Pamela Tracy - The Woman Most Wanted

He half turned in the booth, held up his cup and said, “Maureen, more coffee.”

“Comin’ up.”

After he’d downed half the fresh cup, he said, “A little over five years ago, my partner was Max Stockard. He was ten years my senior, and when I started on the force, he mentored me. After a few years, he became my partner. More than the academy, Max taught me what policing was.”

He stopped. His dad had been a plumber; his mom, a librarian. Both were amazed that he became an officer of the law, proud, but kind of terrified. There were no police officers in the family on either side.

“I never met anyone as brave as he was. He made me want to be a better man, a better cop. Max died...” His voice cracked. He swallowed, quickly, and went on, “In the line of duty. Rachel Ramsey, more or less, caused his death by pretending to be hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a car accident during a chase. She fell out of the passenger side door and lay there, just lay there. Max thought she was hurt. When he hurried to help, her boyfriend shot Max, point-blank.”

Heather again seemed like she wanted to leave. “And I look exactly like her?”

“Yes. She disappeared that day and hasn’t been heard from since. You’re my first lead.”

“I’m not a lead. I’ve never heard of her until today.”

“I want to believe you. Really I do. What I’m about to ask will sound a little strange, but hear me out.”

She didn’t say anything, but drew back, looking like there wasn’t a chance she’d help him.

“I want a swab of DNA, to compare against Rachel’s mother’s. And I’d appreciate something personal from your mother. Did you keep a hairbrush or—”

“Why?”

“I’m betting you must be related to the Ramseys somehow. For that matter, let’s get something from your father, too.”

To Heather’s credit, she didn’t pretend surprise or indignation. “And if I am, what does that prove?”

Tom opened his mouth, tried to say something and shut it again. She was right. What did it prove? It might prove that Heather Graves was related to the Ramseys, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Rachel. Unless Heather was a master liar and knew where Rachel was.

His eyes narrowed, but before he could say another word, she said, “No,” scooted out of the booth and headed toward the door. He started to follow, but Maureen plopped his bill down.

He wound up paying not only for his hamburger and coffee, but also for her food and Father Joe’s.

It had been that kind of day.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SUNDAY WAS TOM’S day off. Didn’t keep him from stopping by the office to see if Daniel or anyone else had anything new to report. They did and didn’t.

“Lucille Calloway died last night,” Oscar Guzman said. “My wife went over this morning and took a meal. The kids are taking it pretty hard even though it was expected.”

Lucille could have had a few more years if Richard Welborn hadn’t slammed his car into hers.

“I’ll find time to go over today,” Tom said. “Anything else?”

Oscar grinned and nodded. “My aunt says to tell you that Heather isn’t Rachel Ramsey. Seems Bianca noticed the resemblance right away, but, and this is straight from Bianca’s lips, Heather is much too short to be mistaken for Rachel.”

Tom rolled his eyes. More than anything, he wished it was the other way around, that Heather was taller than Rachel. Then he could have argued that she’d grown.

But she’d been wearing tennis shoes yesterday—not enough heel. Combine that with his little talk with her last evening, and he knew he needed to be looking at a different scenario. Still, Tom was frustrated that he hadn’t gotten around to speaking to Bianca. “You get anything else?”

“Yes. Bianca says that Diane Ramsey had a sister. She wonders if perhaps Heather is some sort of cousin to the family.”

Again, this was information Tom knew. “Diane Ramsey had two full sisters that we know of,” he replied. “They came for the funeral.”

“You talked to them?”

“In detail. Neither were surprised their sister Diane was dead. Both were surprised she’d lived as long as she did. Both said she’d had no business raising a child.”

“Rachel was in foster care for a while, right?” Oscar asked. “Any chance she lived with either of her aunts?”

“No—one aunt didn’t have children and clearly didn’t want any. The other had two boys and said no way did she want Rachel’s influence around her sons.”

“Rachel was that bad?” Oscar queried, one eyebrow raised.

“No,” Tom said. “But Rachel did hang around a rough crowd. Takes a special person to guide a young teen into the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of choosing better friends.”

Oscar didn’t shoot back with another question. Unusual for the officer who’d left the fast track of a career with the FBI to protect and serve the small town of Sarasota Falls. Of course, he’d fallen in love with someone here and chosen to be married to her instead of married to his job. Not once had Oscar bemoaned changing his career path. Instead, the man was happy. Tom didn’t think he’d ever been that happy.

After a moment, Oscar said, “You know, this is the first time you’ve ever talked about Rachel Ramsey without snarling.”

“I don’t snarl.”

Oscar only smiled and asked, “But Rachel didn’t kill Max, exactly. Right?”

“She didn’t pull the trigger. Her boyfriend did.”

“How old was Rachel when all this happened?”

“Rachel would have been a teenager, just. She was retained in third grade.”

“And back then Heather Graves would have been, what, early twenties?”

“And in college. Heather’s twenty-seven now. Rachel should be twenty-five.” The same age as Max’s youngest son. “Excuse me.” Tom stood, feeling sympathetic. He’d felt it last night, too, when he’d made his way from the table at the diner, stopped just on the other side of the cash register and watched Heather hurry to her car.

He needed to get close to her, but he didn’t know how.

* * *

HEATHER HAD NEVER been one to have vivid dreams, but since her parents’ death, she’d had more than her share. Last night’s had been a combination. The beginning had made her keep her eyes closed tight with her fist in her mouth to keep from crying.

Her mom and dad had been in her dreams, doing what they did best. Mom was in the living room sterilizing and putting away toys, finding items that had been left behind by the children she cared for, and doing it all to the music of Pink Floyd. Heather used to dance with her mother. Her father was outside mowing the lawn, making sure the sprinklers worked, and adding more tools to his shed. Man, he’d loved those tools. The thought of someone using her dad’s things hadn’t bothered her until now, as she was finally starting to accept that the secrets her parents had kept weren’t just about their identities, but hers, as well.

She opened one eye. The clock face read six. Way too early to get up, so she lay there in the half sleep that usually meant she’d have a headache when she finally did crawl out of bed. So, obviously, she’d have to crawl out of bed and take charge of today, make decisions, do something.

When she’d arrived in town, she’d thought about taking it slow, observing, but after last night, Heather was more than curious. She had two options: the first was to go to the house, but it was a rental and she didn’t want to bother the people living there. Plus, her attempt to check it out yesterday had ended in disaster. Even now, she could feel the hard cement under her body as the police officer handcuffed her and...

She forced herself to stop thinking about yesterday. The memory would only slow her down, and she had things to do.