The Woman Most Wanted

by Pamela Tracy

  He stood, looked at the counter and said, “Maureen, I’ll take my food to go if you don’t mind.”

  “Already packed. I heard your phone go off and figured you’d be leaving.”

  Father Joe left, and Maureen put Heather’s meal on the table, asked if she needed anything and then walked over to another customer.

  Heather had never felt so alone. For a few long seconds she just sat there, trying to get her bearings, and wondered what she should do next. Maybe leave Sarasota Falls? Some secrets were best left buried. Stay? Find out if she had family? Well, she didn’t have to decide tonight.

  It had been a long time since breakfast. Heather stabbed a piece of chicken-fried steak and brought the fork halfway to her mouth before freezing.

  Chief Tom Riley came through the restaurant’s front door, and his eyes honed in on hers. He said something to Maureen, and then made his way over to stand in front of her.

  “I just lost my appetite,” she said, putting her fork down.

  * * *

  “MAY I SIT?” He didn’t like asking permission. He wanted to sit, question...yes, even press. Yet, he had to watch his step, do this the right way.

  “I really don’t feel like company,” she said.

  “And I won’t be good company,” he responded. “But, there are a few things I still need to know. This—” he looked around the diner “—is as good a place as any.”

  She 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.”<
br />
  “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 stopped. His dad had been a plumber; his mom, a librarian. Both were amazed that he became an officer of the law, proud, but kind of terrified. There were no police officers in the family on either side.

  “I never met anyone as brave as he was. He made me want to be a better man, a better cop. Max died...” His voice cracked. He swallowed, quickly, and went on, “In the line of duty. Rachel Ramsey, more or less, caused his death by pretending to be hurt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a car accident during a chase. She fell out of the passenger side door and lay there, just lay there. Max thought she was hurt. When he hurried to help, her boyfriend shot Max, point-blank.”

  Heather again seemed like she wanted to leave. “And I look exactly like her?”

  “Yes. She disappeared that day and hasn’t been heard from since. You’re my first lead.”

  “I’m not a lead. I’ve never heard of her until today.”

  “I want to believe you. Really I do. What I’m about to ask will sound a little strange, but hear me out.”

  She didn’t say anything, but drew back, looking like there wasn’t a chance she’d help him.

  “I want a swab of DNA, to compare against Rachel’s mother’s. And I’d appreciate something personal from your mother. Did you keep a hairbrush or—”

  “Why?”

  “I’m betting you must be related to the Ramseys somehow. For that matter, let’s get something from your father, too.”

  To Heather’s credit, she didn’t pretend surprise or indignation. “And if I am, what does that prove?”

  Tom opened his mouth, tried to say something and shut it again. She was right. What did it prove? It might prove that Heather Graves was related to the Ramseys, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Rachel. Unless Heather was a master liar and knew where Rachel was.

  His eyes narrowed, but before he could say another word, she said, “No,” scooted out of the booth and headed toward the door. He started to follow, but Maureen plopped his bill down.

  He wound up paying not only for his hamburger and coffee, but also for her food and Father Joe’s.

  It had been that kind of day.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SUNDAY WAS TOM’S day off. Didn’t keep him from stopping by the office to see if Daniel or anyone else had anything new to report. They did and didn’t.

  “Lucille Calloway died last night,” Oscar Guzman said. “My wife went over this morning and took a meal. The kids are taking it pretty hard even though it was expected.”

  Lucille could have had a few more years if Richard Welborn hadn’t slammed his car into hers.

  “I’ll find time to go over today,” Tom said. “Anything else?”

  Oscar grinned and nodded. “My aunt says to tell you that Heather isn’t Rachel Ramsey. Seems Bianca noticed the resemblance right away, but, and this is straight from Bianca’s lips, Heather is much too short to be mistaken for Rachel.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. More than anything, he wished it was the other way around, that Heather was taller than Rachel. Then he could have argued that she’d grown.

  But she’d been wearing tennis shoes yesterday—not enough heel. Combine that with his little talk with her last evening, and he knew he needed to be looking at a different scenario. Still, Tom was frustrated that he hadn’t gotten around to speaking to Bianca. “You get anything else?”

  “Yes. Bianca says that Diane Ramsey had a sister. She wonders if perhaps Heather is some sort of cousin to the family.”

  Again, this was information Tom knew. “Diane Ramsey had two full sisters that we know of,” he replied. “They came for the funeral.”

  “You talked to them?”

  “In detail. Neither were surprised their sister Diane was dead. Both were surprised she’d lived as long as she did. Both said she’d had no business raising a child.”

