Hiding His Witness (3 page)

She begrudgingly admitted Detective Truman wasn’t
pure
evil. After securing her in the back of his unmarked squad car, he’d taken control of the scene, giving orders and direction. For nearly two hours, she’d watched him with rapt fascination, the way he moved, the way he spoke. The medics, EMTs and other officers on the scene had looked at him with respect and listened to him out of deference, not fear.

He was confident and sure of himself. She was lonely and he made her feel protected. It was an unsafe combination.

Detective Truman had a disarming quality about him, a “come confide in me” face, and a strong, yet gentle nature. He didn’t slam her around or handle her roughly getting her in and out of the car. Giving her the sweatshirt and offering something to drink was nice, but she wouldn’t let that break down her defenses.

If she felt anything, it was the basic need for companionship, the loneliness festering in her chest that craved human contact and conversation. She didn’t own a phone and no one bothered to check on her in her apartment. How long had it been since someone asked how she was doing and truly cared to hear the answer?

She shook her head, throwing the brakes on that train of thought. She had more important things to think about. Like how she was going to get out of this situation.

Detective Reilly entered his office, closing the door behind him with a soft snick. He’d unbuttoned the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolled them to the elbow. It made for a casual, stylish look. She doubted he’d been going for that. He didn’t seem like the type to worry about fashion. Then again, she didn’t know anything about him except that he was a detective. She’d be smart to remember that.

Should she ask for a lawyer? Was this the scene where he played good cop with her, giving her a chance to come clean before he and his partner shook her down? Maybe she’d been watching too many crime dramas on television, but without a social life to speak of, her nights were spent alone with the paperbacks she bought for a quarter at the secondhand store or the shows she managed to watch on the old ten-inch television with rabbit ears and a converter she’d salvaged from the Dumpster.

“Just you again?” she asked.

He rubbed his hand across his stubbly jaw. “Would you prefer an audience?”

His sarcasm made her lips nearly twitch into a smile. Laughter. Smiling. She missed those things, too. She forced her face to remain stoic. The important part was never getting emotionally involved. “I need to go home.”

“You can go home. I’ll take you myself right after we talk. Just tell me your address.”

Carey clamped her mouth shut. If she lied, he might try to verify her address before releasing her. And she couldn’t tell him the truth. She didn’t want her information to go on record and create another thread for Mark to find her. Mark didn’t forget about ugly, unfinished business, and he definitely considered her ugly, unfinished business.

Detective Reilly sat down at his desk. “Ms. Smith, may I call you Carey?

Her first name wasn’t Carey and her last name wasn’t Smith. She didn’t care what he called her. None of the last seven aliases she had used for seven different jobs in seven different cities meant anything.

Detective Truman folded his hands and leaned forward. “Ms. Smith, at this time we’re not holding you as a suspect.”

Magic words. She stood. “I know my rights. I’m leaving.”

The warning look on his face froze her in place. “I said, at this time. If you want to change that, I can make arrangements for charges to be brought against you.”

Outrage flared in her gut. “I did nothing wrong.” Being a Good Samaritan had been a mistake. While she was glad to know that her humanity and compassion hadn’t been stripped away by the last eleven months, it had been a mistake to get involved.

“The man in the alley was stabbed in the chest.” He spoke with clinical detachment, no hint of emotion.

Carey’s stomach twisted. “Is he going to be okay?” An image of the attacker flashed in her mind’s eye and she shuddered, a chill running along her spine. She’d see his face every time she closed her eyes for months. Just what she needed—another living nightmare.

Detective Truman stood and circled the desk, leaning his hip on the edge, staring directly at her. A non-threatening posture, but one that showed interest, closing in on her. Nice psych trick. But she knew those little mind games. She’d played some of them. She wouldn’t believe Detective Truman gave a rat’s tail about her as anything but a witness.

“The victim’s in critical condition at St. Luke’s Medical Center. It’s important you share everything you remember.”

“I didn’t see anything,” she said, feeling as though she’d spoken those words a hundred times in the past few hours. She’d told Reilly the same thing at the scene and again on the drive to the police station.

