Extreme Exposure (22 page)

If this cop recognized her, then they’d run.

She shot another glance at the girl. Her name was Michelle Stafford and she was five foot six, almost Nicky’s height, thirteen years old. Her soft, tiny facial features were still that of a child, but a somber guardedness in those gray-blue eyes suggested she’d already witnessed too much of life’s dark side. That and the large bruise yellowing on her left cheek.

Nicky tightened her fists as a sudden fierce resolve coursed through her. She felt like a mama bear protecting her cub. The cops wouldn’t get Michelle, not if she could help it.

Four people now waited with them to cross the street. She snuck a glance back at the cop. He caught her eye, gave her the onceover. Looking away, she sucked in a ragged breath, and caught a whiff of wet cement that reminded her of running track in high school. Practicing sprints and hurdles in the chill fall air. She’d been fast, probably still was. The girl would be, too.

The cop didn’t look fast. But maybe he wouldn’t need to be.

Holding her breath, waiting for him to shout at them to stop, she kept him in her peripheral vision. Ready to run if he moved a single step.

A car honked its horn. She jumped, swallowed hard. Beside her, a woman in hospital scrubs spoke loudly into a cell phone. Somebody had botched the grooming of her dog. Coco now had an eye infection and the woman wanted everybody in Riverton in on that little tidbit. Across the street, a woman in red running shorts bounced up and down on her toes, impatient to cross.

The girl didn’t say anything, just stood, her body rigid, staring straight ahead.

At last the light changed. Starting across the intersection, Nicky kept a steadying hand on the girl’s arm and forced herself not to hurry, to go with the flow. Not until they were on the other side of the street did she let out a heavy breath.

A tear escaped Michelle’s eye and flowed down the middle of her bruised cheek. Nicky squeezed her hand. “Just a couple more blocks, Michelle. You’ll be okay.”

She scanned the sidewalk. A young guy in a jean jacket and baggy pants stared at her as he walked toward them. He wasn’t looking at Michelle, but Nicky kept her eye on him until they passed. Paranoia strikes deep.

Michelle had arrived at the shelter last week, brought in by another kid after two nights on the streets. This morning, they’d convinced her to see a doctor. Nicky thought about what the doctor had told her, while Michelle was using the bathroom. Her throat soured. No wonder she’d run away. But that was a whole other worry.

A block from the shelter, the sun broke through the low clouds, and flashed off car windshields. More people spilled onto the sidewalks. That was good and bad. She and Michelle weren’t as exposed, but it’d be harder to tell if they were being followed. Not that she had any skills on that front. She was a youth worker, not some covert operator.

Her eyes swept the length of the street, taking in the four people in a bus shelter up ahead. And just past them a woman in a tight cobalt-blue dress was leaning against a door, smoking a cigarette. Across the road, a man walking a muscular dog stopped to read a menu posted outside a new pizzeria. Cars streamed by. Nobody slowed or seem to take any interest in them.

Rolling her shoulders, she tried to shake off some of the tension. She felt sweaty despite the September chill and her damp hair and clothes.

The cigarette smoker ground the butt into the sidewalk, smoothed her dress then vanished inside a shoe shop.

Nicky pointed out a department store just past the shoe shop. “They have a section for teens upstairs. We could go check it out if you’d like.”

The girl brightened. “Oh, please. I hardly have any clothes.” Her voice was soft, surprisingly low-pitched. “One of the girls lent me a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, but they’re too big.”

Nicky smiled. Those were the most words the girl had strung together in two days. It’d been hard to tell if she was naturally quiet or had switched off because of everything she’d been through.

Two minutes later, they turned the final corner before the youth shelter. The tan brick building was on the other side of the street, down half a block. Out front, in a no-parking zone, a man leaned against a dark gray sedan. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a light shirt and dark pants.

Nicky stopped short. Something needled at the edge of her brain. It took a second more to process what it was. The kids were all inside, not hanging out in the sunshine on the front steps.

The man was a cop.

Her heart pounding against her ribs, she reached into her shoulder bag, fished out her cell phone and shoved it into Michelle’s hand.

