- -
- 100%
- +
“My testing days are over,” Chad told him with just a touch of regret. “In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been a civilian for over eight years now.”
Chad managed to say this and keep a straight face. Danson headed special projects for DARPA. He had access to everyone’s records. He knew exactly what Chad had been doing.
Not that his career was any secret. He was still in touch with most of the Delta Force guys who’d served with him in Desert Storm. Some were still in the military, while others, like him, had opted for a so-called normal life.
“I know you’re an underwater forensic expert.” Danson’s tone was clipped, a sure sign he was pissed. Like lots of military types, Danson was big on respect. He didn’t appreciate a former subordinate giving him a ration of grief. Of course, Chad didn’t give a rat’s ass what Danson thought.
“Underwater forensics means—”
“I know. You’re Sherlock Holmes with a scuba tank. You contract out to police departments that don’t have an underwater expert, but most of your work is for insurance companies who balk at paying certain claims. Like Townsend.”
Chad gazed at Danson, not surprised to learn the man knew exactly what he was doing down here.
“Look, we’re prepared to pay you a bundle to test for us.”
“Why not use one of your own boys?” Chad would be damned before he’d act curious, but he was. DARPA usually tested its own inventions. Why didn’t they want to test this?
“Good question.” Danson fiddled with the shades perched on top of his balding head. “We don’t want word to leak out on this one. Too sensitive. You still have your SAP/SAR.”
Why hadn’t the military terminated his top secret clearance? Special Access Program/Special Access Required—SAP/SAR—was damn tough to get. The light dawned. DARPA had kept his SAP/SAR active in case they needed him.
“You could do this, Chad, make some easy dough, and still snoop around under water all you want.”
“What is it that you want me to test?”
“I can’t tell you until you agree to test and sign the mandatory confidentiality document.”
“Then count me out until I know what it is. How else can I decide if I’ll have the time or interest?”
“Christ, Langston, you’re pressing your luck.”
“Damn straight. You need me more than I need you or you wouldn’t have flown all the way down here.”
Danson stared at a knockout blonde in a hot-pink butt floss bikini who wandered past. Chad knew Danson wouldn’t tell him a thing until the woman was too far away to hear them.
The first time Chad met Danson was when Chad joined Delta Force. They were being trained to be dropped behind enemy lines. Danson outfitted each member of the team with a portable multiband scanner that was supposed to scan for any available uplink to the Department of Defense satellite.
Damn things never worked reliably, but they didn’t find that out until they were behind enemy lines in Desert Storm and couldn’t contact the DOD satellite. Chad had taken his apart and tinkered with the mechanism and finally got it going. After the war, Danson used Chad’s modifications to make a smaller—and totally reliable—scanner.
Chad had spent his last year in the service testing military devices for DARPA. He’d loved the work, but when his father died unexpectedly, Chad returned to Honolulu.
“Okay, off the record,” Danson said with a huff of disgust. “We’ve developed a handheld infrared device that can distinguish between thermal signatures.”
Chad knew all living creatures, plants and machinery gave off heat. Sophisticated infrared sensors could detect the heat and know where something was located. But what was the object?
Chad let out a low whistle. “You mean it can tell the difference between a car and a man?”
“You bet. It’ll tell the difference between a gorilla and a person.”
Chad was more than impressed. Satellite surveillance relied on telescopic photography during the day, and it was damn good. You could hit the magnify button and look at a drop of dew on a leaf, but at night surveillance went to infrared. Every living thing had a thermal signature that showed up as red on the screen.
Objects such as cars in use gave off enough heat to be confused with people when viewed on the screen. In populated areas, all that could be seen at night was a big red blob. Essentially satellite surveillance after dark sucked.
“Sounds promising.” Chad deliberately kept his tone noncommittal. “So why isn’t the military testing it?”
“It’s top secret. I mean double classified. Most of the world thinks we can’t track them if they move at night. We’d like to keep it that way.”
Chad would bet his life there was more to it, but he was smart enough to accept what Danson told him without comment.
“You in?” Danson asked.
