Gray, Ginna

by The Witness

  "Yeah. My relatives call it the red man's revenge."

  Roy and Dave started to chuckle, but a look from Harvey silenced them.

  The man never missed a chance to make a snide remark about Sam's Indian blood. Though Sam had never felt as though he truly belonged in either world, he was nevertheless proud of his heritage, Indian and white. Harvey's bigotry grated, but Sam never let his resentment show, not by so much as a twitch of a muscle.

  "Funny, Rawlins. You're a real comedian. Now could we get back to what we're here for?"

  Sam folded his arms and gazed steadily back at him. "Sure. But this had better be good. It's three in the morning and I nearly froze my ass off getting here."

  Anger tightened Harvey's face, but before he could fire off a reprimand, Agent Berringer jumped in.

  "Whatsa matter, buddy? Your car heater crap out again?"

  A ghost of a smile flickered around Sam's mouth. Todd had missed his calling. He was a born peacemaker. The question was a transparent attempt to defuse the situation. "Not again. Still."

  "Whadda you mean? Dammit, I told you weeks ago to send in a requisition and get that heater fixed," Charley growled.

  "I did. Three times." Sam glanced at Harvey. "For some reason, my requests keep getting lost."

  "Dammit, could we knock this off and get down to business?"

  "Sure. Shoot."

  "We got a call from the Denver P.D. about an hour ago. They have a woman in custody who claims she saw Carlo Giovessi murder Frank Pappano."

  The three seated agents jerked to attention. Sam didn't turn a hair.

  "No shit?" Dave, a rookie agent and the youngest of the group, sat forward, so excited he was almost giving off sparks. Even his red hair seemed brighter than usual.

  "Not only that. Her story also positively links Giovessi to drug running." Harvey took another puff and leaned back in his chair, looking as pleased with himself as if he had personally gotten the goods on the mob boss.

  "Why'd Carlo whack his own man?" Todd asked.

  "Well, it seems Frankie boy has been helping himself to his boss's merchandise. Carlo took offense."

  "I'll bet."

  Dave let out a whoop. "Man, this is great! We got the bastard now!"

  "Yeah," Todd agreed, grinning. "It's about time we caught a break on this case."

  "Who is this woman?" Sam asked quietly.

  "Her name's Lauren Brownley. She plays piano at Carlo's Club Classico.

  "The Denver cops have been keeping an eye on her for a while. So have our guys. Nothing serious, though. Just tailed her a bit, checked out where she lived and how she spent her time. The cops and our agents both believe she's Giovessi's latest mistress, but probably not part of his organization." Harvey tossed a legal-size envelope to Sam, and he caught it reflexively. "The dossier they worked up on her is in there.

  "I didn't get all the details, but Ms. Brownley swears she saw and heard the whole thing—the murder, Frank's admission that he stole the drugs. Even the address of the warehouse where he stashed it."

  "Why would Giovessi's mistress rat him out?" Sam asked.

  Harvey spread his hands and shrugged. "Who knows why women do anything? Maybe she and Carlo had a falling out. Maybe she had something going on the side with Frank and she's looking to get revenge. What difference does it make? The important thing is, we got ourselves a witness."

  Todd gave a low whistle. "This is big. Looks like Dave's right. We're finally going to nail the bastard."

  "All of you keep your lips buttoned," Harvey cautioned. "I don't want any leaks this time. No one outside of the six of us is going to know anything about this until we have our witness stashed in a safe place. And I mean no one.

  "Rawlins, you, Todd, Roy and Dave go to the police station and check out this woman's story. If the Denver cops have it straight, we'll take over the case. When we do, Todd, you and Roy take some backup and arrest Giovessi.

  "Charley's already sent Sweeney to get a search warrant and we have a stakeout watching the warehouse. They'll arrest whoever shows up for the stash. If we get lucky, it'll be old Carlo himself. I expect he's still plenty pissed about Frank betraying him. He'll probably want to see for himself that his coke is there.

