“People hold on to innocuous items that connect them to things that they don’t want others to know about,” Ramsey said softly.
He wasn’t telling her what to do. Wasn’t implying she didn’t know. He was reminding her of what she knew.
Because he knew that in the morning, with Wakerby’s things in front of her, she might not be at her best.
At least that’s how she took his remark. And she smiled again.
“A magazine with an address label, but the clue isn’t the address label, it’s a random picture somewhere in the magazine that prompted the person to save it.” She’d actually worked on a case where that scenario had come into play a couple of years ago, when she’d been a very junior detective.
“And then there are the accidental things.” Ramsey’s voice was soft, tired sounding. “A receipt that was left in the bottom of a bag of old socks.”
The word socks grabbed her. She’d been thinking of that box of belongings in terms of clues to finding Allie. Socks took that box down to a different level, a more personal level.
She didn’t want to see Wakerby’s socks. Or anything else that brought the man any closer to her.
And she was lying on top of her spare bed because it smelled like a man who’d shown no sign, whatsoever, that he knew she was a woman.
Lucy was off the bed in seconds, picking up her cold tea and making a beeline for her own room.
A beat-up woman, age indeterminable because of the swelling and bruising around her nose, mouth and eyes, was standing outside the office door when Ramsey got off the elevator just after six on Friday morning. He had paperwork to catch up on, reports to write, and had been hoping to get it done before all hell broke loose for the day.
Or, if no new jobs came in, before everyone showed up and started yawing at each other or someone turned on the television.
Walking past the woman might have been his easiest course.
“Is someone helping you?” he asked, standing there like he had all the time in the world.
“They said I could come up here and wait for a detective.” Her words came through lips that were stiff and doubled in size.
“Sure. I’m Detective Miller,” Ramsey said, pulling his badge out of his brown suit-coat pocket. “What can I do for you?”
Who in the hell did that to you and where am I going to find him?
“I want to know what would happen to a kid if he beat someone up.” She sounded like her mouth was wired shut. But maybe it just wouldn’t open. If her jaw wasn’t broken it was a miracle.
“Is that what happened to you? A kid beat you up?”
Her chin lifted. Ramsey couldn’t tell if it stiffened or not because of the swelling. The woman looked grotesque. Worried.
But not scared to death. “I just want to know what would happen if a kid beat someone up,” she repeated, almost as if she’d been rehearsing the line during the time he’d taken to get to work and find her there.
“It depends on the circumstances, ma’am, and the age of the kid, too.”
She didn’t reply. She wasn’t shaking. Wasn’t looking over her shoulder, or panicking. He had a feeling she might just turn, get on the elevator and leave.
He couldn’t let that happen.
“You’re not in good shape, ma’am,” he said, stepping closer to her. “Have you seen a doctor?”
She started to shake her head and winced instead. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need a doctor.”
It had to hurt like hell to speak.
“What’s your name?”
“Lonna.”
“Lonna what?”