  “Rachel was in foster care for a while, right?” Oscar asked. “Any chance she lived with either of her aunts?”

  “No—one aunt didn’t have children and clearly didn’t want any. The other had two boys and said no way did she want Rachel’s influence around her sons.”

  “Rachel was that bad?” Oscar queried, one eyebrow raised.

  “No,” Tom said. “But Rachel did hang around a rough crowd. Takes a special person to guide a young teen into the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of choosing better friends.”

  Oscar didn’t shoot back with another question. Unusual for the officer who’d left the fast track of a career with the FBI to protect and serve the small town of Sarasota Falls. Of course, he’d fallen in love with someone here and chosen to be married to her instead of married to his job. Not once had Oscar bemoaned changing his career path. Instead, the man was happy. Tom didn’t think he’d ever been that happy.

  After a moment, Oscar said, “You know, this is the first time you’ve ever talked about Rachel Ramsey without snarling.”

  “I don’t snarl.”

  Oscar only smiled and asked, “But Rachel didn’t kill Max, exactly. Right?”

  “She didn’t pull the trigger. Her boyfriend did.”

  “How old was Rachel when all this happened?”

  “Rachel would have been a teenager, just. She was retained in third grade.”

  “And back then Heather Graves would have been, what, early twenties?”

  “And in college. Heather’s twenty-seven now. Rachel should be twenty-five.” The same age as Max’s youngest son. “Excuse me.” Tom stood, feeling sympathetic. He’d felt it last night, too, when he’d made his way from the table at the diner, stopped just on the other side of the cash register and watched Heather hurry to her car.

  He needed to get close to her, but he didn’t know how.

  * * *

  HEATHER HAD NEVER been one to have vivid dreams, but since her parents’ death, she’d had more than her share. Last night’s had been a combination. The beginning had made her keep her eyes closed tight with her fist in her mouth to keep from crying.

  Her mom and dad had been in her dreams, doing what they did best. Mom was in the living room sterilizing and putting away toys, finding items that had been left behind by the children she cared for, and doing it all to the music of Pink Floyd. Heather used to dance with her mother. Her father was outside mowing the lawn, making sure the sprinklers worked, and adding more tools to his shed. Man, he’d loved those tools. The thought of someone using her dad’s things hadn’t bothered her until now, as she was finally starting to accept that the secrets her parents had kept weren’t just about their identities, but hers, as well.

  She opened one eye. The clock face read six. Way too early to get up, so she lay there in the half sleep that usually meant she’d have a headache when she finally did crawl out of bed. So, obviously, she’d have to crawl out of be
d and take charge of today, make decisions, do something.

  When she’d arrived in town, she’d thought about taking it slow, observing, but after last night, Heather was more than curious. She had two options: the first was to go to the house, but it was a rental and she didn’t want to bother the people living there. Plus, her attempt to check it out yesterday had ended in disaster. Even now, she could feel the hard cement under her body as the police officer handcuffed her and...

  She forced herself to stop thinking about yesterday. The memory would only slow her down, and she had things to do.

  Her second option was to drop by Little’s Grocery Store. A long shot, yes, but worth her time. Besides, she needed a few healthy snacks. What Bianca provided would put more curve on Heather’s thighs than she wanted or needed. After a shower, she chose a pair of white jeans and a bright pink button-down shirt, along with white tennis shoes with pink laces, as she was a girly-girl. Then, she fixed her face and did her hair before she was ready to greet the day.

  She stood at the top of the stairs, listening. Right now, there wasn’t a single sound. Sundays, people probably slept in. Heather, however, didn’t think Bianca the sleep-in type.

  She took two steps, then a loud creak came from the third and she paused. Nope, it wouldn’t be easy to make a silent getaway. Last night, she’d pleaded exhaustion when she’d come through the front door, and Bianca had been respectful.

  Of course, Bianca had also spent the whole day working and enjoying the Founder’s Day celebration. Then, judging by what Heather had seen, Bianca spent the rest of the evening decorating the bed-and-breakfast for Halloween. Noting all the fake spiders crawling over the walls, the cobwebs in the trees and the witch on a broomstick stuck to the chimney, Bianca had had a busy night, too.

  This morning, though, Bianca—all smiles—lingered at the bottom of the stairs, obviously wanting to know what had happened.

  “Sit down,” Bianca cheerfully ordered when Heather made it to the bottom step. Heather hesitated and thought about pleading no appetite, but then the aroma of cinnamon rolls swirled under her nose and she lost all resolve.