Hiding His Witness

by C. J. Miller

  She nodded. It would save time to get it cleaned now. Who knew when she’d next find a safe place to rest or get medical supplies? “I could use some aspirin if you have it.” And a cup of coffee. And a hot meal. How long had it been since she last ate?

  Reilly dug through the kit and tossed a sealed package of generic aspirin on the table.

  “Could you open that for me? I’m a little shaky,” she said. Suddenly hyperaware of fingerprints, she took precaution not to touch anything. She didn’t think her prints would be in the police computer system, but she couldn’t be sure. Mark could have taken her prints from anything in the house and paid someone to put her in the system, falsely flagging her as a wanted criminal. He’d go that far to find her. How sophisticated and centralized were police computer systems?

  Reilly dumped the two white pills on her open palm. Carey tossed them into her mouth, the bitter taste curling her tongue. She gripped the glass, the sleeves of the sweatshirt pulled over her hands, and washed the pills down, pouring the water into her mouth, careful not to let her lips touch the glass. Could he pull DNA from it? Or from the alcohol swab? She quelled the panic that rose in her chest. She was getting paranoid. He wasn’t going to identify her from DNA. She wasn’t in the system.

  Reilly carefully moved her hair and dabbed at the cut on her head. She flinched at the pain and he murmured an apology. He was being kind and gentle, disarming her defenses. White Knight Syndrome, Carey diagnosed. He liked coming to the aid of a damsel in distress.

  “Will you work with a sketch artist?” he asked.

  She ignored the stinging as he cleaned her cut. “I didn’t see anything.”

  Detective Truman turned her chair to face him and crouched down, putting his face close to hers. It was impossible not to notice how gorgeous he was, his dark hair and midnight eyes captivating. Her skin prickled with white-hot awareness.

  “I don’t believe that. We need to get this guy off the street. You’re the first victim to see anything, the second to survive. The other guy’s not doing too well. He might not wake up from surgery.”

  Tension snaked over her shoulders. She wished she could get involved, but she was already too deep into this mess, a mess not of her making. She’d done what she could for the man in the alley and now she had to go back to taking care of herself. If she didn’t, no one else would. “I can’t,” she whispered, her throat tight. His eyes pierced into her, and for a moment she thought he could see to her soul.

  If he could, what would he see? A good person? A bad one? A spoiled brat who’d gotten what she’d deserved?

  “If you’re worried about this guy coming after you, we can provide protection,” he said.

  Carey wanted to scoff aloud at his naïveté. Maybe they could protect her from a serial killer who worked alone and in the dark of night. But police protection from Mark Sheffield, a man with nearly unlimited resources—nope, not possible. Mark probably had one or two officers in this district already in his pocket. “It’s not that.”

  He inclined his head. “Tell me why. I can help you.”

  Sadness weighed on her shoulders. Why did it bother her to know she was letting him down? Why did she care what he thought of her? She’d never see him again. “You can’t help me. No one can help me.”

  His face filled with compassion, his eyes soft and inviting. Did they teach him that in detective school? How to milk the answer he wanted by using his handsome face and beautiful eyes?

  “Maybe you don’t believe I can help you. But you know in your heart you can help the city. How many innocents are we going to let this guy hurt?”

  Carey shifted in her chair, digging her toes into the floor and trying to add some distance between them. She hated how easily she reacted to him and how much she wanted to cooperate when she couldn’t. “I want to help you. I do.” Her conscience nipped at her heels.

  “Then work with a sketch artist.”

  Carey swallowed. Could she live with herself if she didn’t help and the Vagabond Killer struck again? No. She couldn’t. “And then I can go home?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I’ll drive you.”

  No! “No. I work with the sketch artist and then I leave here alone.”

  Detective Truman stood upright and rubbed his jaw, considering her offer. “Fine. I’ll take what I can get. But my offer stands. If you change your mind, I can give you a ride and I can offer you protection.”

