His stance and stare were intimidating.
Her muscles tensed and her arm tightened about the bags she was carrying, forcing a couple of oranges over the rim of the paper bag. They rolled for a few seconds before bouncing their way down the stairs like squishy orange balls.
“Are you Alexis Beranger?”
She left his question unanswered. “Who are you?”
“Detective Gerald Hampton with the Dallas Police Department.” He flashed a badge and an ID. “I
understand your vehicle was carjacked and then wrecked today.”
Her muscles relaxed until she was no longer grinding her teeth. “I was a carjacking victim, but I’ve already told Officer Whitfield all I know.”
“I’ve seen Whitfield’s report,” Hampton said. “But I’d still like to talk to you. This shouldn’t take more than a half hour.”
She juggled the groceries so that she could poke her key into the lock.
Keep cool, she reminded herself. Don’t do anything to arouse suspicions. She was the victim, not a suspect. She had to keep it that way.
Amazingly, the conversation didn’t wake Tommy. Apparently the day had taken a lot out of him, as well. “Just have a seat anywhere,” she said, as they entered the small and sparsely furnished living area. “I’ll put my son to bed so that he can finish his nap.”
Tague followed her to the bedroom and lay Tommy in his toddler bed. When she bent over her son, her arm brushed Tague’s. Awareness created a quivering sensation in her stomach. Was she now so desperate for a man to lean on that even a kind act affected her senses?
“Thanks,” she whispered as she backed away from the bed. “You handled putting him down like a pro. He didn’t even open an eye.”
“Beginner’s luck,” he assured her once they’d stepped into the narrow hallway. “Only kid I’ve been around is my brother and sister-in-law’s foster daughter Belle and she’s only a few months old.”
Alexis started back to the living area, but Tague stepped in her path. He leaned in so close she felt his warm breath on her neck. The quivery sensations in the pit of her stomach became more intense.
“Are you nervous about talking to the detective or am I misreading something?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were literally shaking when you spotted him outside your door.”
“It’s just been a very difficult day.”
“I can sit in on your meeting with the detective, if you like.”
“It’s not necessary.” In fact, it was downright dangerous.
At this point, Tague was likely a bigger threat to her anonymity than the detective was.
Yet, the truth was, she didn’t want him to leave her alone with a man who might recognize her at any moment and pull out his cuffs. Tague might only be a pseudo friend, but that was better than nothing.
“Stick around if you want, though,” she said. “I promised you a sandwich. Wouldn’t want to send you back to your cows on an empty stomach.”
“Good thinking. I’ll grab the rest of the groceries before they spoil in the heat and be right back.”
He gave her hand a quick squeeze. He was nice to have around. Nonetheless, when he left today, she’d have to make sure their bond was irreparably severed.
She joined the detective in the living room, choosing a chair opposite where he sat on the worn sofa she’d picked up at a secondhand store.
“I’d like you to start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened, step by step, leaving nothing out no matter how insignificant it may seem,” the detective urged.
“I’ve already done that.”
“Sometimes people remember more after the crisis is over. Every detail is important. We can’t get the carjacker off the street unless we can identify him.”
“You’ll have fingerprints,” Alexis said, all too aware of how damaging that would be.
“We can’t count on that. It’s a lot more difficult to get usable prints than you’d think from watching TV crime shows.”
That offered little consolation. Her prints were undoubtedly all over the car. Some were surely distinct. She went through the particulars again. “I tried to scratch his eyes out,” she admitted. “I brought blood and I’m sure I left scars.”
“Did you tell Whitfield that?”
“I think so. I don’t remember.”
“It’s not in his report,” Hampton said. “But it is important. It’s possible you have traces of the perpetrator’s DNA under your fingernails.”
She studied her nails, but could see nothing beneath the hot-pink polish she’d applied herself. “I’ve washed my hands several times since the incident.”
“There could still be DNA under the nails. I have a kit in my car that will collect even small fragments of skin. I’ll take care of that once we’re through talking.”
“So you actually have no ideas about the carjacker’s identity?” she asked.
“Did you think that we would? Your description was vague.”
“It happened too fast for me to register a lot of pertinent details, but the guy was stoned and a thug. You must have arrested him on other charges in the past.”
“It’s possible. We suspect he’s a member of a neighborhood gang known as the Death Knights. They’re suspected of several drive-by shootings and instances of violence over the past twelve months.”
“But no one’s been convicted?”
“No, because no matter how many people witness the crime, no one will testify against them,” Hampton said.
“Why not?”
“Fear of being put on the Death Knight’s target list.”
Tague stepped into the room. “So you’re hoping Alexis will do that for you.”
Alexis had no idea how much Tague had heard, but apparently enough that he’d gotten the gist of the discussion.
Detective Hampton leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “I hope Mrs. Beranger will have the courage to testify—or at least try to pick the carjacker out of a lineup.”
“I’ll help if I can,” she lied. She wouldn’t be around that long.
The detective turned to Tague, scrutinizing him as if he were a suspect—or at the least a troublemaker. “Are you a friend of Mrs. Beranger’s?”
“You
