Pursuit of Justice. Pamela Tracy

he sure didn’t, couldn’t, support his actions. The grief spilling from the man explained why video cameras sometimes caught America’s Finest using extreme force. Cliff hadn’t seemed aware that he’d been choking a woman. All Cliff knew was that he’d found one of the people responsible for his son’s death.

      They were alone in a room that now reeked of hate and anger. Sam stared at Rosa for a long time, waiting for her to move, speak, do something! This woman was partly responsible for the ruination of Sam’s mentor, one-time partner, and full-time friend, Cliff Handley.

      How could she look so ordinary?

      She’d been there when Jimmy Handley, a rookie, a third-generation police officer, forfeited his life in the line of duty. Jimmy had been a mere Boy Scout when Sam teamed up with his father: a twelve-year-old carbon copy of his father. Jimmy had been sixteen when, thanks to commendations and promotions, Cliff had moved his family to Phoenix. Jimmy had been twenty-one when he put on his own badge and twenty-four when the coffin lid closed.

      The funeral had been just two years ago this month: a cold, gray January day.

      Sam took a deep breath. Contemplating what he had in front of him. Finding Rosa Cagnalia was tantamount to finding gold, fool’s gold. She didn’t look like a woman who could sit back while—

      Well, this certainly explained her marksmanship this morning. And that answered another question. Now that Sam knew who she was, it explained who the men in the parking lot were. The Santellises. How had they stumbled upon her on the same day Sam had? But since she was supposedly on their side, why were they shooting at her?

      And Cliff being in Gila City was just as coincidental. Just three weeks ago, Cliff retired and returned to his hometown. He used his limp—he’d been injured striving to bring justice to those responsible for Jimmy’s death—as a crutch and bore no resemblance to the once-proud police officer who had bagged Walter Peabody.

      Luck had turned her back on Rosa Cagnalia and dumped her in Sam’s lap. Of course, in many ways, it was her own fault. What was she doing in Gila City: Cliff’s hometown and a known haunt of the Santellis family?

      Her chair was still flush with the wall. Her hair hung in her face, and she didn’t move a hand to pat it back into place.

      “You’re Rosa Cagnalia?” Disgust accented his words. How could someone so beautiful be so flawed?

      She flinched and unclasped her grip on the rim of the chair, folding her hands in her lap. “No.” The word was directed at her hands. She wove her fingers so tightly together that the skin turned white, and then she looked up at him and whispered, “You have to let me be Lucy.”

      “It’s too late for that.”

      Her eyes blazed, and for a moment he remembered what had attracted him.

      “Do you realize that by finding me, you’ve signed my death warrant?”

      “You did that yourself, lady. You chose your way of life a long time ago.”

      “Oh, were you there?” She glared at him. “You know the choices that came my way?”

      He frowned. “I’ve read the files.”

      Atkins poked her head in. “You need to back off, Sam. News travels fast. The feds want her.”

      “I brought her in.” He stared at Rosa. No way would he be delegated to gofer by special agents. This was his turf. He was responsible.

      “I’m sure they’ll thank you.”

      He thought for a moment that the words came from Atkins, but they hadn’t, and he was reminded why he had thought Rosa might be a cop. Wisecracks rolled off the tongues of those in blue, partly in jest, and partly as a shield from a daily routine that took them into the armpit of Gila City. Female officers tended to verbally raise their shield a bit more than Sam was used to.

      Atkins added, “Sam, I mean it.”

      “It’s my case.”

      By all rights, he should hate this woman. She had been there when a drug bust spiraled so out of control that Cliff was emotionally crippled, and his son was killed.

      She had been there, and she had left without making any attempt to help Cliff or save Cliff’s son.

      Funny way for a one-time registered nurse to act.

      If she had shown compassion, Jimmy Handley might still be alive and Cliff would wear his badge with pride and determination instead of with grim need. Instead Rosa Cagnalia stepped over the bleeding body of Jimmy Handley, picked up a bag full of money, and in the chaos of the moment, managed to disappear.

      Atkins rolled her eyes and backed out of the room. Sam looked at the two-way mirror. So the feds wanted Rosa. Having the FBI take over a case was something like inviting the class bully into your backyard. If you stayed, you got beat up. If you left, he destroyed your yard. Sam didn’t relish turning Rosa over to them, but she deserved whatever she got.

      He had nothing to lose by washing his hands of this woman.

      And nothing to gain by hesitating. So why was he? He flipped the handcuffs from his belt. “Stand up.”

      She stood, muttering under her breath.

      “What did you say?”

      “I need someone to feed my cat.”

      “Your cat! Lady, do you realize the trouble you’re in?”

      “You keep reminding me.”

      “Your cat is the least of your worries.”

      She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

      “Ms. Cagnalia, surely there’s someone in this town who you can contact to feed the—”

      “No, there’s no one. I didn’t make any friends. I was afraid to.”

      She meant it. Her face was as serious as a funeral director and just as pale.

      “My cat needs food. There’s a key hidden under the garden gnome behind my trailer.”

      He waited for a please. It didn’t come.

      Reluctantly, he left her with Henry, the duty officer who handled admissions. Feed her cat! Of course, he’d do it. She’d just given him permission to enter her home. He’d probably have to search long and hard for the cat food.

      He could hardly wait.

      

      Rosa awoke to more pond scum green. On television they always showed rickety bunk beds and open toilets, but Rosa’s cell didn’t look that domesticated. Last night, after hours of questions, when they’d finally shoved her in here, she’d been too tired to care.

      Gingerly pushing up from the ledge she’d been sleeping on, Rosa tried to focus on what all had happened. She gingerly touched the back of her neck. A dull headache and a slight sore throat remained a souvenir of Cliff Handley’s wrath. It could have been worse.

      Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the dumb places to give in to the itch of a lead foot! She deserved to feel the bitter tightness when she swallowed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d given a cop permission to enter her trailer. She didn’t dare hope he’d simply feed Go Away and leave, that simply wasn’t a cop’s nature.

      But she had no one to ask. She’d been careful at work to build up a reputation as a loner. She liked her coworkers too much to put them in danger. She’d been even more careful at church to distance herself and that hadn’t been easy. She dropped off casseroles at potlucks, crocheted pale pink or blue blankets for baby showers she didn’t dare attend, anonymously donated money for catastrophe relief, and all the while managed to convince the friendly folk of the Fifth Street Church that she was too busy to get involved more than a church service hello.

      She didn’t dare call Wanda Peabody.

      She’d been so careful, except for the cat.