The Woman Most Wanted. Pamela Tracy

didn’t protest, so he sat across from her, so close he could reach out and brush a finger down her cheek if he wanted. He didn’t want to, but did struggle to accept that she wasn’t Rachel. Everything but his memory of a face proved she wasn’t Rachel.

      “How old are you?” he asked.

      “Twenty-seven,” she responded.

      “Born?”

      “In Phoenix, Arizona.”

      “I mean what year.”

      She responded with the year and stared at him. In all the time he’d walked a beat, driven the streets, worked the desk and finally taken the job of chief, he’d never had a suspect so obviously wrong yet so right. He couldn’t stop looking at her, but he knew he needed to be professional, go with the idea that she indeed knew nothing.

      Gain her trust.

      Maureen bought over a cup of coffee, shot Heather a somewhat proprietary look and sweetly said to Tom, “Freshly made. I’ve already got Cook fixing your regular.”

      He needed to talk to Maureen. He’d given her a ride home from work a few times when her car didn’t start. Seemed she was reading a bit more into the gesture than he’d intended. He should have noticed before.

      “Thanks.” He took a long drink, closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was too close to this case, could blow it because of the kind of emotion he realized he had with respect to it. Opening his eyes, he said, “I’ve spent the last couple of hours investigating you, Heather Graves.”

      She started to sputter her indignation, but he held up a hand, expecting her to stop. Most people would have, but she wasn’t most people. Freedom and an hour spent with Father Joe seemed to have loosened her tongue. “You have no right, no—”

      He placed a folder on the table, opened it and withdrew two pictures. One, not flattering, was of her just a few hours ago. The other was of a woman, much younger, with darker blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones and a wide mouth. All similar to what Heather looked like, except she wore her hair short.

      With two fingers, she drew the photos close to her, squinting as she studied both of them side by side. She started eating again, eliminating half her meal and saying nothing. His hamburger arrived and he took a bite, watching her brow furrow and a frown distort her features.

      “I see the resemblance,” she admitted. “This could have been me when I was a teenager.”

      “Rachel Ramsey was sixteen when this was taken nine years ago. It was her sophomore year at Sarasota Falls High School.”

      “I would have been eighteen and finishing up high school. How come you’re not showing me her police photo?”

      “We don’t have one. She was never arrested or charged with anything. She spent a year in foster care, but she was only seven.”

      “Father Joe said she made a few poor choices. He didn’t get the chance to tell me what they were. Why don’t you tell me?”

      Poor choices? Tom cleared his throat. “Father Joe likes to sugarcoat the truth.”

      “He seems like a nice man.”

      “He is, but he tends to get involved in situations that hinder more than help.”

      “Like mine?”

      “No, not really yours. If you’ve created a false identity, you’re out of my league of expertise. Every avenue I explore turns up viable. The man who owns the dental practice in Phoenix says he’d hire you back in a heartbeat. I even managed to call one of the parents who had a little boy in your mother’s childcare. She says her son loved you, and she described you perfectly.” He put his hamburger down, wishing he was better at showing emotion. “You lost your parents such a short time ago. I cannot even imagine the pain you must be in. I’m sorry.”

      She blinked, then looked out the window as if the streetlights were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. Finally, she said, “You’re one hundred percent sure I’m not Rachel Ramsey?”

      He wanted to answer with a firm “yes.” But he couldn’t, so he admitted, “I’m getting there. Sometimes, I’m a bit slow.”

      “Father Joe said I looked like Rachel, but that he could tell the difference.”

      “How?” Tom asked, amazed. The only tangible piece of evidence he couldn’t seem to wish away was Heather’s height, or lack of it.

      “Before we could get much further into our conversation and I could ask him, he got a phone call. Someone passed away.”

      “Who?”

      “Lucille Calloway.”

      Tom couldn’t help the “umph” that escaped his lips. He’d wanted justice for her, just like he’d wanted justice for Max. Now it was too late for either of them.

      “Father Joe was telling me about her and Richard Welborn.”

      Father Joe was a talker; most ministers were. As a matter of fact, Joe had been the minister who’d married Tom and Cathy ten years ago. He took his job seriously.

      “I was heading to Welborn’s place when I pulled you over,” Tom confessed.

      “Where’s it at?” Heather asked.

      “Two-one-six Decator.”

      She blinked again, looking somewhat taken aback and slightly guilty. Every time he thought he could wrap his mind around her not being Rachel, something spooked him. “You know it?” he asked.

      “I drove by it right before you pulled me over.” She pushed the photos back to him, her face wary and full of distrust. If he wasn’t careful, she’d leave, and he had so much he needed to know. She was poised for flight, too, inching toward the end of the booth.

      “Tell me about your parents,” he said, quickly, hoping she’d open up.

      Instead, she turned and swung both legs to the edge of the booth so she could easily exit, and then she muttered, “Why? Why are my parents important to you? Why don’t you tell me about Rachel Ramsey and her poor choices and why you couldn’t be bothered to listen to me earlier when you pulled me over? It’s innocent until proven guilty in America. You stamped criminal across my forehead without giving me the chance to defend myself. I’ve been scared, humiliated. And I’m annoyed at you.”

      He’d been the center of attention many times, usually it wasn’t at the Station Diner. The place was only half-full, but all of the customers were paying more attention to Heather and her words than to their meals.

      “You deserve to be annoyed at me,” he said quietly, so no one else could hear, and he hoped she’d lower her voice, too. “I overreacted when I saw you. I thought you were Rachel Ramsey. You look just like her.”

      “What exactly did she do?”

      He hadn’t spoken about it in detail for years, not since the psychologist the sheriff sent to Sarasota Falls declared Tom fit for duty. He didn’t want to talk about it now.

      To his surprise, she leaned closer, looking at him directly in the eyes, and then her expression softened before she settled back in the booth. “Look,” she said, “I get that whatever happened all those years ago was somehow personal. I could tell that by how you behaved when you pulled me over. Just give me the basic facts. What can’t be disputed. I deserve to know.”

      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