  * * *

  Reilly rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen his muscles that were tight and heavy with fatigue. After two hours, Carey Smith, not likely her real name, finished with the sketch artist. She still refused any assistance from him or anyone who had offered. The only thing she had accepted was a candy bar he’d snagged from the vending machine.

  Who was she afraid of? An abusive boyfriend? Junkie parents waiting at her apartment? He didn’t get addict off her—her arms were clean of track marks, her teeth white and straight, and her skin healthy pink. If not drugs, then what?

  She was a contradiction in terms. She claimed to work at Tidy Joe’s, where she likely earned less than minimum wage, yet she carried herself with an air of grace that came from careful breeding. Her clothes were cheap and ill-fitting, but she wore them with a flair of style. Her red hair was one of the worst dye jobs he’d seen, but her eyebrows indicated she was naturally blonde. She was beautiful and seemed to make every effort to downplay it.

  If Reilly wasn’t careful, the next time he saw her, libido would override good sense and he’d reach for her again and wrap his arms around her. And this time, not for medical reasons and not to keep her from running away.

  Every sign screamed “woman on the run.” Without her real name, he couldn’t search through their criminal or missing-persons database. He didn’t get any usable prints off the drinking glass or the foil of aspirin she’d taken. The pepper spray was at the lab for analysis. Maybe something would turn up there.

  Reilly paced inside his lieutenant’s office. He was too tired to sit. If he did, he’d fall asleep and he still needed to escort Carey to her apartment. She could claim independence, she could demand to be left alone, but he wasn’t letting her get killed. If he had to, he’d follow at a distance and without her knowing. No one was going to hurt her on his watch.

  “How soon do you want the sketch released?” Reilly asked the lieutenant.

  The sketch artists were cleaning up the image in preparation for a media blitz. They planned to run the guy’s face in every newspaper, every online site and every news broadcast the moment the lieutenant approved it. Even if they couldn’t identify the Vagabond Killer from the sketch or from the tip line, the attention might put pressure on the killer and force him to make a mistake. Reilly was certain he wouldn’t stop killing until they caught him. And the frequency of his murders was increasing.

  The lieutenant scrubbed a hand over his face. “The timing is terrible. Half the staff is taking leave for the holiday. Sending this picture to the media’s going to cause a freaking avalanche of insanity. We’re having enough trouble manning the tip lines without adding the crazies who think their reclusive neighbor looks somewhat like our guy.”

  Reilly stopped pacing. “You can count on me to stick around. I’ll delay my leave until this guy is caught.” His family would understand, and with the new lead and a little luck, maybe they’d close the case by the New Year.

  A tap on the door interrupted their discussion. Vanessa Blakely, Assistant D.A., strutted into the office. It was the only way to describe her walk—she strutted, and in heels that looked thin as nails. “I hear we got a witness. Normally, a 3:00 a.m. call puts me in a bad mood, but this I like.”

  He lifted his eyes from her pointy shoes to her face. “She’s with victim assistance, getting some counseling.”

  Vanessa’s eyes clouded with worry. “Is she a street rat?”

  Reilly caught the tug of annoyance at her question before he snapped at her. He was tired and hungry and Carey was not a “street r
at,” Vanessa’s term for the homeless at large. “She was walking home from work.” Emphasis on the word work. He liked Vanessa. She went to bat for victims and she worked hard, but she also had a snobbish streak.

  Vanessa let out her breath. “Good, ’cause I can’t make a case and use her as a witness if she’s a loon.”

  Her comment lit a faint hint of aggravation in him. “Van, take it down a notch. She interrupted a stabbing in progress, trying to save a stranger and got herself hurt in the process. She could have kept walking. She did a great job with the sketch artist even though she’s terrified.”

  Vanessa set her hand on her hip. “She’s a regular superhero. Good to know. Juries love an everyday hero coming to the aid of a victim. Good Samaritan angle.”