The cop looked in their direction. Seeing them, he uncrossed his arms, pushed himself away from the car, then pulled out his wallet and flashed a badge.

She said, “Call the shelter tonight. The number’s programmed in there.” Her eyes searched the girl’s face. “Promise?”

Michelle glanced at the man, then back at Nicky. She nodded as she clasped the cell phone. She was already up on the balls of her feet, just waiting for the go-ahead.

Nicky said, “Remember that department store? Go in there. There’s an exit at the back to the next street over.” She pressed some bills from her wallet into the girl’s hand. “Hide out for a couple of hours, then phone. Don’t use your own phone. Promise?”

Michelle’s lips trembled and her eyes flicked between Nicky and the cop. “Promise.”

The cop stood by his car watching them, swinging his arms.

Michelle turned, bolted up the street. She slowed for a second to hook the knapsack on both shoulders but didn’t look back. She was fast, all right. Her long legs flew over the pavement.

Nicky turned back to the cop. He was halfway across the street, a hand outstretched to stop cars. His mouth was open in surprise, his eyes locked onto her.

A glance up the street showed her Michelle had disappeared. Nicky felt a sudden lightness. Michelle was the main thing. If she got away it’d be a bonus.

Nicky set off in the opposite direction Michelle had taken. Holding the shoulder bag with one hand against her chest, she raced to the next corner, catching a glimpse of the cop sprinting up the sidewalk before she rounded the corner of a smaller side street. She bolted down the street, nearly tripping, weaving in and around people, not bothering to look back now. A woman pushing a stroller swore at her.

Up ahead was a park. Darting through open wrought-iron gates, she ran down a set of concrete steps, jumped the railing near the bottom and landed heavily on her feet on a patch of grass. She crouched down next to the concrete, and tried to catch her breath.

The park took up a small city block. Just ahead in the center was a large ornate fountain, surrounded by manicured flower beds set in a sweep of lawn. Small trees lined the perimeter. It was a place people came to sit for a few minutes. Nobody in their right mind would come to hide. It was too open, exposed.

Two young men in suits sitting on a bench gave her a look. A hard stare convinced them to lose interest. The steady rush of water splashing in the fountain all but drowned out sounds from the street above. To her right, at one end of the park, another set of stairs led to a small church. It was white clapboard, one of the oldest in the state, its doors open to tourists. And fugitives. Time to move again.

Half crouching, she peered over her shoulder up the stairs. No sign of the cop. Taking a deep breath, her bag secured across her chest, she stood up, turned around.

And slammed into something hard as a wall. She bit her lip and tasted blood. Blinking, she tried to pull back but was spun around, both arms yanked behind her back.

The cop.

“Take it easy, will you?” she shouted as the handcuffs snapped shut.

CHAPTER TWO

W
hen the cop whirled Nicky back around, she found herself staring at a broad, muscled chest. No wonder her nose felt like it’d been smashed into a wall. He had plenty through the arms and shoulders, too, and stood at least a head taller than her.

The word “strapping” came to mind. It would be perfectly natural for him to start thumping his chest and yelling a Tarzan-like call of the jungle. How he had managed to move so quickly was a marvel.

Shifting back a half step, her glance moved up his chest—lingering momentarily on the man cleavage peeking out from two undone buttons—to his face.

The curse emerged out loud this time. His eyes were intense. Not just the color, a clear, medium blue, but the way they seemed to examine every inch of her face. But not in a way that suggested he liked what he saw. If anything, it was the opposite. Like the way a rude plastic surgeon might react when presented with a particularly nasty facial disfigurement.

Swallowing hard, she took a full step back. Something weird was going on.

Those eyes not leaving her, he let go of her arm, took out his wallet and stuck a shiny metal badge in her face. Police investigator, it said. He brushed sweat from his brow with his forearm, then pocketed the badge.

“What the hell did you run for? Don’t tell me you didn’t see the badge.” Still catching his breath, he relaxed his scrutiny of her and leaned over, putting his hands on his knees.