Chad hesitated, thinking of everything he had going on in his life. The insurance investigations, his dive boats—most of all, his family. Five years ago, his father had died and soon after, his mother. Being the only son with three sisters and a slew of nieces and nephews meant he became head of the family. He liked it, but their activities took up a lot of his time.
“I’ll test it for you, if I can do it in Honolulu.”
“Not a problem.”
“You know I’m going to look for every flaw and report it.”
“Just what we want. When you report, call me at this number.” He pulled a card out of the pocket of his swimming trunks. “Use a pay phone, not a cell phone. No IMing. No e-mails.”
Chad nodded. Now he knew the problem. Somewhere, the brass had a leak.
CHAPTER TWO
IT HAD BEEN SUCH A BUSY morning that Lindsey hadn’t taken time to phone in her usual order for a turkey sandwich from The Basket Lady who delivered lunch to businesses. It was hard to believe she was hawking jewelry to tourists instead of working in finance. She loved numbers and always had. She had an MBA in statistics. When would she be able to work in her field again?
Until last year, what she’d known about crime, she’d learned watching DeNiro and Pacino. Hul-lo! Welcome to the real world. White collar criminals were just as deadly as the Mafia.
Looking up, she saw a couple from the Midwest pass her shop. They were slurping soda from huge plastic cups. They didn’t even glance at the jewelry in the window.
She’d selected this shop not only for its historic beauty, but because it gave her a good view up the street and there was a back way out. Two, actually, if you counted the back door to Romero’s gallery.
Ever-vigilant, she’d learned to memorize people’s faces. If someone was following her, she would know it. At least that’s what she told herself. With so many tourists swarming through the city now that summer had arrived, it was impossible to truly memorize every face.
Still, she continued to try.
She squinted against the early-afternoon sunlight at the dark-haired man striding toward the gallery. He was a head taller than most men, but even if he hadn’t been, Lindsey would have been able to pick out Derek Albright, her WITSEC field contact.
The deputy marshal had square-jawed good looks and carried himself with an erect, military bearing. He’d been a Marine before joining the Federal Marshal’s group that ran the witness protection program. His training showed not only in his posture but in the way he talked and acted.
What was he doing here now?
Not that he ever announced his visits. In the beginning, he’d popped in to see her several times a week. As she became acclimated, he visited her each week. Lately she was lucky to see him once a month.
Derek had appeared at her condo one night last week. It was much too soon for him to be here again. Wasn’t it? Maybe something had happened to her sister, Tina or her niece, Ariel. Her stomach cramping with apprehension, she braced herself for bad news as Derek opened Dreamcatcher’s door, but he greeted her with a smile.
“Hey, Lindsey.”
A thought suddenly hit her. Maybe a date had been set for the trial. Perhaps an end to this nightmare was in sight. Something in her chest felt lighter—almost hopeful.
Derek’s eyes were on the open door leading into Romero’s gallery. “Close it.”
Lindsey slipped over to the connecting door and saw Romero animatedly talking to a couple about a Kevin Red Star lithograph. Without a sound she shut the door.
“I need to talk to you,” Derek said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Close the gallery. Let’s go to lunch.”
“Okay, but let me tell Romero. He’ll watch the shop and take care of Zach.”
It took her a minute to explain an old friend had dropped by and needed to talk to her. Since Romero couldn’t see Derek from where he was standing, she thought he would assume it was a woman. From his wink, she decided he believed she had a boyfriend.
What a sweetie, she sighed inwardly. He genuinely cared about her. Too bad she couldn’t tell him how much his friendship meant to her.
She left Zach in the gallery and walked outside with Derek. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you all about it.” He sounded happy. “I made lunch reservations at La Casa Sena.”
“Really? Since when does WITSEC bankroll lunches at pricey restaurants? This must be good news.”
“Good news and bad news.” Suddenly the air was fraught with tension and an undercurrent of expectation. “Which do you want first?”
She’d been so battered down with bad news that she almost opted for the good first. No. This experience had taught her to face her fears and deal with them.
“The bad.”