He ignored her and pressed on. “The M.O. matches the pattern of several other cases we’re working.”

A tremor of fear coursed over her and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “What other cases?”

“I’m not permitted to discuss specifics at this time,” he said, his eyes holding a cold, distant expression.

Pieces and clips fell into place in a rush. The news programs warning the city. The knife and the alley. The time of night. He was talking about the case that had captured the attention of the police force, the mayor and the entire city. She had trouble taking a full breath as the impact of the realization socked her in the gut. “You’re talking about the Vagabond Killer. You think I fought the Vagabond Killer.”

Chapter 2

T
he Vagabond Killer had held the city of Denver and the surrounding towns in his grip of terror for months. No one had survived his attacks and no witnesses had come forward. People traveled in groups or stayed off the streets when they could, especially at night, his preferred time to attack.

Carey struggled for composure. If the attacker in the alley was the Vagabond Killer, was she in danger? Had he seen her face? She’d blasted him point-blank with pepper spray, but she wasn’t certain how long it impaired someone’s vision.

“At this time, we haven’t determined if the cases are related,” Detective Truman said.

Carey absently rubbed her finger over the bandage on her arm. If the Vagabond Killer had seen her, she was as good as dead. Staying off the grid was a struggle before the incident in the alley. Now she had two killers after her. She fought the urge to either laugh or cry, to release some of the terror mounting in her chest.

“You saw his face,” Detective Truman said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation. He spoke it as fact.

“I, um, I sprayed him with pepper spray.” She didn’t want to admit she’d seen his face. If it leaked to the media that a witness had survived and could identify him, it was the same as painting a bull’s-eye over her heart. “Did the man in the alley see him?”

“We don’t know. He isn’t up to talking. Why were you there?”

She shouldn’t answer his questions. Her sleep-deprived mind was only half functioning. She’d already revealed too much, and if she wasn’t careful, she would make a mistake and give him some way to identify her. “I don’t know.” It was a dunce answer, but the best she could come up with under the increasing haze of exhaustion and fear that clouded her mind.

An amused look crossed his face. “You don’t know? Maybe you have memory loss from your injuries and we should take you to the nearest hospital.”

Her chin shot up. She wasn’t going to the hospital. She was fine, and even if she wasn’t, she didn’t have valid identification or medical insurance. Those places asked too many questions and maybe someone would figure out who she was. If he was trying to mess with her emotions and throw her off kilter, he was doing a good job.

She mustered her courage and squared her shoulders. She was too smart to fall for his games. “I was walking home from work.”
Keep the story simple. Don’t give away too much.

He loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. “Where do you work?”

No record of her working at Tidy Joe’s would exist. She was paid under the table, in cash, and her boss would deny she worked for him. He didn’t want trouble from the Department of Labor. The answers to Detective Truman’s questions sank her deeper into trouble. Silence was best.

Detective Truman set his hand on her shoulder and her body temperature elevated. “Look, Carey. I can help you. But you have to level with me.”

His hand felt heavy on her shoulder, comforting in an odd way. The man was built like a solid rock, with intelligent, knowing eyes. Carey stared at him, weighing her options. The compulsion to tell him the truth was strong, but at the same time alarm bells shrieked in her mind. What was it about him that made her want to give away too much? She wouldn’t be taken in by a handsome man. This wasn’t about the Vagabond Killer or how much she was drawn to Detective Truman. This was about her personal safety.

He let his hand drop and she muffled a protest. She was clearly starved for affection when she craved a hand on her shoulder. It was the most physical human contact she’d had in months. Well, besides the Vagabond Killer tossing her around that alley, and that wasn’t anything to take comfort in.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach. She knew he wasn’t letting her leave until she told her side of the story. What difference did it make if she told him the truth now? She had to get out of Denver anyway. Once she was released, she’d go home, grab the emergency bag she kept locked in her closet, and be outside the city limits before the sun set on another day.

