“I was told my testimony was going to be sealed. How did they get my name?”
“They paid someone off or intimidated someone,” Haskel said. “What’s the difference? They found you, and now you’re a sittin’ duck.”
She looked from one to the other and thought Haskel seemed uncomfortable.
Paul seemed only interested. “She’s got a point,” he said. “Maybe we can find the leak and trace it.”
Thirty-One
They had a half hour to gather their possessions and pack. Joanne brought her cameras, tripod, photo albums, and boxes of negatives. Sean took his walkman and CDs, his laptop and a couple of handheld video games. Both of them threw clothes into suitcases, but it was hard to think what they would need on such short notice. The Feds—Paul Minorini and a man named Carver—drove them to the Loop. In the parking garage beneath Federal Plaza, Minorini had them get out of the car and enter the building in a scene straight out of a James Bond movie.
Upstairs, in the heart of FBI territory, Joanne and Sean were separated for “debriefing.” Agent Minorini left Joanne alone in a small beige room—furnished with only two wire-frame, leather-seated chairs and industrial carpeting. No clock. No magazines or table to put them on. There wasn’t even a two-way mirror. Maybe there were hidden video cameras, she couldn’t tell. Being “debriefed” consisted of telling her story over and over to the half dozen different agents who came into the room over the next several hours. Each one had questions—many she’d already answered. By noon she felt like a TV sitcom that’s been rerun so often everyone knows the words.
Shortly after noon, Paul Minorini came back and asked what she’d like for lunch.
“Sean. What have you done with him?”
“Nothing. Agent Jones is showing him the Etch-a-Sketch.”
“Oh.”
They ate in a conference room, Joanne and Sean, agents Minorini and Haskel, and John Carver, who turned out to be a US Marshal. One of the secretaries brought in a pot of coffee and a bag of Italian beef sandwiches. Agent Minorini went out and returned with soft drinks in cans.
When they were finished, Sean asked to be excused “to check the plumbing,” and Carver volunteered to escort him.
Joanne waited until the door closed on them, then told the agents, “If I’m going to be a target, let me be bait.”
“You’re crazy!” Haskel told her. He was smiling like a crocodile.
“Being desperate does that to you.”
“What about your son?” Minorini asked.
“We can send him to stay with friends—in Florida. They have a place in the Keys, one of those gated communities that’s high-security and secluded. And they have lots of kids. Their neighbors probably wouldn’t notice one more.”
“Then what?” Haskel said. “Even if we could nail this guy without getting you killed, then what?”
“Then you send him to jail and I go back to my life.”
“You got more guts than brains.” He shook his head. “Even if your idea worked, you think you’d be safe with this guy locked up? He’d have all the more reason to blow you away. No way. We’re gonna stash you in a safe place while we see what we can turn up and whether you’ll be needed to testify any time soon. And soon as we can arrange it, you and the kid are going into the Witness Protection Program.”
They had to sit on the floor of the new car before Agent Minorini pulled it out of the garage. The day had warmed and clouded over while they’d been inside, and a light drizzle coated the car within minutes.
It seemed as though they drove around forever. She knew they got onto the Dan Ryan, I-55, and I-294 from the overhead highway signs. But there were dozens of lesser streets she couldn’t identify since she couldn’t look out. Even Sean was getting tired of the cloak-and-dagger routine. By the time they pulled up to a nondescript building in a nearly deserted industrial area, Joanne had no idea where they were.
After the overhead door closed, Minorini invited them to wait in the office. They seemed to be in a government service facility. There were vehicles of every vintage and description, from luxury cars to a mail truck, in every state of repair.
The “office” was separated from the service area by a glass door and from the rest of the facility by a metal one labeled RESTRICTED ENTRY. Like the customer waiting room of a high-end car dealership, the room had a coffee service, couch and chairs, and a TV mounted near the ceiling. Several TV remotes were lying around on end tables, along with copies of Time and Newsweek, The Wall Street Journal, a two-day-old Trib and today’s Sun-Times. The walls were fabric-textured and decorated with travel posters—someone had a sense of humor. Between the ad for Fiji and one for the “Emerald City,” an institutional electric clock announced that it was three P.M.
Agent Minorini invited them to “make themselves comfortable,” before he disappeared into the restricted area. Sean grabbed a remote and started channel surfing.
Ordinarily, Minorini would have handed the Lessings off to the US Marshals and forgotten them until they were hauled out of hiding to testify. But in this case, he was providing the safe house. Until something more permanent could be arranged, they were stashing the chickens right under the fox’s nose—in one of the most exclusive northern suburbs, in a house belonging to Minorini’s great aunt. The elderly woman spent her winters in Florida, southern California, or southern Italy while Minorini kept an eye on her affairs. The neighbors were used to his coming and going, and since his sister and her family usually stayed there on trips to Chicago, his having a few visitors for a couple days wouldn’t occasion any talk. Best of all, the rental wouldn’t appear on any vouchers, so there was one less chance for a leak.