  "Rawlins, I'm assigning you to guard the witness. Dave will go along as backup. If you're satisfied this woman is giving us the straight skinny, hustle her out of town as soon as you can make the arrangements. Take her someplace safe and sit on her until the trial."

  "Send someone else. I've got more important things to do than baby-sit one of Carlo's little chippies."

  Angry color crept up Harvey's neck. He leaned forward and stabbed a nicotine-stained forefinger in Sam's direction. "You listen to me, Rawlins. This woman's testimony can put Carlo away for a very long time. Whether you like it or not, you're going to stay with her and see that she lives to give it, no matter how long it takes. You got that?"

  "I'm already working on a case, remember? I'm close to cracking it."

  At once the room hummed with tension. The three agents shifted in their chairs and cleared their throats. Charley Potter's jaw clenched, and he stared at the floor.

  Sam's assignment was one every lawman hated— digging up dirt on his fellow agents. Their office had been trying to build a case against Carlo Giovessi for years, but every time they thought they had him something would go wrong—key evidence disappeared, witnesses were killed, some minute irregularity in the investigation would mysteriously surface and Carlo's sleazeball attorney would get the case thrown out on a technicality. The whole thing had begun to smell of inside help.

  There was nothing more hated within the Bureau than an agent gone bad—unless it was the guy who tried to ferret him out.

  In law enforcement, teamwork was vital. No one wanted to believe that their partner or friend was dirty, and defenses went up when anyone started asking questions. Sam had tried to be discreet, but the word was out. Lately, with a few exceptions like Todd and Charley, everyone in the Denver office had been giving him the cold shoulder.

  Which, Sam suspected, was one reason why Harvey had assigned the investigation to him instead of following proper procedure and turning it to the OPR, the Office of Professional Responsibility, which was the FBI's Internal Affairs division. The OPR was made up of all experienced investigators of supervisory rank.

  Harvey claimed that he took it as a personal affront that an agent on his watch had sold out. He wanted the matter resolved in-house. Right now.

  He justified that decision by pointing out that they had no hard proof that there was a mole—just suspicions and a string of coincidences. Never mind that the Bureau didn't believe in coincidences.

  What the SAC really wanted, Sam suspected, was to turn every agent in the Denver office against him and make his life miserable.

  Not that it bothered him particularly. He tended to keep to himself anyway.

  "Nailing Giovessi is more important. Charley agrees with me. Hell, he recommended you for this job."

  Sam shot his boss a hard look, and Charley raised his hands. "Now, Sam, before you say anything, hear me out. If this woman is Carlo's mistress, you'll have months to pump her for information that might help our case, including the name of our mole. It's worth a shot."

  "That's right," Harvey agreed. "You never know what the man might've spilled during pillow talk. So consider yourself reassigned, Rawlins."

  "Why me? Any one of a dozen agents could guard the woman."

  "Because you've worked on this case longer than anyone else and you know it inside out. You know what we're up against. And I trust you. I don't particularly like you, Rawlins, but I trust you." Harvey took another long drag and sent a stream of smoke upward to join the cloud hovering around the ceiling. "Now get the hell out of here and go check out the woman."

  Without a word, Sam plucked his hat and coat off the rack and walked out.

  He was halfway down the hall when Todd sprinted up beside him and fell in step.

>   "Christ, Sam, when are you going to wise up and stop butting heads with that guy? You know you can't win."

  "Is that what I do?"

  "Hell, yes. You know damn well you do everything you can to get under his skin. Just look at you right now. You know what a stickler Harvey is about the dress code. Would it have killed you to put on a suit and tie before coming in tonight?"

  "Screw Harvey. I had the weekend off. Plus I got approval to take a day of vacation. Officially I'm on my own time for another..." He shot back the cuff of his flannel shirt and checked his watch. "Twenty-seven and a half hours."

  "Yeah, well, you could've at least shaved."

  Sam dragged a hand down his sandpapery jaw and shrugged. "I had a lazy weekend. So sue me."

  "You're one stubborn bastard. Look, I know you don't like the guy. I don't, either. But he is the SAC."

