Pursuit of Justice. Pamela Tracy

a guy might pay out major bucks for a vehicle and live in a dive, but few women seemed to prefer first-rate wheels to a first-rate address.

      He had searched the interior of her car. Nothing, not even a gum wrapper. Rosa kept no spare change, no tissues, not even a map of Arizona for the glove box. The Owner’s Manual for the Ford lay in the glove box along with a slim wallet carrying more Lucille Straus identification. The spare tire, a tow chain and jack were in the trunk. She could walk away from the vehicle, and no one could trace it to her—especially since a quick search showed it still registered to a guy she worked with at Liberty Cab Company.

      Not even a breeze tried to interfere as he snagged the key from the garden gnome. She’d picked a residence—it wasn’t a home—where neighbors were not neighborly, where lawns were replaced by rock, and where a cement wall kept the world at bay.

      As Sam put the key to the mobile home, he wondered if the inside would be as barren as the outside. He pushed the door open. The cat yowled and brushed against his foot.

      “Back.” His word didn’t affect the cat. Judging by the torn ear and jagged scar that zigzagged down to its eye, not much should affect this cat. A feline tail shot straight up in the air as its owner circled Sam’s legs. He should have gotten the feline’s name from Rosa.

      “Back, Cat.”

      It was a rectangular box, encased with paneling. And even with the overfed black-and-white cat, who seemed to think that continual rubbing against pant legs was an expected greeting, the place was a residence not a home.

      Room one: a combination living room-kitchen. Inside the refrigerator was a six-pack of diet soda and two apples. Outside the refrigerator she had taped a scripture:

      Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.

      The kitchen table didn’t look as if it had been used. Not even a crumb graced the surface or the floor. There was also a couch, a television and a coffee table. Next to the couch was a basket of sewing. Picking up the sampler, he realized that Rosa seemed addicted to the words on the refrigerator. She was halfway finished with a cross-stitch bearing the same verse.

      No knickknacks gathered dust. No pictures graced the walls. Sam opened two cupboards before finding hard cat food and filling the bowl on the floor.

      The cat quickly lost interest in Sam and became devoted to its food.

      Room two: a bedroom-bathroom. Her bed was made, no surprise. The closet held only a few outfits. If he had figured anything about the woman from her mannerisms, he figured that lack of clothes probably was a real sacrifice. She had a dresser, but only one drawer was utilized. There were a few piles of library books, stacked neatly on top of the dresser. A phone book and well-worn Bible were on the nightstand.

      Sam picked up the Bible. Flipping to the personal pages, he found the dedication page.

      Presented to: Lucille Straus

      By: The Gila City Fifth Street Church.

      On: The occasion of her baptism, November 12^th

      She’d been baptized just two months ago at Cliff’s old church. At one time, it had been Sam’s church, too. Frowning, Sam wondered if he needed to consider that prayer he’d witnessed earlier as a true plea for divine intervention. Or, was there another reason Rosa attended a church where Cliff and his family were well-known even if they had seldom crossed its foyer in more than a decade.

      The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d never pulled her over.

      The bathroom was stuffed into a small corner of Rosa’s room, wedged between the closet and the dresser. The shower couldn’t accommodate a big man; the sink had a continual drip. A small bag of makeup spilled out next to the faucet. Sam smelled toothpaste and peaches. Ah, the real woman.

      Returning to the bedroom, he got down on his knees and looked under the bed. A durable, green suitcase shadowed a back corner. He dragged it out, plopped it on the bed and opened it.

      One outfit, a change of underwear, two cans of cat food, two bottles of water, toiletries and an envelope with five hundred dollars.

      No, wait.

      Another envelope was pushed behind the money. A set of keys tumbled to the bed, and Rosa’s picture smiled out at him from identification belonging to one…Sandra Hill.

      She was prepared for flight. If she had to run, all she had to do was crash open the door, shove her makeup back into the bag, nab the cat, grab the suitcase, and the police would have been left with little or nothing to prove that the mobile home had actually provided shelter for Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, aka Sandra Hill.

      He closed the suitcase. His hand paused on the handle. What was he thinking? He needed to leave now. The feds could be pulling into the trailer park right this minute, and they would be anything but happy at a local cop tampering with evidence.

      He felt a twinge of guilt. He was actually considering taking the suitcase, plus the Bible, and working on the case without the knowledge of, or permission from, his superiors. This was not his usual method.

      One mistake and his pension and retirement fund would become a distant memory—not to mention the wear and tear on his conscience.

      Sam replaced the suitcase. When he got back to the station, he’d plug Sandra Hill’s identity into his computer and find out what the connection was.

      

      A couple of hours after a dismal breakfast of oatmeal—she’d eaten every bite and asked for more—they’d shoved a short blonde into Rosa’s cell.

      So much for solitude. Just her luck to get arrested during the busy season.

      “Name’s Marilyn Youngblood.” The blonde blew a bubble and sat down on the ledge as if it were a well-worn recliner. “Whatcha in for?”

      Whatcha in for? Rosa wanted to laugh. Yeah, that’s right, a mere twenty-four hours in jail and here was a stranger acting as if sharing personal history was a given. “Speeding.”

      Marilyn raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know they arrested people for speeding. They always just give me a ticket.”

      “Must be a slow month,” Rosa acknowledged.

      “They stopped my boyfriend for speeding.” Marilyn inspected her nails. “When he went to pull out his license, a joint fell out.” Her voice turned sarcastic. “I didn’t know he had a joint.” Her tone indicated that she was more annoyed about the prospect of her boyfriend not being willing to share than about being arrested.

      “Bummer.”

      “Yeah. So, this your first time in?”

      “Yeah, you?” Rosa wondered if Marilyn realized that her blond wig contrasted ridiculously with her dark eyebrows.

      “No, this is about my fifth. And all of them because of my boyfriend.”

      Rosa had never spent time behind bars, but during her friendship with Eric, she’d learned how to spot undercover police officers. She had little doubt about this blonde’s true identity. Still, she knew the game, so she said, “I’d think about getting a new boyfriend.”

      “I really should.” Marilyn inspected her nails again, then asked, “So where ya from? Me, I’m from Texas.”

      Okay, so the woman was persistent. That was to be expected. “I’m from here.” Rosa recited her Lucy Straus history, pleased to note the disbelief in Marilyn’s eyes.

      “No kidding. You don’t look Indian.”

      “We prefer Native American. And I’m only half.”

      The door creaked. The mumbler peeked in. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d escorted her to the cell. This man made the old Maytag repairman look energetic. Rosa didn’t understand his words,