At 4:00 P.M., they got to watch the Channel 7 version of their story on TV: “Authorities are not saying who they think planted a bomb in this quiet North Shore neighborhood. The homeowner, Joanne Lessing, thirty-eight, found the bomb under the hood of her car early this morning while checking the oil. Agents from the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms defused the bomb. Local authorities are investigating. Lessing told police she has no enemies.”
When the reporter started announcing details of the latest political scandal, Sean changed channels.
At 4:30, he was channel surfing again when a minicam reporter standing in front of their house got their attention.
“Neighbors in this quiet Northbrook neighborhood are at a loss…”
“It’s like a movie!” Sean said.
In a pre-recorded interview, one of their neighbors expressed disbelief that anyone would want to hurt “such a nice woman.”
The scene flashed back to the “live-on-the-scene” reporter. “Police are also looking into the possibility that this was a bizarre case of mistaken identity. They aren’t saying where the Lessings are at this moment. Back to you…”
Sean changed to a cable station after that.
They left at the peak of rush hour. Minorini stowed his charges in the back seat of one of three identical Lincoln limousines that had dark tinted windows and the same license plate.
As they’d arranged, Carver got into one of the limos and pulled out. His orders were to drive to Midway and take a turn around Departures, circle the airport and stop at Arrivals. Then look for a tail. One of the mechanics had orders to leave ten minutes later and perform the same charade at O’Hare.
Minorini pulled out fifteen minutes after that and took a roundabout route to Kenilworth.
Thirty-Two
It was raining just hard enough to snarl traffic, so the trip took nearly two hours. At least with the tinted windows, they could sit up and look out. Street lights and Christmas lights glistened off the wet streets.
Paul Minorini drove like an android, like Mr. Data might, with no apparent impatience. Joanne was surprised when he turned onto the Edens, amazed when, finally, he pulled into the driveway of a house in Kenilworth. He’d called ahead on his cell phone, and a light went on at the back door as the car pulled past the house into the re
ar yard. As much as Joanne could see in the gloom beyond the circle of illumination, the yard was surrounded by a hedge of columnar junipers. The drive ended at a two-car garage. Paul stopped the car with the passenger door as near the back door as possible and said, “Wait until I open the car door for you, then go straight into the house. Don’t look around. I’ll bring your things. Okay?”
Sean said, “Yeah, sure.”
Joanne nodded.
When they got to the door, a blond woman opened it for them and closed it behind them. She gestured at the room behind her and said, “Make yourselves at home. But stay away from the windows.”
Sean nodded and started looking around, eventually wandering out of the room. Joanne took a few steps away from the door and turned to watch the woman open it for Minorini, who’d put on a baseball cap and was carrying their luggage. He put it just inside and went back for the rest of their things. When he had everything in the house, he introduced the blond.
Megan Reilly was a US Marshal, Witness Protection division. She’d be staying at the house with them while Minorini hunted the bomber, and the Marshal’s Service made more permanent arrangements for their future.
There it was again. Their future—her future—in the hands of others. “What does that mean?” she demanded.
“Megan will explain,” Minorini told her. “I’ll be back in a few days, and I’ll fill you in on developments. Meanwhile, let Megan know if there’s anything you need.” He tipped his cap and let himself out.
Megan locked the door behind him. “Let me show you around,” she said.
The house was huge, with real fireplaces, high ceilings and tall windows. Your tax dollars working overtime, Joanne translated to herself. The crown moldings, doors, and door and window frames looked like dark-stained oak or walnut. The living room walls and wall-to-wall carpets were ivory. The couch and chairs were covered with a creamy pink material patterned with antique roses in a darker pink; the drapes were the same material. A pale green oriental rug was laid over the carpet in the center of the room, and matching runners covered the high traffic areas. The fireplace had a mantel of green marble.
“Whose house is this?” Joanne demanded.
Megan gave a twisted half-smile. “It belongs to a private citizen. The Federal government is house-sitting in return for using it rent free as a safe house.”
The dining room was as rich as the front room, though the drapes were a deep blue that was repeated in the pattern of the 9x12 oriental. Joanne recognized Winifred Godfrey as the painter of the huge exquisite oil on the wall opposite the window—back-lit white tulips. She’d seen a similar treatment of red tulips for $6200 at an exhibition. There was a crazed glass globe of white silk peonies on the polished table.
Sean appeared while they were inspecting the pseudotraditional kitchen that seemed equipped with every modern gadget.
“I’m Sean,” he told Megan, shoving his hand toward her.
She took it as she said, “Megan Reilly.”
“What do I call you?”
“How about Megan?”
“Cool. Are you a Special Agent too?”
“A US Marshal. Your bodyguard as a matter of fact.”
“You’re a whole lot prettier than Ricky Linderman.”
Megan smiled. Joanne wondered if she’d seen My Bodyguard.
Sean said, “May I have a pop?”
“Fine with me but it’s up to your mother.”
Megan helped carry their luggage upstairs, and let Sean choose one of the three rooms across the back of the house. Naturally, he took the one with the TV and cable hookup.
Joanne took the room next to his. As downstairs, lovely wood and fabric predominated in classic designs. The prints on the walls looked more like the originals of some unknown artist than reproductions of established ones. It was all rather like what Joanne would have chosen if she’d had an unlimited budget.