  Sam snorted. "Harvey Weiss is a tight-assed, ambitious politician, not a lawman. His main concern— hell, his only concern—is making Harvey look good. He doesn't make a decision without weighing how it will affect his image and help with his next promotion. He probably plans to be running the Bureau by the time he's fifty."

  "Yeah, well, that may be. But that's all the more reason to do yourself a favor and stop baiting the guy."

  "Hey! Cochise!"

  The bellow set Sam's hackles up and stopped him in his tracks. Beside him, Todd lowered his head and groaned.

  Sam turned slowly. His gaze shot past Charley, Dave and Roy to where Harvey stood in the doorway of his office, puffing on another cigarette. "Yeah?"

  "Remember what I said. You get that gal out of Denver fast. I don't want any slipups this time. Take her out of state. Somewhere remote out of Carlo's reach."

  "I plan to. Anything else?"

  "Just be sure you keep in touch. You know the drill. You contact either me or Charley once a day without fail. No one else."

  "Fine." Sam turned and walked the remaining few feet to the elevator and jabbed the button. The doors opened at once, and Todd darted inside, as though anxious to get out of the line of fire, but Sam paused and looked back at Harvey again.

  "By the way, just so you'll know. Cochise was a Chiricahua Apache. My mother was a Navajo." Without waiting for Harvey to respond, he stepped into the elevator and smacked the down button with the side of his fist. "Asshole."

  Lauren Brownley was not at all what Sam had expected. To his surprise, and annoyance, the instant he got a look at her through the two-way mirror he experienced the sharp pull of attraction. That had never happened to him before with a female witness, and it irritated the hell out of him.

  Apparently he was not the only one affected. Beside him, Dave whispered, "Wow."

  Todd gave a low whistle. "Oh, man, I think I'm in love."

  "You? The stud of the Bureau?" Sam snorted. "I doubt it. In lust—now, that I would believe," he drawled.

  "Whatever it is, I'm hooked. And you're going to spend weeks with her. Damn."

  "I'd be glad to trade assignments with you."

  Todd laughed. "Hell, Harvey'd have us both strung up by our balls. Still...it might be worth it. Damn you, Sam. You always were a lucky bastard."

  Both Lieutenant John Dumphries and Detective Allen Morgan of the Denver P.D. chuckled.

  "She is something, isn't she," the detective murmured.

  "Mmm." Sam studied the woman through the mirror, noting every detail of her appearance.

  She paced the interrogation room like a frantic animal, her arms crossed and hugged tight against her body. She was small, not more than five foot two or three, with a delicate build. Under the harsh light her auburn hair shone with copper highlights. Every time she reached the end of the dingy interrogation room and spun back, the long mane swung around her shoulders like a silk cape.

  Sam watched her approach the two-way mirror. Her eyes were green, he noted when she stood just inches away. And her features were as delicate as the rest of her, though at the moment her skin was parchment-white.

  Terror, probably, he mused dispassionately. And exhaustion, after being up all night.

  She wore a floor-length, fitted black evening gown with long gauzy sleeves and a modest neckline. Not a bit of cleavage showing, he noted with surprise. A black velvet jacket, trimmed with black sequins, hung on the back of one of the chairs surrounding the table. The outfit looked more suitable for an evening at the opera than something a nightclub piano player would wear.

  Her dress was smudged and wrinkled and the skirt had a hole torn at one knee, but its quality was evident, even to Sam's eye. With every step a long slender leg flashed in the skirt's side slit and the tear, revealing shredded sheer black panty hose and bare feet.

  "What happened to her shoes?" Sam asked.

  "Says she lost them getting away."

  "She's not exactly Carlo's usual type." In the past the mobster's taste in mistresses had run to busty blondes with the fashion sense of Dolly Parton. Even barefoot, disheveled and agitated, there was an air of regal elegance about this woman, a certain refinement that all Carlos's other mistresses had lacked.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. "Well now, as to that, according to Miss Brownley she and Giovessi are just employer and employee. She says she works at Club Classico only on weekends and that during the week she's a music instructor at the University of Denver."

