Devon. “I’ve already told you that.”
Devon had reviewed her chart this morning. She’d slept well. Had consumed a good portion of her breakfast. Vitals were good. The general symptoms associated with splenic rupture were all but gone. Vision was within normal range. No light-headedness or shock. Beyond the confusion about her identity, all appeared to be well.
Then again, mere confusion rarely included a driver’s license and vehicle registration in the wrong name. Obviously the woman was working with someone. Frankly, her brain injury was hardly significant enough to have caused any serious confusion or amnesia. Now that she was stable, there was no reason she shouldn’t be able to tell the truth. No other drugs had been found in the follow-up toxicology. Of course, there were a number of drugs that dissipated too quickly to be caught in a tox screen.
“Let’s talk about who you are,” Ms. Lytle suggested to the woman in the bed. “What is your name?”
The pretend Cara blinked, then looked away. “I don’t know.”
Ms. Lytle set her bag on the floor and reached inside. She removed a plastic bag somewhat larger than a typical sandwich bag. With her hand inside the bag, she used it like a glove to pick up the plastic cup on the patient’s overbed table. Then she pulled the plastic over the cup, successfully bagging it.
With a quick smile at the other woman, Ms. Lytle said, “The police might be able to track down your identity through your fingerprints.”
Big blue eyes stared first at Ms. Lytle and then at Devon. “Is that legal?” she asked him. “For her to come into my room and take my fingerprints like that?” She knotted her fingers together. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Don’t you want to know who you are?” Devon braced his hands on the footboard of the bed. “You may have a husband or family worried about you.”
She stared directly at him, her blue eyes pooled with tears. Fear, whether real or simulated, glistened there. “You’re certain I’m not your wife?”
“No. You are not my wife.”
Ms. Lytle placed the commandeered cup into her bag and retrieved a pad and pen. “Why don’t we start with whatever you remember before arriving at the ER?”
The woman blinked, stared for a long moment at Ms. Lytle. “I don’t remember anything.”
Ms. Lytle nodded. “All right, then. We’ll see what the police can find. If there are any outstanding warrants or investigations related to your fingerprints, they will discuss those issues directly with you. I wish you a speedy recovery.”
The woman, looking decidedly pale against the white sheets, bit her bottom lip as if to hold back whatever words wanted to pop out of her. Ms. Lytle picked up her bag and turned toward the door before hesitating. She studied the other woman for half a minute before she spoke. “You do realize that if someone hired you to pretend to be Cara Pierce that you’re a loose end?”
The pretender’s eyes grew wider. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“When that person—the person who hired you—is finished with whatever game he’s playing, you will be an unnecessary risk. We—” she gestured to Devon “—can help you, but we’re not going to waste resources on an uncooperative witness.”
A frown furrowed across her brow. “Witness?”
Ms. Lytle nodded. “That’s what you are. Someone has committed a crime. You obviously know who that someone is, so that makes you a witness, perhaps an accessory. If you willingly participated in that crime, then you’ll be charged accordingly—unless you cooperate, in which case the DA might offer you immunity.”
“So,” she said slowly, “you’re a cop.”
Isabella Lytle had introduced herself as an investigator. Devon hadn’t considered it at the time but the move was an ingenious one.
“Investigator Lytle,” he said, saving her the lie, “has been assigned to your case. If you cooperate, she may be able to help you avoid legal charges.”
Silence thickened for several seconds before the woman blurted, “I didn’t know he was going to try to kill me or I would never have gone along with this crazy scheme.” She looked from Devon to Ms. Lytle, her fingers knotted in the sheet. “I thought it was a game.”
Ms. Lytle asked, “The man who hired you, do you know his name?”
She shook her head and then winced. Her head no doubt still ached. “He never told me his name. He offered me five thousand dollars and promised there was a bonus if I didn’t screw up.”
Ms. Lytle reached for her pad and pen once more. “Can you describe the man to me?”
She blew out a big breath, and her blond bangs fluttered. “You’re not going to believe this but it was dark in the room where we met. He wouldn’t let me turn on the lights. He told me what he wanted, gave me a thousand bucks up front and walked out. Next thing I knew, I was snagged from my regular corner. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up here.”
“You’re a prostitute, is that correct?” Outrage burst inside Devon. The idea that whoever had done this had taken advantage of someone so vulnerable made him all the angrier.
“A girl’s gotta make a living somehow.” She straightened the sheet at her waist. Smoothed the wrinkles her nervous fingers had created.
“Where did you and this man meet?” Ms. Lytle asked.
“Over on East Ontario.” She fidgeted with the edge of the sheet some more. “A car picked me up and took me to that real fancy hotel over on Michigan Avenue.” Her lips trembled into a small smile. “I was thinking that was going to be my lucky day. You know, a big tipper.”
“Which hotel?” Ms. Lytle asked.
When the woman had given the name and address of the hotel, Devon demanded, “What can you tell me about his voice? Deep? Did he sound older or younger?”
“Not really so deep. He sounded older than me for sure.” She moistened her lips. “His voice was kind of gravelly like he’d spent a lot of years smoking.”
“What exactly did he ask you to do?” Devon demanded. He realized he’d taken over the interview but it was his prerogative. Ms. Lytle worked for him, after all. This outrageous situation was about him! Fury twisted sharply inside him.
“He said all I had to do was pretend to be someone else for a day. Easy money. Big money.” She shrugged one thin shoulder. “I didn’t know I’d be getting hurt and almost die.”
“What’s your name?” Ms. Lytle asked before Devon could launch his next question.
“Audrey.” She stared at her manicured fingernails, anywhere but at the woman questioning her. “Audrey Maynard.”
“Audrey,” Ms. Lytle began, “you said the hotel room was dark. Did you get any sense of his height or how big or small he was?”
She started to move her head but winced. “Not really. He was sitting in a chair. I could sort of make out his form against the cream-colored chair.
