Cheryl and Tom King, understand?”
Nicole’s head slowly came around. “Understood, and thank you. Do you know that because of that small piece of information I have more confidence in you?”
He was waiting for his name to sink in. If she’d read the papers or watched the evening news on television six weeks back, she had to have heard it. As for her having more confidence in him, he couldn’t care less. The one thing that wasn’t going to happen during this job was the two of them getting chummy. He had enough problems of his own to sort through without adding the complication of a personal relationship. He’d just as soon keep this whole thing as impersonal as possible.
However, there was one aspect of this fiasco that needed discussion. He spoke tonelessly. “We’re going to be posing as Tom and Cheryl King. What we have to decide is how we happen to have the same last name.” Nicole turned her head to watch him. “There are several options. I’m sure you can figure out what they are.”
Nicole cleared her throat. “Uh, how about brother and sister?”
“That might work. So could pretending to be cousins. But if we’re both supposedly single people, we might draw some unwanted attention.”
“You mean, like a woman getting interested in you.”
“Or a man thinking he’d like to know you better. We’re going to avoid people as much as possible, but my professional opinion is that we would be less noticeable as a married couple.”
Nicole started chewing on her poor thumbnail again. Posing as this man’s wife would entail what? “Um…how far would we have to go to prove our marital status?” she asked uneasily.
He sent her a disgusted look. “We won’t be sharing the same bed, if that’s what you’re thinking, so relax. This is strictly a job to me, strictly business.” He drew a breath and retracted some of his anger. “Look, in front of other people we’ll have to act as though we know and like each other. That’s as far as it’ll ever have to go. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, though her nervous system was anything but calm. She leaned her head against the cool window of the door. God, how had she gotten herself into this unholy mess? She had never, ever had anything to do with police officers and the law; there’d never been any reason. She’d never even been to court for a traffic ticket, and now she was going to have to appear as a witness in what would probably be a sensational murder trial. Her own life was in danger, just for being a good citizen.
Tears stung her eyes and nose, and she lifted her head away from the window to go into her purse for some tissues.
Tuck caught on that she was crying and trying to keep it quiet. Keeping his eyes on the road, he pretended not to notice. Still, he felt some sympathy for Nicole Currie. The population seemed to be divided, one portion committing the crimes, the other attempting to lead a good and decent life. When those two segments overlapped in any way, there was always trouble. Nicole hadn’t asked for trouble; she had merely stumbled into it. But if the decent side of society never got involved, the crime rate would rise at an even more rapid rate than it was doing in every city and town across the country. The police needed people like her, folks who called in to report odd or unusual occurrences. Many a criminal had been brought down because of a simple telephone call from a conscientious citizen.
Of course, few were asked to give up weeks of their life as Nicole was doing. Yeah, he felt sorry for her, but what good would saying so do? She had her self-pity, he had his..
His mouth thinned. Was that what was causing the constant ache in his gut, self-pity? Was self-pity the same as regret? Remorse? And why should he feel any remorse? He had undoubtedly saved the life of that convenience store clerk.
Tense again, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Nicole gave him a look. “Must you smoke?”
His answer was to roll down his window about six inches.
She turned her head in disgust. Tuck Hannigan might be a good cop, but he was not a nice guy. Pity his wife or girlfriend, she thought. If he had one.
For some reason his name began tweaking her memory. Tuck Hannigan…Tuck Hannigan. She’d heard it before, but how? Where?
And then it came to her. Sergeant Tucker Hannigan had been in the news for killing two men in a convenience store holdup! She sent him a furtive glance, wondering how he felt about that, wondering, too, if he did have a wife and maybe kids. When he wasn’t on duty, was he a nicer person? Did he laugh and converse and do ordinary things for fun?
It was hard to imagine him smiling and relaxed. He was the most rigidly controlled person she’d ever met. He’d said this was just another job to him, so how did he view her? Probably as a nuisance, she thought resentfully. Certainly he wasn’t treating her as a living, breathing woman with a personality and a brain.
To hell with him. Feeling around for levers down at the right of her seat, she was relieved to find one that released the seat back. It fell back suddenly, causing Tuck’s head to jerk around. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting comfortable,” she retorted, lying back and closing her eyes. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the onset of this fiasco, and every cell in her body ached with exhaustion. She was asleep in seconds.
Tuck drove through the black night thinking and smoking. Sometimes he only smoked and watched the road. Catching sight of a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror, he slowed down. The vehicle was moving fast, and it soon caught up with him and then passed him doing at least eighty. It was a white sports car and he jotted down the license plate number when it was visible in his own headlights.
The road was monotonous. He passed through the towns of Beatty, Scotty’s Junction and Goldfield, and finally approached Tonopah, which was a good two hundred miles out of Vegas. Needing gas, he pulled into a brightly lighted truck stop.
Nicole sat up. “Where are we?”
“Tonopah. I’m getting gas. If you need to use the facilities, do it now.”
“What time is it?”
“Around two.”
“I’m hungry.”
Tuck looked around. There were half a dozen eighteenwheelers parked with their motors idling, two more at the diesel pumps, and a smattering of cars and pickups parked near the restaurant. No sign of the white sports car.
“Get something to go,” he said brusquely. “Do you have money?”
“Yes. Would you like something to eat?”
“Coffee will do. Black, no sugar. Make it a large. And don’t waste time.”
They got out and went inside, Tuck to the gas attendant to pay in advance for the gas, and Nicole to the ladies’ room. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt depressed. Tired, dejected eyes looked back at her.
Dampening a paper towel-with cold water, she held it to her eyes for a few minutes. Then, remembering Tuck’s domineering “don’t waste time,” she used the commode, washed her hands and hurried to the restaurant. Sitting at the counter, she put in her order with a weary-looking waitress.
Tuck had the car gassed and the motor idling when she came out with two bags. He drove away