His eyes shifted, a subtle movement most people would have missed, but she knew he was checking out the people around them because that’s what he’d taught her. Tourists, she decided, covertly skimming the clusters of people strolling through the area.
“Headquarters intercepted an expert hacker who was attempting to access your file.”
His words beat against her temples. Fear she’d been trying too long to ignore spread through her with a mind-numbing punch.
“Don’t worry. We stopped them.”
THE FRAGRANT YEASTY SCENT of warm sapodillas filled the air in La Casa Sena. Ordinarily Lindsey would have been ready to fill one of the hollow centered buns with honey and gobble it down, but her mind wasn’t on food. Derek had insisted on putting off telling her the good news until they had ordered lunch and wine had been served.
“Okay, now for the good news.” Derek raised his glass of Pinot Noir to hers.
Lindsey clinked her goblet against his, concealing her frustration with a manufactured smile. She still held out the hope that the good news was a date had been set for the trial.
Derek grinned and took a swig of wine before, saying in a voice charged with excitement, “I’ve been promoted. I’m going back to headquarters in D.C.”
He kept talking, but all she heard was a blur of words. This was the good news? Anger mushroomed inside her. What had begun as frustration morphed into something larger, darker.
Derek was her lifeline, her contact with the people who had taken control of her destiny. They weren’t close—exactly—but there was an immeasurable, unseen bond between them. They’d talked for hours, particularly in those early days just after her arrival. He’d taught her how to start over, how to construct a new past, and how to protect herself.
Since she’d come to Santa Fe, Derek had been the only person she dared trust. Now, he was leaving and to him this was an occasion to be celebrated. For her it was…she couldn’t quite put in words how she felt, what he’d become to her.
With everyone and everything she’d known and loved taken from her—even a field contact whose job it was to guide her—was a special person. Allowing Derek Albright to gain such importance illustrated just how screwed-up her life had become.
“Hey, Lindsey, what’s the matter?”
“You jerk! This is the good news?”
He shrugged and tried for a smile.
“Am I supposed to be happy for you?”
“No, not really.” A note of apology crept into his voice. “I thought I owed you an explanation.”
“Really? I can’t imagine why.” Like a balloon inflating, anger was quickly becoming rage.
“I know you expected me to stay with you until after the trial.” He furtively glanced around him to see if anyone was listening. No one was, but he lowered his voice and leaned even closer. “With all the pressure to increase Homeland Security, the Marshal’s pool of agents has been sucked dry. They need me in D.C. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up. Hell, under normal circumstances, it would take me another five…ten years to get to that level.”
When she’d been on the fast track at PowerTec, she had been just as ambitious. Maybe more so. She should give him a break, but she couldn’t. The head of WITSEC had assured her that her handler would be with her until the trial was over. Derek had sworn he would stay until the end.
Well, what did she expect? Close enough for government work, her father used to say. They did whatever they damn well pleased—regardless of their promises.
He waited for the server to put down their salads before saying, “My replacement will be here next week.”
“When are you leaving?”
“On the five o’clock flight this evening.”
Now all she had was Romero, and the way he’d been acting, she might have to distance herself from him. What a hoot! Tyler had once accused her of being “too social.” Now she was alone in the world with just a dog.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re the most self-sufficient witness I’ve ever protected. We just want you to be cautious. At about a year witnesses become careless. They think the danger has passed.”
“That’s why Rutherford and Ames have waited until now to find me by trying to access my file. They think WITSEC has become careless, too.”
He poked at his salad with his fork. “Masterson thinks someone was testing the waters. You know, making sure the electronic security works. Yours wasn’t the only file they tried to access. Could have been the FBI or CIA. Nothing to worry about.”
Curt Masterson directed the WITSEC program. He was an impressive bull of a man who probably knew what he was talking about. If he were wrong, she was dead.
“Your jacket is buried so deep that no one’s going to find it. Trust me, the Feds saw to it and Masterson double-checked them.”
Federal Prosecutors were usually the ones who recommended witnesses for the program. It was in their interest to protect the confidential file—the jacket—on a witness.