  Vanessa was direct and single-minded about her cases, but she was right about Carey. With the right clothes and a little polishing, Carey would make a witness any jury would adore. If he were on that jury, he’d take one look at her expressive blue eyes, her lush mouth, and with her strength and moxie underscoring her words, he’d swallow the story, hook, line and sinker.

  “What’s the plan to release the sketch?” Vanessa asked.

  The lieutenant set his hands on top of his desk and pushed himself to his feet. He adjusted his belt around his waist. “We were just talking about that. I’m suspending leave for every cop in the city and we’ll release the sketch as soon as they have it ready. We’ll see if we can pull some volunteers to answer the tip line. The faster it gets out there, the faster we catch this guy.”

  Reilly snuffed out the last thoughts of taking a six-hour snooze in his bed. It looked like he’d have to settle for a few hours in the bunkhouse and charge up on coffee.

  “You gonna tell them or should I?” Reilly asked, glancing out into the squad room, the gold garland and red stockings they’d tossed up making a mockery of the holiday they weren’t going to have until the city was safe.

  “I’ll do my own dirty work,” the lieutenant said. He wiped his brow with his hand, taking the steps into the squad room with more weight than usual. Though the team would grumble about the extra hours, they were dedicated and would do what they were asked to do, holiday or no holiday.

  “It’s going to be a happy Christmas, huh?” Vanessa asked.

  An image of Carey wearing a sexy Santa suit with high black boots, a short skirt and low-cut top flashed into Reilly’s mind. He could see her standing beneath twinkling Christmas lights, red and white and hot. He stamped that image out with all his might. He needed to get some rest soon. He couldn’t think of victims and witnesses as anything except people involved in his case, which made personal relationships with them off limits. His inconvenient attraction to her would disappear as soon as he’d gotten some sleep.

  Ten years ago, his former partner Lucas had made the mistake of becoming emotionally involved with a victim in a case they’d been investigating. When the defense council learned of the relationship, they had twisted it in the eyes of the jury, implying Lucas had coached the victim into giving false testimony. Though Reilly didn’t believe the accusation, Lucas had been forced to leave the department, his career in ruins, and a killer had walked free. It had been a brutal lesson for every detective on the squad, one Reilly wouldn’t repeat.

  Before he could reply to Vanessa, Carey appeared in the squad room, escorted by Officer Dillinger. Strong, yet fragile Carey. She’d relented and worked with the sketch artist, though she’d been under no obligation. She’d been frightened and managed to see the greater good in helping them catch a killer. He respected her a great deal for acting despite her fear.

  The air in the room shifted and tensed. Was the unit catching wind their holiday plans were on hold? Or was Carey sending a vibe straight into his gut—a vibe that said protect me, help me, hold me?

  Ah, for crying out loud. He needed sleep. Drumming up inappropriate feelings for a witness was a sure sign of extreme exhaustion. The fantasies his mind conjured were delusions. He opened the door to the office and strode across the squad room floor. Vanessa followed close at his back, the clicking of her heels giving her away.

  “Hey, Vanessa,” Officer Dillinger said, giving Vanessa a long look up and down. “What brings you here?”

  Vanessa inclined her head toward Carey. “I came to see if the rumors were true. A living witness.”

  “Rumors?” Carey asked.

  Vanessa waved her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ve kept it out of the media. I have a direct line from the lieutenant’s office to my cell.”

  Officer Dillinger left Carey in their care.

  “Will you be able to testify to what you saw after we catch this guy?” Vanessa asked, cutting straight to the point. Vanessa was watching Carey like a cat looking into a goldfish tank, scrutinizing her every move.

  Carey’s eyes shuttered slightly and warning bells rang in Reilly’s head. Whatever came out of her mouth, she was lying. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Did you give the officers your contact information?” Vanessa asked.

  Carey blinked twice, mustering the strength for another lie, Reilly guessed. “Yes.”

  If she had told them where she lived, it was because she was planning to run.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want police protection? Victim assistance explained the program to you?” Vanessa pressed.

