Hiding His Witness

“I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

Reilly was tired of her saying that. She was not fine and he wanted to know why she was lying. If she was in trouble, he could help her.

“Can you tell me your name?” Lou asked.

She ignored him.

“Ma’am, you need to tell us your name,” Reilly said, realizing he personally wanted a name to put with this woman even more than he’d need one for his report.

“I don’t have one,” she said.

“Maybe she has a concussion. You really should allow us to take you to the hospital. You need a CT scan,” Lou said, furrowing his brow, stepping closer and pulling a penlight out of his pocket to check her pupils.

Reilly’s police instincts—which were never wrong—told him she was lying. What was she hiding? “She doesn’t have a concussion. And if she refuses medical treatment and doesn’t tell us her name, then we’re going to go down to the precinct and talk that over. Maybe a night in the county jail will refresh her memory.” An empty threat. He wouldn’t put this woman in lockup. He just wanted her to come clean.

The woman sighed and leveled a look at him. “My name is Carey.”

Another lie. He could see it in her eyes. “Okay, Carey. Do you have a last name?”

“Smith.”

He’d give her credit for boldness. She didn’t even pretend she was being honest.

“And what is your address, Ms. Smith?”

“I don’t have one,” she said.

Lou smirked.

Reilly maneuvered to stand in front of her, keeping his hands on her waist. She didn’t appear quite steady on her feet and he didn’t want her passing out again and injuring herself further. “The way you’re behaving, you’re making me think you did something wrong.”

She lifted her scraped chin proudly, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I did nothing wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. I was walking home. I stumbled on something. That’s all I know.”

Reilly jerked his head, indicating Lou should take off. The witness might be more forthcoming with less of an audience. Lou shrugged, quiet laughter in his eyes, and trotted toward the ambulance, looking over his shoulder once at them.

Yeah, she was a riot.

Carey knew something and she was going to tell him what it was. Reilly closed in on her space, knowing crowding her might pressure the truth from her. “So that’s it? Just walking by?” He barely kept the disbelief from his voice, letting her know he was aware she was lying.

“Is the man in the alley okay?” Carey asked, pushing his hands away from her and stepping back.

His palms itched to touch her again. He wasn’t giving her another chance to run. He stepped closer. She hadn’t answered his question. “Not sure.”

She shifted on her feet. “Can you ask someone?”

“We can exchange all the information you want. But I tell you something, you tell me something.”

She glared him and pressed her lips together.

Even when she was being difficult, she appealed to him on some primal level. Best to quash those feelings, especially when he was on the job. He had to treat her like any other witness. If she didn’t want to talk here, they could talk at the precinct. “Have it your way. I’m hauling you in for questioning.”

Sitting alone in the Denver police station in Detective Truman’s office, Carey fought the bile that roiled in her stomach. She wished she’d accepted the cola drink he’d offered when they’d first arrived. The bubbles would have settled her stomach, and the caffeine and sugar would have jump-started her brain and helped her think.

She was cold, hungry and tired.

Detective Truman hadn’t tossed her into the interrogation room, a small consolation. Instead, she was sitting on a metal chair, amidst his stacks of paperwork and disorganized clutter, waiting for him to return. He’d lobbed a million questions at her, then he’d been interrupted by a phone call and needed to leave for a few minutes. They were the first moments of peace and quiet she’d had to clear her head since stumbling out of that alley.

She tucked her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt Detective Truman had given her since her own had been torn. Unfortunately, this one had DPD across the front. She’d have to ditch it and get another nondescript one later.

Her arm throbbed, but at least it had been cleaned, butterfly stitched and bandaged better than she could have managed on her own.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could lie down for a few minutes. A fifteen-minute nap would revive her and help her sort her thoughts. How could she convince him to let her leave? If she pretended to be insane and babble incoherently, he might set her up with a psych evaluation. Same for pitching a fit and demanding to be allowed to go home. No, she needed a ploy that didn’t get her into more trouble.

She scanned the room, looking for clues about his personality, something she could use to play to his sympathies. He had no personal items filling the space, no pictures of a wife and children or college degrees mounted to the wall. It looked as though the place hadn’t been dusted in a decade and the trash can was filled with empty energy drink cans.

What was the fastest way to get out of this situation? Flirt with him? Lie to him? Tell him what he wanted to hear?

In her former life, flirting with him would have come easy, letting the fluttering feeling in her stomach dictate her actions. She wasn’t that woman anymore. Carey didn’t allow herself to get involved with anyone, much less a handsome detective who could undo the hard work she’d put into keeping herself hidden.

If she wasn’t running, running, always running, she’d allow herself to daydream about Detective Truman. But daydreaming led to distractions and distractions left her vulnerable.

Staying focused and alert had kept her alive for eleven months and she wasn’t about to let down her guard with anyone. She had a long list of precautions—looking behind her on her way to and from work, leaving flour at her front door entrance so she’d know if someone had been inside and never sharing personal information about her life, past or present. She couldn’t trust anyone. People could be bought. Information could be sold. And if she befriended an honest person, they might end up getting hurt. Or worse. She didn’t want that responsibility.

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?