  Yeah, right, Sam thought, watching the woman pace the interrogation room. He'd glanced at her dossier on the way over. So this one was classy looking and happened to play the piano. Big deal. Carlos's mistresses always worked at his club in one capacity or another.

  Speculation was, that was so he could keep his current plaything on a short leash, but personally, Sam thought he put them on the payroll to fool Mrs. Giovessi. If there was one person Carlo feared, it was his wife, Sophia.

  "What have you got on her so far?"

  "Not much. She's got no priors that we can find. All we have is her car license and her address. Our preliminary report, along with a transcript of her statement is in here," Lieutenant Dumphries said, handing Sam a file.

  As he scanned the first page Detective Morgan grinned. "Recognize the address?"

  "Yeah, I recognize it." That was one of the first things he'd noticed while skimming through the Bureau's dossier on the way over to the station house. The apartment building Ms. Brownley listed as her address was a luxurious high-rise, owned by none other than Carlo Giovessi.

  "Uh-huh. And our witness drives a shiny new Lexus."

  "Figures."

  Insofar as it went, the police report jived with the Bureau's findings. In addition to the information in the police report, agents had observed that the woman stayed at the club after hours alone with Giovessi every Friday and Saturday night. They'd also noted that Carlo visited her apartment every Wednesday evening and stayed for several hours.

  Just an employee, my ass, Sam thought. His mouth twitched. He wondered what excuse Carlo gave his wife for those evenings? That he was a member of a Wednesday night bowling league?

  "Our surveillance team has followed her to the campus several times. So she could be telling the truth about working there," the lieutenant went on.

  Sam granted. Their men had done the same, but because they had nothing to link her to any criminal activity, there had been no in-depth investigation into her background or employment. In the opinions of the agents who had tailed her, she was merely another of Giovessi's playthings who was probably taking a few university classes as a lark.

  "Has anyone checked with the university to find out if she actually is employed there?"

  "Not yet. We didn't want to start the investigation until you fellas had heard her story."

  "Fine." Sam snapped the folder closed and nodded toward the interrogation room. "Let's do it."

  Three

  Lauren made another circuit of the dingy little room. Where was everyone? What was taking them so long?

  She stopped at the front of the room and stared into the wide
mirror beside the door. Were they watching her through there, the way she'd seen them do on police dramas on television? If so, why? Did they think she was lying?

  Maybe Lieutenant Dumphries and Detective Morgan had gone to Club Classico to look for the body. If so, they wouldn't find it. By now Carlo's lackeys had disposed of all the evidence. She'd already told them that, but would they believe she was lying if they couldn't find anything?

  Swinging away from the mirror, Lauren went back to pacing. As she circled the table she glanced around and shuddered. Dear Lord, what was she doing in this place? She'd never even been inside a police station before. How had her life degenerated to this?

  Lauren made an aggravated sound and shot her reflection a disgusted look. "Because you're a fool, that's how," she muttered under her breath. "A naïve fool. Face it, you have no one but yourself to blame for being in this mess."

  It wasn't as though the signs hadn't been there. Even as far back as two years ago when she'd been in the hospital and Mr. Giovessi had come to visit her, the nurses had hinted that he had a dark reputation.

  She had brushed aside their subtle warnings, unable to believe that anyone with such impeccable manners could be anything but respectable.

  Lauren sighed. No, that wasn't exactly accurate. The unvarnished truth was, she hadn't wanted to believe that Carlo Giovessi was anything but what he appeared to be: a nice, courtly old gentleman.

  When Carlo had entered her life she had been lost and alone and completely vulnerable. He had been the only person to come to her aid. The only person who had been there for her when she had so desperately needed a friend.

  So she had blanked out what she had not wanted to be true. And later she had ignored the obvious.

  It had not been difficult to push aside her suspicions. Carlo had always treated her with a charming, old-world sort of respect and admiration. And as long as she was being completely honest, she might as well admit that it hadn't hurt that he'd been a devoted fan of classical music.

  Groaning, Lauren raked both hands through her hair. Right. As though that automatically guaranteed good character.