  Carey lifted her chin. “I don’t need police protection. I saw the Vagabond Killer. He had an eyeful of pepper spray. He didn’t see me.”

  Vanessa appeared impressed. “Great, then you’re free to go. I’ll be in touch, hopefully soon, to do a lineup.” They shook hands and Vanessa strutted through the mass of people, stopping to chat with a few officers working the graveyard shift.

  Carey shoved her hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt; her shoulders hunched low as if trying to hide inside her shirt. “I’ll see you around.”

  She appeared small and vulnerable. He had to protect her from whatever had made her afraid. “Let me drive you to your apartment. You can’t walk home like that. You’ll freeze.” The sweatshirt he’d given her wasn’t enough to keep her warm in the frigid December cold.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll take the bus.” She glanced away. Lying again. “Besides, I’m used to trekking around in a sweatshirt.” Her stomach growled and she pressed a hand over it.

  “I can take you somewhere to get something to eat.” He couldn’t figure her out, her body language shifting from proud to unsure, defiant to willing to help and back again.

  “I’ve got things in my apartment,” she said, but she licked her bottom lip as if thinking about food that was most likely not waiting at her place. Reilly weighed pressing her, but not wanting to make her leery, he dropped it. “I’m grateful for what you did today, Carey.” Reilly took out his business card. “If you need anything, please give me a call.” He’d give her a minute lead and then follow her, make sure she arrived home safely. He didn’t have it in him to let her walk away into whatever danger awaited her without trying to help.

  She took the card from him and he knew she’d ditch it the second he was out of sight.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said.

  Keeping her gaze to the ground, she walked to the front door. She’d made it halfway across the floor when he rushed after her, a tug in his gut telling him it wasn’t a smart idea for her to waltz out the front door of the police station. Vanessa had said she wasn’t in the news, but word of another attack might have gotten around the city.

  He was five feet behind her and he called her name to stop her. The ringing phones and chatter in the police station drowned out his voice. Carey opened the front door and a flash of cameras and noise exploded in front of her. She whirled in horror and Reilly reached her, tucking her against him, shielding her face from the camera lenses.

  The media had snapped a picture of a witness to a serial killing spree.

  Chapter 3

  “Dillinger, handle that,” Reilly barked, pointing to the front doo
r. Dillinger leapt to his feet and went outside to disperse the mob waiting for news of the Vagabond Killer.

  Reilly clutched her close to him and she lifted her face. “They took my picture,” she said, trembling in his arms.

  He tightened his grip on her, wishing he could deny it. But the media was hungry for information and a serial stabbing was front-page news. She could have been a visitor to the precinct for other reasons, but he’d bet at this moment, the media was running her picture through their databases and digging into her life, searching for her identity.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said. Except rushing to her side made it easy for the media to connect her to the case through him. He swore inwardly.

  Carey buried herself tighter against him. “They took my picture,” she repeated.

  As if in reminder, the sound of reporters clamoring outside seeped into the squad room.

  “I can protect you from him,” Reilly said, reading the terror in her voice. Holding her felt right, and in the aftermath of their mistake, it was the safest place for her to be. “I shouldn’t have let you walk out the door.”

  Vanessa appeared at his side, wagging her smart phone and looking between the two of them. “Wouldn’t have mattered. They were waiting for someone matching her description. The media caught wind there was a witness from someone at the scene. No way can she be alone now. She won’t get a moment’s rest. They’ll stalk her like prey.” Vanessa swore under her breath and tapped her foot in agitation.

  Carey shoved him away and seemed to shrink lower in her shoes. “I’m fine. If someone could take me home, I’ll be fine. No one in the city knows me except my boss and he doesn’t watch the news.” The tremor in her voice betrayed how scared she was.

  Reilly’s chest lurched. A woman should never tremble for any other reason than passion. “We can’t take chances. You need to go into protective custody.”

  Carey jammed her hands into her pockets, giving him her shoulder. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”