The fastest way out was the truth. “I work for Tidy Joe’s, the Laundromat about ten blocks from the alley.” She looked up at him to gauge his reaction. He had folded his hands on his knee and his face was consumed with interest, as if what she was telling him was the most fascinating information he’d heard that day. “I was walking home from work and I heard a noise. When I saw what was going on, I ran into the alley and sprayed the guy in the face.” It had happened fast and the exact sequence was blurred in her mind. “He tossed me around and I fought back. He ran when he heard the police sirens.”

“Tossed you around?”

Was it concern in his eyes? No, she wouldn’t believe it. “He cut my arm and I hit my head on the pavement.” Among other things. But if Detective Truman used medical attention as an excuse to delay her, the situation grew riskier. She had to make tracks.

Detective Truman stood and walked behind her. “Show me.”

In the short time she’d known him, she’d learned he didn’t give up. The man was relentless when he wanted something. Carey pushed back the hood of the DPD sweatshirt and touched her head, wincing at the sting. She couldn’t see the damage, but the pain told her it wasn’t good.

His fingers brushed her hair away from the injury. “Why didn’t you have the EMT treat you?” His voice was less stern than it had been a few minutes before.

“I forgot about my head,” she muttered. The burn in her arm and ribs had taken precedence over what she was sure would be classified as a nasty bump.

“Wait here,” he grumbled and left the room, returning with a first aid kit and a glass of water. He held up a packet of alcohol wipes. “May I?”

She nodded. It would save time to get it cleaned now. Who knew when she’d next find a safe place to rest or get medical supplies? “I could use some aspirin if you have it.”
And a cup of coffee. And a hot meal.
How long had it been since she last ate?

Reilly dug through the kit and tossed a sealed package of generic aspirin on the table.

“Could you open that for me? I’m a little shaky,” she said. Suddenly hyperaware of fingerprints, she took precaution not to touch anything. She didn’t think her prints would be in the police computer system, but she couldn’t be sure. Mark could have taken her prints from anything in the house and paid someone to put her in the system, falsely flagging her as a wanted criminal. He’d go that far to find her. How sophisticated and centralized were police computer systems?

Reilly dumped the two white pills on her open palm. Carey tossed them into her mouth, the bitter taste curling her tongue. She gripped the glass, the sleeves of the sweatshirt pulled over her hands, and washed the pills down, pouring the water into her mouth, careful not to let her lips touch the glass. Could he pull DNA from it? Or from the alcohol swab? She quelled the panic that rose in her chest. She was getting paranoid. He wasn’t going to identify her from DNA. She wasn’t in the system.

Reilly carefully moved her hair and dabbed at the cut on her head. She flinched at the pain and he murmured an apology. He was being kind and gentle, disarming her defenses. White Knight Syndrome, Carey diagnosed. He liked coming to the aid of a damsel in distress.

“Will you work with a sketch artist?” he asked.

She ignored the stinging as he cleaned her cut. “I didn’t see anything.”

Detective Truman turned her chair to face him and crouched down, putting his face close to hers. It was impossible not to notice how gorgeous he was, his dark hair and midnight eyes captivating. Her skin prickled with white-hot awareness.

“I don’t believe that. We need to get this guy off the street. You’re the first victim to see anything, the second to survive. The other guy’s not doing too well. He might not wake up from surgery.”

Tension snaked over her shoulders. She wished she could get involved, but she was already too deep into this mess, a mess not of her making. She’d done what she could for the man in the alley and now she had to go back to taking care of herself. If she didn’t, no one else would. “I can’t,” she whispered, her throat tight. His eyes pierced into her, and for a moment she thought he could see to her soul.

If he could, what would he see? A good person? A bad one? A spoiled brat who’d gotten what she’d deserved?

“If you’re worried about this guy coming after you, we can provide protection,” he said.

Carey wanted to scoff aloud at his naïveté. Maybe they could protect her from a serial killer who worked alone and in the dark of night. But police protection from Mark Sheffield, a man with nearly unlimited resources—nope, not possible. Mark probably had one or two officers in this district already in his pocket. “It’s not that.”