Live Ammo. Joanna Wayne
him once for speeding. I had no idea he was good friends with the chief of police. Not that I would have done anything differently, mind you.”
“Of course not.”
“Point is, instead of pulling rank on me and expecting favors, he sent my supervisor a letter commending me for the professional way I handed the violation.”
“That was Dad,” Tague said. “Praise if you deserved it. A reaming-out if you didn’t.”
“Like I said, a good man.” Whitfield swatted at a mosquito that buzzed his ear. “Did you witness the carjacking, Mr. Lambert?”
“No. Alexis had chased the car into the middle of the street when I spotted her. I threw on my brakes to miss her. She jumped in my truck and ordered me to catch up to the Honda. I could tell she meant business, so I jumped to it.”
“Trying to follow him was a smart move on your part,” Whitfield said, turning his attention back to Alexis. “Had the perp not wrecked that car, no telling where he might have taken your son or what might have happened after that.”
Alexis shuddered at the thought. But Tague had been there for her, a hero in jeans, boots and a cowboy hat. He might be only an urban cowboy, but he looked tanned, virile and hard-bodied enough to be the real thing. He’d be a great guy to have for a friend—had she been in a position to have friends.
Whitfield pulled a pen and a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “So tell me exactly what occurred in the parking lot, Mrs. Beranger.”
Once she started relating the incident, the details poured out. She was amazed at how much she remembered considering her state of mind at the time and how fast everything had happened.
Before she finished, an ambulance arrived on the scene. The sirens sent Tommy into another meltdown. He began to scream.
She picked him up and tried to reassure him as two paramedics rushed to where they were standing, apparently at the directions of one of the other police officers.
It took her several minutes to convince them that in spite of her bruises and the bump on her head, she didn’t require their assistance and neither did her wailing son.
“I’ll see a doctor and I’ll definitely have my son checked out,” she insisted. “But putting him in an ambulance will only frighten him more. Honestly, he seemed fine before you arrived. He’s crying because he’s afraid of strangers and sirens, not because he’s in pain.”
They still had her sign a waiver asserting she’d refused their services.
“I’m sure you realize that your car will have to be towed,” Whitfield said.
“I know it’s not drivable.”
“Since you turned down the ambulance, you should either call a friend to pick you up and take you and the boy to the nearest emergency room, or I can have an officer drive you there. I suggest the former. It would be quicker and you don’t want to stand around in this heat any longer than you have to.”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” she lied. The last thing she needed was to spend any unnecessary time with a cop. Nor did she need the prying questions of emergency room personnel unless it was necessary for Tommy’s well-being. Anonymity was her best protection.
Whitfield asked a few more questions and then put his notebook away.
“There’s been a rash of shootings in this area lately,” Whitfield continued, “all related to drugs or gang activity. Considering the violence these junkies are capable of, you’re fortunate that the car is all you lost.”
“Actually, I think the thief made off with her handbag,” Tague said. “I got a quick glimpse of the driver when he fled the vehicle. He was holding what looked like a ladies’ white purse when he disappeared into the alley. I gave chase but never spotted him again.”
Alexis exhaled, blowing off steam. Now she not only had no car, she had no phone, no ready cash to call a taxi, and worst of all, no driver’s license. And it wasn’t as if she could just march in and request another one in Alexis Beranger’s name, since as far as she knew Alexis Beranger didn’t exist.
“I can’t let you in the car until it’s been checked for prints,” Whitfield said. “But I can see if your purse is in the vehicle.”
Dread squeezed the breath from her lungs. She should have realized they’d do a routine check for fingerprints.
And when they did, they’d find hers and discover her real identity.
“How long will it take you to check for prints?” she asked
“With the backlog they have in the investigation unit, we’ll be lucky if we get the report back this week.”
“What’s the quickest you could get it back?”
“Wednesday afternoon,” Whitfield said, “but that would only be if the chief put a rush on it.”
She couldn’t rule that out. It was Monday now. That gave her two days to disappear again. And she had no car.
“You should go ahead and alert your insurance company,” Whitfield said, “though I suspect they’ll total it. The Honda is what—about eight years old?”
“Ten.” She’d bought it from a used car lot in Vegas seven months ago, a few days after fleeing California. She’d have to settle for one older than that this time. Her ready cash was running low.
“I’ll need Tommy’s car seat before I leave today,” she said.
Whitfield dabbed at the perspiration that beaded on his forehead with a wrinkled handkerchief he’d pulled from his back pocket. “I’ll have one of the cops get the boy’s seat for you now. Then you’ll be free to go. Like I said, a detective from the precinct will contact you, likely later today.”
“My phone is in my purse,” she said.
“That’s okay. I need to get your home address anyway.”
She provided it and a few other relative pieces of information he would have normally taken from her fake driver’s license. And now she’d have a detective making a house call. Could this get any worse?
Yes, she answered herself. It could be a million times worse. Tommy might have actually been kidnapped or seriously injured or even killed in the wreck. And she was the one who’d vowed to keep him safe.
“Want to go home,” Tommy whined as Whitfield walked away.
“I know you do, sweetie.” He was hot and tired and recovering from a traumatic morning. And now he’d have to get used to a new home.
“Exactly how is it you called a friend when you don’t have a phone?” Tague asked.
Her irritation swelled. “So now you’re starting with the questions, too?”
“I’m just wondering how you plan to get home when you have no car and no money.”
“I figured I could bum bus money from you.”
“I never lend money to friends.”
“We’re not exactly friends.”
“We must be. I never offer rides to strangers.”
“I didn’t hear you offer.”
“Give me time.” He made a mock bow. “May I give you a lift?”
Her ready response was no. But she really did need a ride. And it wasn’t as if she’d be around long enough to worry about the cowboy trying to stay in touch.
“I live on the other side of town,” she cautioned. “You might want to consider that before you make those rash offers.”
“In that case, I may have to charge double.”
“You expect me to pay you?”