found something,” Edwin Sharp said without preamble. “I think it could be who you’re looking for. A landlady identified the woman in the photo as Callie Westfield. She worked as a waitress at a café in the neighborhood. The owner of the café required her driver’s license when she started work, so I was able to get a copy. Her full name is Caligrace Westfield. I ran her through the system. I couldn’t find a residential address, but I do have an address where she is currently employed.”
Rourke pulled out his notebook and pen.
“She’s working as a waitress at the Branding Iron Café in Beartooth, Montana.”
* * *
LAURA FELT SICK to her stomach as she left the restaurant. She’d been too upset to eat, but she’d forced herself to consume as much of her meal as she could. Rourke had felt bad enough, without her making him feel worse.
As astute as the man was when it came to solving crimes, he seldom saw what was right in front of his face. Rourke didn’t have a clue when it came to her. He’d really believed that missing her old job in law enforcement was the reason she was upset. How could he not know that she’d been in love with him almost from the start?
“It’s you, Rourke!” she had wanted to scream. “I miss you! I miss the damned force, but it’s because I miss talking to you every day!” Even if it had been about only their latest cases. “I miss being with you.” Days off used to be hell. She couldn’t wait to get back to work. Back to Rourke.
Like him, she’d been on the fast track, moving quickly from a Seattle P.D. officer to Homicide. The sky had been the limit for both of them. They had been called the Dream Team. She could laugh about it now, but back then, she was sure everyone thought she and Rourke were sleeping together. They were that compatible. They could finish each other’s sentences. They were that close. So no wonder they had worked so well together.
And they were good. Between the two of them, they solved cases. Their futures were so bright, they felt like rock stars, she thought bitterly.
Then that night in the alley... She’d gone in alone even though Rourke had told her to wait. He’d had one of the felons on the ground, restraining the man with cuffs. But she didn’t want to wait. She’d felt a singing in her blood. A feeling that she was invincible. She’d gone down the alley not realizing the man was trapped at the end, hunkered down, shot full of drugs, a loaded gun in his hand and his finger on the trigger.
Reaching her car now, she climbed in, her leg aching from either the short walk to her parking spot—or the memory of that night and the impact of the bullet as it struck the bone.
Everyone told her that she was lucky to be alive. Lucky. Sick to her stomach now, heart aching and her mind racing, she didn’t feel lucky at all. She felt scared.
Rourke thought he was chasing a serial killer and was now headed for some town in Montana called Beartooth. He had been quiet after his phone call, and she’d had to drag what little she could out of him. Clearly, he’d changed his mind about involving her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She’d prove to him that he needed her help. She’d put her personal feelings aside and be the cop he needed her to be.
“So, what’s her name?” she’d asked, hating that he’d wanted to close her out.
“This whole thing could blow up in my face. I shouldn’t have involved you.”
She’d given him a sideways look. “But you did involve me, and now you’re stuck with me. I can tell that you have more than just her location. What’s her name?”
He’d relented as she’d known he would. He wouldn’t have brought her the photos if he hadn’t really wanted her help—needed her help. It was that thought that had made the rest of the dinner bearable.
“Caligrace Westfield.”
Her fingers trembled now as she put the key into the ignition. As far as she knew, she’d never heard the name before and yet...
She was anxious to get home, even though Rourke had wanted to put her in a taxi. She’d pointed out that she hadn’t finished her second Scotch and was fine to drive. She was still shaken, blaming it on the fact that she’d gotten her hopes up that the dinner was going to be more than it was.
There was another reason she felt the need to get home quickly. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on her files. From the time she’d started with the Seattle P.D., she had copied all of her notes on the cases she’d worked on and photocopied everything in the files, including making duplicate photos. She didn’t care that it was against protocol. She liked to look at them, study them, see what she could have done differently. See what she might have missed.
If this cold case of Rourke’s really was one she’d worked on—even as a street cop taking photos of the looky-loos behind the crime-scene tape—well, then she would have all the information in her files at home.
The engine turned over. Shifting into Drive, she pulled out without looking. A car horn blared. She slammed on her brakes. The driver of the vehicle swerved around her, barely missing her. Anywhere else but Seattle and the driver would have given her the finger.
Shaken, she looked back to see a second car. This driver had managed to stop in time. The driver impatiently motioned for her to go. She smiled a thank-you back at him and, her heart hammering, pulled out into traffic.
Fortunately, her apartment wasn’t far from downtown Seattle. She navigated the half dozen blocks, concentrating on her driving, still upset from her near accident.
As she pulled into her parking garage and shut off the engine, she tried to calm down. But it was useless. Seeing Rourke again had stirred up a cauldron of emotions that now roiled inside her. Loving Rourke hurt and always had, but she’d thought she had learned to live with it.
Today she’d realized how wrong she was. She smacked the steering wheel with her palm, hating him and the spell some woman in a photo had cast on him. She couldn’t let him jeopardize his career, not for some old cold case. Maybe especially for one he said he was doing for her. But even at that thought, she knew she couldn’t stop him.
The parking garage seemed to close in around her. She had been getting better. Her psychiatrist had said during her last appointment that he was pleased with the progress she’d made.
“I still get scared sometimes,” she’d admitted. “But I’m not so afraid when I leave my apartment now. I still check the backseat of my car. Not as often as I used to, though.”
He’d nodded sagely. “It’s wise to be aware of your surroundings, living in a city. You’re getting out more, then?”
“I’m shopping for my own groceries again and going to lunch occasionally with friends.” The last part wasn’t exactly true. She’d never had a lot of friends. But, unlike some people, she didn’t mind eating alone.
The doctor had studied her openly. “You seem better. Do you feel better?”
She had.
Now, though, she couldn’t catch her breath. She listened for the sound of footfalls in the cool dimness of the garage, suddenly afraid she was no longer alone. Logically, she knew there probably wasn’t anyone crouched in a dark corner of the garage, waiting for her. Just as she had known there probably wasn’t a boogeyman hiding under her bed when she
