Kylie Brant - Hard To Tame

Settling back in his chair, Nick said, “Wouldn’t your time be better spent trying to find the guy who tried to kill her instead of going over all this information again?”

Imperturbably, Chatfield picked up his pen. “I’ve got uniforms canvassing the area. From the amount of blood he lost, I doubt he got far.” His gaze shifted to Sara again. “Ms. Jennings, let’s go over your statement again. You said the man didn’t ask for your purse, for money. Did he say anything?”

Her chest squeezed tight as she sensed the minefield ahead. “He said something, but I couldn’t understand it. I thought he was talking to someone else. When I turned around, I saw his gun.”

The detective scribbled a note. “Did you catch any of it at all?”

She manufactured a tired smile, strove to hide the tension in her body. “When I noticed the gun I didn’t pay attention to much else.”

“I think he mistook Amber for someone else. The name he called out was Sara. Sara Parker.”

Nick’s words sent a slice of panic tearing through her. She hadn’t guessed that he’d been close enough to hear the gunman’s words. It took effort to keep her features impassive as Chatfield raised his brows, looked at her. “Do you know who this Sara Parker is?”

She shook her head, but the detective didn’t look convinced. “She’s not a friend of yours, maybe? Someone who has an enemy? ’Cuz maybe this guy didn’t mistake you for her, after all. Maybe he thought you could lead him to her.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.” Her voice was firm, and her words were at least partially true. It had been a long time since she’d been Sara Parker. She’d left that identity half a country away, at least a lifetime ago.

“You’re on the wrong track,” Nick said bluntly. His fingers squeezed hers lightly, a reminder that he was holding her hand. “This guy wasn’t after anyone else. He thought Amber was Parker, and she was going to die for it.”

The detective made another notation on his pad. “Did he say anything else?”

Nick paused, glanced at Sara. When she didn’t answer he said, “I couldn’t make out everything. But I could have sworn I heard him mention Chicago.”

Chatfield lifted a shoulder. “Well, who knows. We’ll tug on those strings, see if they lead anywhere.” His gaze shifted to a point behind them, and he rose. “Excuse me for a minute, would you, please?”

Sara’s well-defined flight instinct was screaming at her, urging her to flee. She quelled it with effort. She couldn’t stay in New Orleans now, of course. Her story, her identity, wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. If anyone started digging they’d find that Amber Jennings from Detroit, Michigan, had died twenty years ago. And it wouldn’t be long before that discovery led to the next, far more risky one.

She didn’t intend to stick around that long. She’d be packed and headed out of the state within an hour of leaving the station. It wasn’t as though she lacked experience disappearing. She’d vanished dozens of times before.

But rarely had the thought left her feeling this desolated. And she didn’t want to examine the source of that feeling too closely.

“Are you warming up, chérie?” Nick’s voice sounded low and caressing in her ear, and she nodded, despite the chill that seemed to permeate her system. “Your hands are still like ice.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m not looking forward to a hot shower.”

“The detective should have enough for today. I’ll tell him I’m taking you home. You could always come back in tomorrow.” Nick rose and crossed the room before she could protest. She’d have to devise a way to dislodge him so she could make her escape. But for now, at least, she was grateful for a few moments to herself. The stress of the pretense she was engaged in, on top of her brush with death, was overloading a system already taxed by her unfamiliar reaction to Doucet.

“What the hell do you mean, there’s no trace of him?”

Sara jerked, startled by the note of menace in Nick’s voice. She turned to see him standing nearby with two police officers she didn’t recognize, and the detective. Chatfield ushered them all to the table. “The gunman hasn’t been found, Miss Jennings. I’m sorry.”

Her stomach dropped at the detective’s words. Moistening her lips, she said, “But…he was wounded. How could he have…”

“We think he may have had a car waiting nearby. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to find him. If he shows up at a clinic or hospital, we’ll get word of it.”

If. The word reverberated in her mind. And surely the gunman would avoid seeking medical attention for that very reason. Which made it all the more imperative that she vanish quickly. Completely. She’d escaped the hit man in Phoenix three years ago, hadn’t she? It was more comfortable to ignore the niggling inner voice that suggested maybe her escape that time had been sheer luck.

And maybe her luck was running out.

With a flick of his hand, Chatfield dismissed the officers and sank down in a chair opposite Sara, studying her gravely. “Miss Jennings, I want you to know there’s still a good chance we’re gonna catch this guy. I want you to go through a few books of mug shots, see if you recognize him. And I’ll follow up on that mistaken-identity lead, because it seems like we might have hit the jackpot on that one.”

Slowly, she raised her chin to look at him, dread circling in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I made a couple phone calls, checked some databases. There was a murder case about six years ago in Chicago, where the prime witness for the Justice Department disappeared. Her name was Sara Parker.”

Over the last half-dozen years Sara had become an accomplished actress, but it took all her abilities now to gaze steadily at the man, to fight the fear and panic welling up inside her. “So you think this guy today came hunting for that witness and almost killed me instead?”

Chatfield gave a slow nod. “It seems possible. But I don’t want you to worry. We’re giving this close attention, and we’ll have someone posted outside your apartment until we bring this guy in. Every effort will be made to guarantee your safety.”

She gave an unamused laugh. “You can’t really guarantee anything of the sort, can you, Detective? Nobody can.”

“We’ll do our best, ma’am.” He got up and crossed the room, came back carrying a stack of books. She didn’t bother telling him that his department’s best wouldn’t be enough. If the Department of Justice had failed so horribly, what could the New Orleans Police Department do? The answer was bleakly apparent.

Nothing.

Two hours later she flipped one of the books closed and rubbed her eyes. Chatfield looked up from his desk nearby. “Nobody familiar in there?”

“They’re starting to all look alike. Maybe we could finish this tomorrow.”

He got up and came to the table. “Sure. You’ve been through a lot today. I’ll have a uniform drive you home and I’ll tell Mr. Doucet you’re leaving.” Nick had stepped out to make some phone calls a few minutes earlier. It occurred to Sara that her departure couldn’t come at a better time.

She let the blanket slip from her shoulders, and concentrated on folding it neatly. “I’ll take the ride, but you don’t need to bother Mr. Doucet.”

The detective’s shrewd blue eyes observed her carefully. “Okay. I just thought…I guess I figured the two of you were together.”

“No.” Sara lay the folded blanket over the chair and reached for her purse. “We’re not together.”

The policeman who took her home went into her apartment ahead of her, checked it for intruders, then turned to go. The process reminded Sara of the precariousness of her position here, the need for a swift escape.