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.”
“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.
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