Death Angel

She hadn’t had any credit cards, but she didn’t tell him that. So only her ID was missing? Strange. Why take her driver’s license and not her cash?

"You didn’t have any vehicle registration in your car, either. I believe Detective Arrons wants to discuss that with you."

She imagined he did, plus the bogus license plate. She’d worry about that later. For now, she waved it away. "If the money was still there, it can go to my hospital bill. I’m not a charity case."

"I’m not worried about-"

"Maybe you aren’t, but the hospital is."

"While you’re in such a chatty mood, what’s your name?"

"Andie," she said promptly. "What’s yours?"

"Travis. Last name?"

She had always thought fast on her feet, but all of a sudden she was drawing a blank. Nothing, absolutely nothing, came to mind. She simply couldn’t come up with a fake last name. She stared at him, frowning. "I’m thinking," she finally said.

His brows knit a little. "You don’t remember?"

"Of course I remember. It’s there. Give me a minute." If Rafael thought she was dead, there was no reason for him ever to check to see if anyone with her name popped up anywhere. To be on the safe side, though, she should use a different name. Would that be completely screwing up her second chance, lying to protect herself? Maybe lying was bad when it hurt someone else, but not so bad otherwise.

She should have asked for training, or at least a set of guidelines.

"Andie," she said again, hoping for inspiration.

"You’ve already said that. Is it short for Andrea?"

"Yes." What else could she say? She couldn’t think of any other female name that started with A-n-d. She wasn’t about to tell him her last name was Butts, no matter what. Finally she gave up, shrugging. "Maybe tomorrow."

He had his pen out, making a note on her medical records.

Immediately her attention zoomed in another direction. "I’m not brain-damaged," she charged irritably. "It’s all your fault. I’m just drugged enough that I can’t think, but not drugged enough that it stops me from hurting. Have you ever stopped to think how it feels, having your chest sawed open and pulled apart and your heart manhandled? Huh? I have staples in me. I feel like a legal file or something, I have so many staples in me. You could build a house with my staples. And what do you do? You cut down on my painkillers. You should be ashamed of yourself."

She stopped, confused by her own lack of control. She never went off on anyone like that. She smiled, and acted sweet. Why was she turning into a bitch? But she also stopped because he was laughing. Laughing.

She could be friends with this man. "Sit down," she invited, "and I’ll tell you about the other place."

SIMON HAD MADE a lifelong habit of resisting temptation, but this one wore him down. The idea was always there, nagging at him, and he couldn’t let it go.

He couldn’t forget Drea’s death. He couldn’t forget her face, or the way her expression had suddenly lit with joy just as she died. He couldn’t forget her. Her death had left an ache in him that he couldn’t explain, or get rid of.

He’d shown Salinas the picture he’d taken with his cell phone, showed him Drea’s driver’s license. Salinas had blanched when he saw the picture, then sat silently for a moment. Finally he said, "Tell me where to wire your fee."

"Forget about it," Simon had said. "I didn’t do the job; she had a wreck." He’d tracked her, though, and driving too fast trying to escape him was why she’d had the wreck. Had it been anyone else, he’d have taken his fee without hesitation. While he hadn’t killed her, he had definitely caused her death; still, for the first time he couldn’t take a fee for someone’s death.

This was different.

He didn’t want it to be different. He didn’t want to feel as though a huge hollow had opened up in his life, as though he’d lost something so important he couldn’t even begin to imagine the depth of that loss. He wanted to forget the utter bliss with which she’d met her death.

But he couldn’t, and in the weeks since, he’d been driven by a gnawing compulsion to find her grave. There had been more than enough cash in her purse to pay for a decent burial. Would the state try to identify her first, keep her in a morgue while a slow-motion search for family was made? Or would she be photographed, DNA samples taken, then promptly buried?

If it was the first, maybe he could claim her body. He’d buy the most beautiful, serene cemetery plot he could find, and put her there. A granite headstone would mark the beginning and end of her life. He could put flowers there, and visit her occasionally.

And if she’d already been buried, he could make certain a stone was put there, and he could still take flowers to her. He just needed to know where she was.

Finding her should be easy, he thought. He knew where the accident had happened, so all he had to do was check the newspapers for the area. A traffic fatality, an unidentified woman-five minutes, tops, and he’d know.

He gave in to temptation, and sat down at his computer. Finding her didn’t take five minutes. It took two minutes and seven seconds.

He read everything twice, shaking his head in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. The newspaper had got it wrong; happened all the time. He checked the next day’s edition for an update, a correction. Instead, it said the same thing. Her name wasn’t known, she was a Jane Doe, but-

God. He felt as if he’d grabbed a live wire and had the hell knocked out of him. The shock was so great that he realized, with an odd kind of remoteness, that he was breathing hard and fast, and his vision had narrowed until he saw nothing but the lit computer screen. It wasn’t possible. He’d watched her die, watched her eyes dull and her pupils fix. He’d felt for the pulse in her neck, and there hadn’t been one.