Reese Barnaby III—three-fer to his buddies—was among the most ambitious of the federal prosecutors. His successful prosecution of the top executives of PowerTec would make him a household word in Texas without him having to spend the millions it usually took politicians to buy name recognition.
Lindsey took a bite of her salad. It was hard to swallow; life was hard to swallow. “I hope Masterson is right. I want to live to testify.”
“I’m sure Masterson has taken precautions he hasn’t told me about. You’re a top priority. You know the 800 number you have memorized?”
“Yes.” Before she left the safe house in D.C., she had to memorize the special number. Each time she met Derek, he had asked her to repeat the number she was to call in case she couldn’t reach him in an emergency.
“Not every witness is given that number.”
“Why not?”
“Because a lot of them are lowlifes from drug gangs. It’s not safe for them to go home, but hit teams aren’t looking for them.”
She managed a nod, her anger barely under control.
“The number is for high risk, high priority witnesses. You call and a special task force will be mobilized to help you.”
“What a joke! They’re supposed to rush from D.C. in time to save me?”
“WITSEC will notify the FBI’s field office here. They’ll help you.”
Lindsey found this somewhat reassuring. She had contacted the FBI when she’d discovered the discrepancies in PowerTec’s accounting records. The FBI had immediately responded, analyzed the situation and sent in an undercover agent to gather more information. Annette Sperling had been a top-notch accountant who easily joined PowerTec without anyone suspecting who she really was.
Annette had worked at PowerTec six months, covertly analyzing their financial transactions, before someone killed her execution style. An hour after Lindsey found her body, the FBI yanked Lindsey out of Houston and put her in protective custody.
“Any word on when those creeps will be brought to trial?” she asked.
“No. These things take a while.”
“It’s been almost a year.”
“Don’t raise your voice,” he warned. “I know you’re frustrated. Remember Enron. It was over a year before indictments came down. It takes time to build the kind of case they need to get convictions. Rutherford and Ames can afford counsel who’ll provide the most amazing legal gymnastics imaginable.”
Ted Rutherford, CEO and her boss, CFO, Jackson Ames. Thinking of them made something in her gut coil inside itself. Once she’d looked up to them, especially Jack. She’d worked with him every day—and never suspected the truth.
“Has there been any progress in the investigation of Annette’s murder?” she asked, although she was certain she knew the answer. She monitored the case on SmokingGun.com. No leads. Nothing. All the signs of a professional hit.
“No, but everyone knows who’s responsible.”
“Rutherford and Ames.”
“Annette didn’t deserve to die.”
She didn’t say she might have bought it that night, as well. Tyler’s unexpected meeting with out-of-town clients had given her some free time. She’d returned to PowerTec just after the undercover agent had been murdered. If she’d arrived a few minutes earlier, the killer would have shot her, too.
“From what I hear the Feebies thought highly of Annette. They miss her.”
“Why did you come all the way here to take me to lunch and tell me you’re leaving? You could have called.”
Two beats of silence. “There are things I wanted to discuss with you—off the record.”
An ominous premonition snaked through her. What next?
“If Masterson or anyone finds out—I’m finished.”
“I won’t say a word. I swear.”
“Most of the witnesses I’ve worked with have been drug dealers or LCN. Scumbags who flipped—turned on their bosses—but they’re still criminals.”
She’d learned the FBI and U.S. Marshals called the Mafia by the abbreviated term for La Cosa Nostra—LCN.
“I thought less than ten percent of WITSEC people return to lives of crime.”
“True, but I still have to deal with a bunch of lowlifes.”
“With Worldcom and Enron and now PowerTec, it looks like white collar crime is a growth industry.”
He chuckled at her lame attempt at a joke. “Be serious.”
“I’m serious. Deadly serious.”
He waited for the server to remove their salad plates and serve their entrées. Lindsey mustered a smile for the waiter. She sampled the veal in tequila chili sauce after Derek was served his Adobo steak.
“Like I told you earlier, you’re entering the period when most witnesses let down their guard. They call people they’re not authorized to call. You wouldn’t believe how many of them return home to attend a funeral or a wedding.”