The question seemed rhetorical and she wasn’t about to answer anyway. Not asking about Michelle didn’t make sense, but maybe he wasn’t too smart. Not that he looked dull, but you couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Not getting an answer, he curled his lip in disgust, reached down for her handbag and rummaged through it. Finding nothing of interest, he put it under his arm, then used his cell phone to request a car to pick them up and for someone to fetch the sedan parked outside the shelter.

Off the phone, he looked at her again. He’d caught his breath, and seemed less angry, but his odd expression suggested he remained convinced she was an alien life form.

An alien life form he was not. He was an excellent example of the male human species, in fact. Impressive eyebrows, a strong jaw, and a long, straight nose on a squarish face still flushed from exertion. The dark blond hair was messy and in need of a trim, but it combined with the stubble on his chin to give an impression of rough, raw masculinity more in keeping with thugs than cops. He’d be a natural at undercover work.

Finished with the call, he put the phone on his belt, took hold of her arm again.

The manhandling she could do without, but she had to keep her cool. She had to cut herself some slack for running, but antagonizing him further would be a fool’s errand. And he’d stopped looking at her as if she were some kind of freak, the scowl on his face now reflecting that mix of irritation, suspicion, and disgust cops wore so well.

A small crowd had gathered. A chubby girl licking an ice-cream cone resisted the efforts of her father to tug her away. Behind the girl, a teenaged boy videotaped the incident. The suits had returned to their nine-to-five jobs.

She rolled her eyes at the teenager. Didn’t he have anything better to do?

The cop said, “Let’s go.” Holding her arm, he put his hand on her upper arm and led her up the stairs. At the top, avoiding the stares of passersby, she snuck another look at the cop. His blue shirt brought out the color in those penetrating eyes. He would wear blue a lot; she’d bet good money that he was the vain type. The shirt had a logo on it, a little pony. Why did people do that, make themselves walking advertisements for clothing companies?

A few minutes later, a squad car pulled up. He helped her inside. The cop talked with the driver, but the radio chatter was too loud for her to make it out. She tried to come up with a game plan, but quickly abandoned the effort in favor of just winging it. She crossed her fingers that Michelle would be able to hide out for a couple of hours until the cops released her.

Inside the station, she drew a few looks as they walked off the elevator through the squad room. On a far wall, behind some cubicles, a bulletin board displayed pictures of missing people. Michelle was front and center, smiling in a school photo. Nicky averted her gaze as the cop led her down a hallway to a small office, where he gestured toward a chair. He dumped her bag on the floor beside her, then left without saying anything or looking at her.

Somebody was clearly still pissed.

The office was small, too small for the two desks, three chairs, a bookcase, and a tall metal cabinet that had been crammed into it. On the ceiling were those large white Styrofoam tiles, held in place by steel brackets. Some were crooked, exposing long strands of red and black wires.

A minute later, the cop returned and asked her to stand, then removed the handcuffs. Rubbing her arms, she sat back down, conscious of feeling strangely calm even as he watched her every movement. She hadn’t been in a police station in a few years, but it already felt familiar. Even the smell was the same, a mix of sweat and cigarette smoke. Old feelings began to resurface, a mix of disgust and dread that made her skin crawl. She took a breath, steeling herself.

A woman came in, glanced at Nicky, then sat down at the desk directly in front of her. She was short, somewhere in her forties—at least a decade older than the guy. The man introduced her as Anna Ackerman, himself as Cullen Fraser. They were detectives. He didn’t say partners, but it seemed a given.

Ackerman’s desk was messy. She had to sift through some files to find the one she was looking for. His was tidy, two piles of paper neatly stacked, a laptop computer, a picture in a frame she couldn’t see.

Fraser leaned against the front of Ackerman’s desk—to the side so he didn’t block Ackerman—just a couple of feet away, and looked down at Nicky. If his aim was to be intimidating, he’d have to try harder.

The woman said, “Let’s start with your name, and age.”

Nicky crossed her arms, happy to focus her attention on Ackerman. “Nicole Bosko. Twenty-five.”

Ackerman wrote that down on a notepad in front of her. “You’re originally from Stephenville, just north of Riverton?”

Nicky nodded. “That’s correct.”

“You work at Stevens Youth Shelter?” She started writing something.