bill and Melanie Graves had gone up in a helicopter to tour the Pacific coastline to celebrate their twenty-seventh wedding anniversary. She and her dad had planned it. Mom had said it was her dream. Dad’s dream, too, then.

Thirty minutes later, a sudden electrical storm had hit. No one on board survived.

In the space of minutes, she’d lost the only people who loved her, who applauded her, who thought she was the best thing that had ever happened. Period.

Everything was passed down to her: their belongings, both their cars and their secrets.

It was the secrets that had inspired the move, not the rental house. She might have been able to wrap her mind around them having property she didn’t know about. Might being the operative word. She’d have still investigated and tried to figure out why.

But soon after visiting the lawyer’s office, armed with their death certificates, she’d gone to her parents’ bank to close their account and was asked if she was aware that her parents also had a safe-deposit box.

No, she hadn’t been aware.

The steel drawer was long, hard and half-full. It contained the deed to the property in Sarasota Falls, her dad’s discharge papers as well as a bible, two birth certificates, a marriage license and two old drivers’ licenses.

She doubted the cop, who’d suddenly appeared behind her, would take her angst over family issues as a good excuse for her meandering style of driving. Surely, though, he had better things to do than pull her over for a warning.

She couldn’t shake the memory of standing in the bank’s vault, the safe-deposit box open in front of her, and finding the identification: the photos on the drivers’ licenses were of her parents.

The photos, not the names.