Pamela Tracy - Pursuit of Justice

“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.

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.”