by The Witness
What a blind fool she'd been.
She was operating on raw nerves, and when the door opened she jumped and whirled around. Relief poured through her the instant she spotted Detective Morgan. He had been kind and supportive earlier. His lieutenant, however, had been harsh and openly skeptical of her story.
Her tension returned when five other men followed the detective into the room. One was Lieutenant Dumphries, but she hadn't seen the others before. Three of the strangers were neatly attired in conservative suits and ties, but it was the other man, the taller of the four newcomers, who drew her eye.
His hair was thick and black as midnight. So were his deep-set eyes. Beard stubble shadowed the lower half of a face that could only be described as hawkish. He looked hard as nails.
His penetrating stare drew Lauren's nerves tighter, and she switched her gaze back to Detective Morgan.
"Detective, I'm so glad you're back. Have you arrested Mr. Giovessi yet? May I go home now?"
"No, not yet. Why don't you have a seat, Miss Brownley? This is Special Agent Sam Rawlins and Agents Todd Berringer, Roy O'Connor and Dave Owens from the FBI. They'd like to ask you a few questions."
"The FBI? But I don't understand. I didn't know the FBI got involved in murder cases."
"There's no reason for you to worry, miss," one of the FBI men replied, flashing a charming smile. "Normally that's quite true. However, there are other factors involved here."
"What Agent Berringer is trying to say is, when a suspect is a known mob boss involved in drug dealing we're talking federal crime. We've been trying to put your friend Carlo away for a long time."
"Have a seat, Ms. Brownley." Agent Berringer held out a chair. When Lauren complied he poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and said kindly, "Now then, why don't you start at the beginning and tell us what happened."
Lauren's hand shook as she took a sip of water. Her gaze darted to Detective Morgan. "I don't understand. I've been through this with the police already. Twice."
"And now you're going to go through it with us," the hawk-faced man stated without the least hint of sympathy. "For starters, let's get a little background information. How long have you worked at the Club Classico?"
"A little over two months."
"And how long have you known Mr. Giovessi?"
"I...well...I first met him two years ago."
"How did you meet him?"
"He came to visit me in the hospital after I had a car accident."
Sam looked up from the notes he was scribbling. "If you didn't know him, why did he visit you?"
"He knew of me. You see, at that time I was a concert pianist. Mr. Giovessi is a fan of classical music and he said he'd been following my career. I was in Denver on tour when the accident occurred. He read about it in the newspaper, and when he learned that one of my hands had been crushed and I might never play again, he came to the hospital to offer sympathy and whatever assistance he could."
Agent Rawlins's gaze flickered to her left hand. Thin white lines crisscrossed the back like a road map. Self-conscious, Lauren laid her right hand over the left to hide the scars.
"And you had no idea who he was?"
"No. I told you, I was on tour. Until two days before the accident I had never even been in Denver before."
"So why did you stay here? You obviously didn't lose the use of your hand. You still play the piano."
Sadness flickered through Lauren. "Yes, after several surgeries and over a year of physical therapy I could play. But not at the concert level. I'll never achieve that again. The flexibility just isn't there anymore. True, I can play better than most people, even now, but no longer as a virtuoso. I've toured for most of my life and had no attachment to any particular place. Denver seemed as good a place as any other, so I stayed."
What she didn't bother to explain was, at the time she could not have afforded a bus ticket to the next town. Nor did she have any intention of doing so. It was too embarrassing.
"I see. So you're telling us that because Carlo Giovessi is such a great music lover he offered to help you?"
Lauren darted him a wary glance, confused by his sarcastic tone. "I suppose so, yes."
"Did he offer you financial help?"
She looked down at the glass of water and clasped her hands around it to keep them from trembling. "Yes. I thanked him, but I refused."
"Really? Why would he even offer financial assistance? If you were a concert pianist, as you claim, surely you had money. I know classical artists don't earn as much as rock stars, but they don't work for pennies, either."
