Hiding His Witness. C.J. Miller
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“Where do you work?”
No record of her working at Tidy Joe’s would exist. She was paid under the table, in cash, and her boss would deny she worked for him. He didn’t want trouble from the Department of Labor. The answers to Detective Truman’s questions sank her deeper into trouble. Silence was best.
Detective Truman set his hand on her shoulder and her body temperature elevated. “Look, Carey. I can help you. But you have to level with me.”
His hand felt heavy on her shoulder, comforting in an odd way. The man was built like a solid rock, with intelligent, knowing eyes. Carey stared at him, weighing her options. The compulsion to tell him the truth was strong, but at the same time alarm bells shrieked in her mind. What was it about him that made her want to give away too much? She wouldn’t be taken in by a handsome man. This wasn’t about the Vagabond Killer or how much she was drawn to Detective Truman. This was about her personal safety.
He let his hand drop and she muffled a protest. She was clearly starved for affection when she craved a hand on her shoulder. It was the most physical human contact she’d had in months. Well, besides the Vagabond Killer tossing her around that alley, and that wasn’t anything to take comfort in.
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. She knew he wasn’t letting her leave until she told her side of the story. What difference did it make if she told him the truth now? She had to get out of Denver anyway. Once she was released, she’d go home, grab the emergency bag she kept locked in her closet, and be outside the city limits before the sun set on another day.
The fastest way out was the truth. “I work for Tidy Joe’s, the Laundromat about ten blocks from the alley.” She looked up at him to gauge his reaction. He had folded his hands on his knee and his face was consumed with interest, as if what she was telling him was the most fascinating information he’d heard that day. “I was walking home from work and I heard a noise. When I saw what was going on, I ran into the alley and sprayed the guy in the face.” It had happened fast and the exact sequence was blurred in her mind. “He tossed me around and I fought back. He ran when he heard the police sirens.”
“Tossed you around?”
Was it concern in his eyes? No, she wouldn’t believe it. “He cut my arm and I hit my head on the pavement.” Among other things. But if Detective Truman used medical attention as an excuse to delay her, the situation grew riskier. She had to make tracks.
Detective Truman stood and walked behind her. “Show me.”
In the short time she’d known him, she’d learned he didn’t give up. The man was relentless when he wanted something. Carey pushed back the hood of the DPD sweatshirt and touched her head, wincing at the sting. She couldn’t see the damage, but the pain told her it wasn’t good.
His fingers brushed her hair away from the injury. “Why didn’t you have the EMT treat you?” His voice was less stern than it had been a few minutes before.
“I forgot about my head,” she muttered. The burn in her arm and ribs had taken precedence over what she was sure would be classified as a nasty bump.
“Wait here,” he grumbled and left the room, returning with a first aid kit and a glass of water. He held up a packet of alcohol wipes. “May I?”
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,