Megan put Joanne’s suitcase down inside the door and opened the closet. Above the clothes rod was a shelf piled with smoothly folded sheets and fluffy towels and washcloths. “If you need anything else, holler.”
“Thank you.”
Megan walked toward the door.
“Wait.”
She stopped and turned to face Joanne.
“What’s going to happen to us?”
“We’ll give you new identities and set you up in another part of the country. We’ll help you find another job. As long as you don’t come back here or contact anyone from here you’ll be safe.”
As long as!
“No! I can’t accept that! Our family’s here!”
“Exactly. And these people will be watching them, waiting for you to make contact. I know it’s hard. And it’s not fair. But you’re alive. Your son’s alive.”
“We just spent three years putting ourselves back together. We can’t just start over.”
“If you want to live, you’ll have to. Look. I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet, but someone tried to kill you. They’ll keep at it until they succeed—if they can find you.”
“Why can’t you just catch them?”
“We’re trying. But this is a mob thing. Even in prison they have influence.
“Look, you’ve had a hell of a day. Let’s get you settled in and get something to eat. Come downstairs when you’re unpacked and we’ll arrange supper. Things may look less bleak after you’ve had a night’s sleep.
“And if you take it a day at a time, you’ll get through it.”
Joanne felt a little flash of insight. Megan was like the dog-handlers at the pound. She’d take good care of them, but not let herself get attached. When their time was up, she’d hand them off and never think of them again. Joanne couldn’t blame her. You couldn’t take them all home.
But what happens to the ones no one claims?
After they’d cleared the remains of the pizza they’d ordered and put the dishes in the washer, they moved into the living room. Megan had laid out a fire earlier. Now she lit it. Joanne sat at one end of the couch, Sean at the other. For a while they watched the flames in silence. Then Megan excused herself. When she came back, she said, “I’m turning in. Don’t answer the phone or the door, or make any calls. If anyone comes, wake me. If you open an outside door or first floor window, the burglar alarm will go off. Goodnight.”
Joanne felt her insides knotting as Megan spoke.
Sean didn’t say anything until the marshal had had time to get out of earshot, then he stretched to drape himself across Joanne’s lap. For a moment, he rested his forehead on the couch arm. Then he rolled sideways to face her and worked his arms between her and the couch back. He looked up at her.
“Why does someone want to kill us?”
A simple, direct question. And it deserved a straight answer.
“I’m pretty sure it has to do with the hit-and-run I witnessed.”
“But no one would—Oh. He might have killed the guy down the street. Duh!”
Joanne nodded.
“And all this time I thought Agent Minorini was coming around because he wanted to go out with you.”
“FBI agents aren’t allowed to go out with witnesses. And anyway, I doubt he’d be interested.
“Don’t sell yourself short.” He shrugged as if it were moot anyway. “We gonna hafta be here for Christmas?”
“I don’t know, Sean.”
She put her arms around him. She could feel his fear as he clung to her like a much younger child.
Thirty-Three
“At least we ought to check her out,” Minorini told Haskel. “We’d look really stupid if it turns out her ex-husband is trying to kill her.”
“I leave that in your capable hands, pal. And she’s got family around here, hasn’t she?” Minorini nodded. “Track ’em down too. Maybe someone’s trying to get to a relative through her. Or maybe she said something to one of them that she forgot to mention to us.”
One of the credit applications Joanne had filled out listed a Ken Schroeder
as her “nearest relative not living with you.” As he picked up the phone to arrange a meeting, Minorini wondered how she interpreted nearest—closest in age or physical proximity, or just closest?
Ken Schroeder was the founder and president of his own computer consulting firm, one of the new breed of businessmen who’d gotten his start in a video arcade and graduated to giving advice to his grandfather’s cohort.
His office bridged the generation gap—enough plush and gloss to reassure the money, enough electronic gadgetry for most technophiles. He had a kinetic sculpture on his burled maple credenza and traditional photos in Lucite frames on the matching burled maple desk. Because of their placement, Minorini could see the subjects of all the photos except one eight-by-ten. The ones he could see were family portraits.
The requisite computer was hidden within the desk, but its flat screen monitor rose out of the desk top. As Minorini crossed the room, Schroeder made the screen and keyboard disappear into recesses so cleverly engineered that the surface looked solid to the casual glance.
Schroeder had blue eyes in a tanned face. There was a little new-moon scar beneath his right eye. He was dressed to impress by understatement. He rose and offered Minorini his hand, a firm handshake, and a soft, leather reclining chair. “What can I do for you Mr. Minorini? Or is it Agent Minorini? Someone hacking into your systems?”
“You know anyone who’d want to harm your sister?”
The question got to him. “Joanne?”
Minorini nodded. He figured Schroeder’s shock was genuine.
“No, of course not.” But as Minorini waited, his certainty seemed to falter. “Well. She did do those photo essays on bikers and shoplifters. Maybe one of them? What do you mean by harm?” He must’ve missed the local news.
“Someone tried to bomb her car.”
Schroeder paled. “Is she all right?”
“We have her in protective custody. Along with your nephew.”
The Fall Page 11