Lauren bit her lower lip. So much for keeping secret the sad state of her finances. "I...that's true, but...by the time I left the hospital, my money was gone."
"Yes, medical bills are steep these days," Agent Berringer put in.
"Yes. Yes, they are," she agreed eagerly.
It wasn't exactly a lie. Her medical bills had been astronomical, but her insurance had covered most of those. They certainly hadn't left her broke. Collin had taken care of that.
But these men didn't need to know about the most humiliating episode in her life. It had nothing to do with the crime she'd witnessed.
"I see."
Agent Rawlins didn't believe her. Lauren could see that in his cold stare. She quickly refocused on the glass cupped between her palms.
"According to Lieutenant Dumphries, you claim you're now a music instructor at the University of Denver. Is that right?"
"What do you mean 'claim'? I am a music instructor. Mr. Giovessi helped me get the job after I was released from the hospital. As I told the lieutenant and Detective Morgan, I only work at the Club Classico on Friday and Saturday evenings."
"And your apartment? Did he help you find that, too?"
Something about Agent Rawlins's tone grated. Lauren sent him a puzzled glance. "Yes. Yes, he did. Actually I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for Mr. Giovessi. He helped me get on my feet and put my life back together. He even arranged for me to have driving lessons and helped me find a car that I could afford."
"You didn't know how to drive? How old were you then? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?"
"Twenty-seven. And no, I had never driven before the accident. I'd never had to. When you're touring you're always met at the airport by a limo, and when I wasn't on tour my father or his assistant drove."
"How about before you turned pro? I've never met a teenager yet who didn't want to drive."
"Agent Rawlins, what you don't understand is I was a child prodigy. I've been touring since I was four years old. I can't remember any other life. During my teen years we were always on the road. Plus I rehearsed six or eight hours a day. When I wasn't rehearsing, I was either studying music or being tutored. There was no time for other pursuits. My father, who was my manager, saw no reason to make time for them. I needed to concentrate on my music."
"A child prodigy, huh? Now there's a new twist." Sam stared at her, his expression disbelieving. "So you're saying your slave-driving father chained you to the piano bench and forced you to practice all day? Next you'll be telling me all he gave you to eat was bread and water."
"Don't be ridiculous. I said nothing of the kind. My father didn't force me to play the piano. He didn't have to. I love to play. Music is my life.
"My father took very good care of me. He guided my career and saw to everything so that I could concentrate on my music with no distractions. If anything, he was overprotective, but that's not a crime.
"Why are you asking me these questions anyway? What does my background have to do with Frank Pappano's murder?"
Agent Rawlins continued to scribble in his notepad. When he finished he ignored her questions and asked, "Where is this paragon of a father now? Why didn't he help you after the car wreck?"
Lauren fixed him with an icy look, but he didn't so much as flinch. "My father died ten months before the accident. After that, his assistant took over as my manager."
Panic fluttered through Lauren when she noticed Agent Rawlins scribbling in the notepad again. "Why do you need to know that? He had nothing to do with what happened tonight."
"Just answer the question, Ms. Brownley."
She glared at him, but it was a waste of effort. He merely stared back and waited. Finally Lauren huffed. "His name is Collin. Collin Williams."
"How can I get in touch with him?"
"I have no idea. Once he realized that I would never play on the concert level again he...he left."
"And you haven't kept in touch?"
Hardly, Lauren thought. "No."
"Ah, I see. So, you're saying you had no one to turn to after your accident, and that's why you took up with Carlo."
Lauren frowned. "I wouldn't have phrased it quite that way, but yes, I suppose so."
Agent Rawlins stared at her for so long she began to squirm.
"When I needed a friend, Mr. Giovessi was there. He was wonderful to me," she blurted out defiantly.