“I know I’m in danger. I was the one to find Annette Sperling’s body, remember?”
She would never forget walking into the office where the agent was working undercover. Annette had been slumped forward over her computer keyboard. A single bullet had parted the blond hair at the back of her head, leaving a neat hole and a trail of blood running down her back and pooling on the carpet.
“I remember,” he said between bites of steak. “We’re still worried.”
We? Obviously he’d been discussing her with the boys at headquarters in DC.
“Why are you worried about me?”
“You haven’t adjusted. Living here, owning a gallery isn’t enough. You should have friends—”
“I have a good friend. We’re having dinner tonight.”
“One friend isn’t enough. If all you have is one friend, you eventually confide in him. Then they tell someone, who tells someone…” His tone said he’d seen if before—too many times. “Next thing. You’re compromised.”
“Trust no one.”
“It’s not that simple. Become the new you. Build another life. You need to get out there. Date. Make a circle of friends the way you did in Houston so you’re not emotionally relying on one friend. That’ll help you become normal again.”
“Normal? After the trial, my life can return to normal.”
Derek swiped at his lips with the napkin. “Don’t count on being able to go home. We’re convinced the PowerTec jerks will arrange to kill you even if both of them are in jail.”
How could she go on like this? Always watching her back? Listening to strange sounds in the night and wondering if they’d found her. Never seeing her sister. Her niece. The man she loved?
What choice did she have?
This was her life—part two—the sad and lonely part.
Whoever said the truth will set you free—obviously hadn’t tried it. The truth had wiped out a promising career, a wonderful life.
And the truth might be the death of her.
Derek continued, “We just can’t trust Rutherford or Ames not to hire someone to kill you from their prison cells.”
She didn’t doubt it. From what she’d been able to tell, they had a fortune socked away in offshore and Swiss accounts. Carrion eaters of the corporate world, Rutherford and Ames had taken voodoo accounting to a new level. They each had a ruthless, vengeful streak.
“Don’t forget all I’ve taught you. Keep your eye on people around you, even those at a distance.”
“Believe me, I’m getting good at it.”
“You’ve got two cell phones, batteries charged?”
“Of course. They’re in my purse. Same with the gun.”
“About the gun.” There was a tick of something that bordered on worry in his voice. “Witnesses aren’t supposed to have guns.”
“But if someone is after them—”
“Too many are former criminals. Giving them a gun is against the rules.”
The light dawned. He’d broken a rule for her, and he didn’t want anyone to know. This was the real reason he’d come to see her. Derek had expected to be with her through the trial. He never thought he would have to hand her over to someone who might jeopardize his career by revealing what he’d done.
“I won’t say a word to the new guy.”
Obviously relieved, he grinned. “Might be a woman.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, before she asked, “Why did you give me a gun?”
“Right from the first, you were different. All I’d dealt with were LCN lowlifes or drug pushers. You were a class act. Intelligent. Quick to learn.” He put down his fork, his dark eyes troubled. “But I worried about you. I didn’t—still don’t—think you know what you’re up against. I wanted to give you as much protection as I possibly could.”
Lindsey was touched. Derek had been professional the entire time. She’d never suspected he’d cared one whit about her. Not only had he cared, but he’d jeopardized his career to help her.
“I’m good at self-defense. I go to the firing range once a week.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “You’ve done the best you could. The rest is up to me. Enjoy your promotion.”
She was unable to conceal the note of appreciation that had crept into her voice. Once men had fallen all over themselves to help her. Then came the murder. Suddenly the men in her life gave her orders, not caring in the least what she thought or wanted.
“Start dating. You’re too pretty, too intelligent to become a hermit.”
“I’m not all that interested in—”
“Even if you did return to Houston…” He let the words drift away.
She remembered her final day there, a sunny Saturday in April. The last time she’d been with Tyler. The weather had been nice enough to have the top down on his Porsche. They’d laughed and talked as they slogged through traffic to have lunch on the patio at Zov’s Bistro.