Suddenly remembering what she'd witnessed just a few hours earlier, the staunch defense sounded ludicrous, even to her own ears. Grimacing, Lauren groaned and cupped her forehead, massaging her temples with her thumb and fingertips. "It's...it's still difficult for me to believe he murdered Frank in cold blood. If I hadn't seen him pull the trigger I wouldn't believe it. He's always been so nice to me."
"Yeah. I'll bet."
Lauren looked up in time to see the men exchanging a cynical look. "Well, he has!"
"Oh, I'm sure he has. Carlo is known to be generous with the women in his life," Agent Rawlins drawled, somehow making even his agreement sound like an insult. "All right, why don't you tell us what happened last night."
"After the club closed I stayed for a while to play for Mr. Giovessi."
"Do you often give private concerts for him?"
"Yes. Every night that I worked at the club. Mr. Giovessi is a great lover of classical music. As I told you, my playing isn't perfect, but he understands. And he's a very appreciative audience."
She didn't bother to try to explain to this man that an artist needed an audience, how just knowing that someone was listening and being moved by the sounds you coaxed from the keyboard fired your creativity and inspired you. The job at the college was just that: a job, a means to support herself, but her soul cried out for more. To some small degree, the job at Club Classico assuaged her need to perform, but it had been Mr. Giovessi's deep appreciation for her music that had made her feel like a true artist again. Those evenings had saved her sanity.
"Go on," Agent Rawlins ordered, and Lauren drew a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves.
"Last night I'd been playing for a half hour or so when Mr. Giovessi stopped me. He didn't even let me finish the piece, which was odd. Usually he can't get enough of Chopin. But he said he was tired, so I told him good-night. Carlo went into his office and I left the building. But as I was about to get in my car I decided to go back inside and use the ladies' room before driving home. I was washing my hands when I heard the shots."
In detail, Lauren related the horrifying events that had followed. Several times Agent Rawlins or one of the others interrupted her to ask questions, and they made her repeat certain details over and over before they were satisfied, but finally she reached the end of her story.
"When I got to the street at the end of the alley I just kept running. I didn't know what else to do. After a few blocks I saw a police car and flagged it down. The two officers brought me here."
Agent Berringer put his hand on her arm. "That must have been terrifying for you, but don't worry, Ms. Brownley, you're safe now. We'll see that nothing happens to you."
"Thank you."
He looked up at Agent Rawlins. "Well? What do you think, Sam?"
The man's craggy face revealed nothing. His black eyes studied Lauren so long she once again had to fight the urge to squirm. Finally he looked at the other agent and nodded. "Go."
"We're on our way. C'mon, Roy, let's go have some fun. It's gonna be a real pleasure to slap the cuffs on old Carlo."
The door had barely closed behind Agents Berringer and O'Connor when Sam Rawlins tossed a pad and pen down on the table in front of Lauren, making her jump. "I have a few calls to make. While I'm gone, I want you to write down your sizes. Shoes, socks, slacks, shirts, skivvies, bras—everything from the skin out. And whatever toiletries you need beyond a toothbrush and toothpaste."
"Whatever for?"
"Because where we're going you wouldn't last five minutes in that getup."
"What do you mean, 'where we're going'? I'm not going anywhere with you. As soon as you arrest Carlo I'm going home."
Sam shot her a scornful look that made her feel like a backward child. "C'mon, lady. Do you really think after what you saw and heard that you can just waltz out of here and no harm will come to you? Hell, no one's that naive."
"But...if he's locked up—"
"Look, Carlo may be behind bars soon, but not all of his goons will be. Some of them are probably waiting in your apartment right now. Carlo knows that without your testimony we won't have much of a case, even if he's in possession of the drugs when we pick him up. Killing you is going to be his number one priority."
Lauren felt the blood drain from her face. "But...if that's true, won't...won't they still be after me, even after he's sent to prison?"
"Yes."
Agent Owens grimaced at his associate's bluntness, but when Lauren looked to him to refute the statement he nodded. "I'm afraid Sam's right. If convicted, Carlo will appeal. You can bet on it. If he's granted a new trial and you're not around to testify a second time, his chances of walking go way up."
"After the trial you'll have to disappear. Somewhere Carlo's men can't find you," Sam Rawlins said.
Lauren glared at him. "And just how am I supposed to do that?"
He shrugged. "You'll go into the witness protection program."
"Whaaat!" Lauren stared at him. He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it were no big deal. It was to her. She'd had her whole world taken away from her once already. She was only just beginning to adjust to the new life she'd made for herself. Now they were going to take that from her, too. "Oh my Lord." She dropped her head into her hands. "How can this be happening?"
Her head snapped up. "What...what if I refuse to testify?"
"He'll kill you anyway."
"Oh God. What am I going to do?" Trembling, she put her hand over her mouth and stared at Sam.
"It's simple. You can walk out of here, but if you do you're on your own. Trust me, you won't last an hour. Or you can testify and we'll do all we can to protect you, before and after the trial."
Lauren stared at him. Oh, that was wonderful. Just wonderful. All her life she'd been cosseted and looked after. She'd spent the last two years trying to overcome that and learn to fend for herself. It hadn't been easy, but she had finally begun to feel that she was making progress. She had sworn that she would never again allow herself to be dependent on someone else. Now, through no fault of her own, she had to put herself totally in someone else's hands. Again.
"So what's it going to be?"
Lauren's shoulders slumped. "Put that way, what choice do I have? I don't want to die."
"I thought you'd see it that way."
Agent Owens gave her a sympathetic look. "If you'll write down the names of family members, we'll notify them for you. Later, after Carlo is in prison and things have cooled down, we might even be able to arrange for you to visit with them in a safe place."
Lauren shook her head and stared at her hands. "There's no one. My father was the only family I had, and he passed away three years ago."
"How about a husband? Or fiancé?"
Briefly she thought of Collin, and her mouth twisted. "No. There's no one."
"Then it won't be a hardship for you to start over somewhere new, will it?" Sam stated with callous disregard for her feelings.
"So get busy and write down those sizes. I'll go make some calls. When I'm done, I'll gather everything we need and be back for you."
Leaning down, he braced his palms flat on the scarred surface of the table and pierced her with a stare. "And let's get something straight right now. If you want to stay alive, you're going to do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. No arguments, no discussion. If I say jump, you jump. Got that?"
Lauren nodded.
"Good."
"Wh-where are you taking me?"
His gaze slid to the detective, then the lieutenant and Agent Owen, and finally back to her. "It's better that you don't know."
A feeling of unreality enveloped Lauren as she watched Agent Rawlins stride out of the interrogation room. This couldn't really be happening. It had to be a bad dream. She would wake up soon.
"Uh...Ms. Brownley, you probably ought to get some rest while you can."
Distracted, Lauren looked up into Agent Owen's earnest face. He was young and clean-cut, no more than twenty-two or three. Probably fresh out of college and whatever training school the FBI had for new recruits, she realized. He had sandy-red hair, guileless blue eyes and the florid complexion typical of a redhead—and he looked about as much like a federal agent as Elmer Fudd. This... this child and that unpleasant man were going to protect her from Carlo and his henchmen?
Lauren thought about the sinister-looking thug named Tony, and the others like him ready to do Carlo's bidding, and a shudder rippled through her.
"Ma'am?"
Lauren shook her head. "What? I'm sorry, did you say something?"
"I said you ought to rest while you can. When Sam gets back we'll be taking off. The lieutenant here says if you want to grab a little shut-eye you could use the couch in his office."
Lauren stared at him. She wanted to scream and rant and rave that none of this was fair. She didn't want to start over again. She didn't want to be a witness in a federal case. Most of all, she didn't want to leave the safety of the police station.
But that wouldn't change a thing. Like it or not, she was a witness and her life was about to change yet again. And there wasn't a thing she could do about it.
