“While you were there, why didn’t you talk to the guys in charge of the Windham murder case? That would have been the logical thing to do.”
“I did. No one was able to tell me if the New York State Police are going to hold Marigold as a material witness.”
As Ron said that, it suddenly dawned on me that it was not true. How could I be a material witness? I hadn’t actually seen anyone murder the woman who kidnapped me. I had been locked in the trunk of that car at the time she was shot. The cops had confirmed they found my fingerprints all over the inside of that metal coffin, evidence of my desperate effort to escape when the Toyota Corolla went into the water. And as for that hit man, the one who had shown up at the Gilded Nest? He had called me by my latest WitSec alias, not my real name. How had he known it?
More importantly, how did Jared’s friend, Ron, know it? Shouldn’t he have called me Margot Floyd, the name I was using in Newport?
As I lay there in the dark, listening to the men discuss my case, my apprehension grew. Something was very wrong. Forget the United States Marshals Service. Where was the FBI? Why hadn’t anyone come to talk to Inspector Vidal about the case?
“And like I said before, I’m not the man to ask.” Jack insisted.
“Well, okay.” There was a long pause before Ron spoke again. “I guess I’ll be going. Here’s my card. If you hear anything, please call me.”
“Keep it,” Jack told him. “I’m not going to be your errand boy.”
“Not even as a professional courtesy?”
What was it about that phrase that gave me the shivers? Wasn’t that what the stranger at the Windham pond said just before he started shooting? Was he about to open fire here, in this ski chalet? I held my breath, wondering if this was about to turn into a killing party.
“Last time I checked, Ron, I didn’t get paid to make you happy. Hence, it’s not on my ‘to do’ list tonight.”
“Right. That’s unfortunate.” Ron sounded resentful.
“For you, maybe it is. Not for me. I have a boss and a chain of command. I’m not going to disrespect that for some rogue Rhode Island cop. You want answers, go through the proper channels. You read me? Because if you don’t like that answer, I’ll be delighted to take you down to the barracks and file charges against you!”
The voices got louder and angrier as the conversation heated up. Jack and his poker buddies definitely didn’t buy Ron’s story.
“For what, trying to do my job?”
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, cowboy!” There was no mistaking Steve’s intent to thwart Ron. “This is our turf. You break the law here, we arrest you. That’s the New York State version of professional courtesy!”
Jack jumped in, clearly ready to confront Ron’s credibility, poking holes in his ever-changing story.
“If I call your boss back in Providence, am I going to find out that you’re doing this to line your own pockets, trying to help some crime boss or corrupt politician to avoid the slammer?”
“What?” There was genuine disbelief in the Rhode Island man’s response.
“Are you trying to eliminate all the witnesses, so the bad guy goes free? Is your boss going to ask me to lock up your lying ass?” Jack demanded.
Was that Brutus I heard in the room below, growling? It sounded like it.
“Are you accusing me of....” the outsider sputtered, clearly furious. “Un-freaking-believable! The hell with you!”
“I’m definitely going to run a check on you,” the K-9 cop decided. “Have a seat while I call the FBI, to find out what the hell is going on here! We’ll get to the bottom of this mess, one way or another!”
“Forget it! I’m out of here. I don’t have to take this kind of crap from a bunch of yahoos like you! As far as I’m concerned, Marigold can damn well take care of herself!”
There were sounds of a brief scuffle in the room below, followed by heavy feet on the wooden stairs and a lot of barking from the dog. I heard the front door slam downstairs. Things were quiet after that. As carefully as I could, I used my fingertips to pull the attic door shut once more and waited. As the minutes ticked on, the silence continued. I wondered if that was a good sign or reason to worry.
It might have been fifteen or twenty minutes later when I heard a small noise near the door to my little hiding place. A moment later, it opened, and suddenly there was dim light, a welcome light, shining in. I recognized Jack as he crawled forward on all fours, his face just inches from mine.
“Marigold, did you hear any of that exchange?” he asked me in hushed tones. I nodded.
“Most of it,” I whispered.
“Crawl out here, but don’t stand up.”
I did as I was asked, pulling my tote bag behind me. The only lights came from the living room below, but I could see Jack wasn’t alone. I sat up.
“This is FBI Special Agent Lincoln Cornwall, my little brother. I asked him to come here and help us figure this out.”
“Younger brother,” he corrected Jack. “I’m temporarily assigned to a task force in the New York field office. I did some checking when Phil called me, and what I saw caused some consternation. My boss asked me to coordinate this.”
I nodded, suddenly understanding why Inspector Vidal didn’t call the FBI; the agency was already involved, through back channels.
“Hi,” I took the hand he stretched out to me. His grip was gentler than his older brother’s, but I had little doubt he shared that same tenacity.
“Do you know this guy, Ron?” He held out his Smartphone and showed me a photo of a stranger.
“No, I don’t think so. His voice didn’t sound familiar.”
“Listen, this mess with the Providence cops is more complicated than we thought, and with the assaults on current and retired marshals, we’re trying to figure out whether there’s a leak in that agency. We can’t put you back in the WitSec program until we know you’ll actually be safe. Can you understand that?”
Ever since Tovar was shot, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had a better chance of surviving on my own. Lincoln Cornwall put those worries into words that finally made sense of all the madness. There was something very wrong at the Marshals Service and it could be very dangerous.
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I don’t think I know anything more about what happened.”
“You let me worry about that, okay? In the meantime, we have to scramble. It won’t take that creep long to run a check on Jack and find out I’m FBI.”
“So,” I asked expectantly, “what happens next?”
“We’re going to sneak you out of here, but first we’ve got some work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
I found out when the two men led me down the dark stairs and into the bathroom. As the light went on, I looked around. There was a stacked washer and dryer unit and a large walk-in shower on the wall to my left, and a single sink and toilet on my right. Straight ahead was a wall with a single window, its shade drawn.
“Pull up a chair. Let’s see what’s going on under the gauze,” Lincoln suggested, closing the lid of the toilet seat.
My ear was now throbbing, and I was overdue for my medications by several hours. I sat and let Lincoln examine me. With a light touch, the FBI agent moved my long, auburn hair out of the way and carefully removed the bandage.
“Ooh!” I moaned as his fingers brushed against the wound. Jack leaned over his younger brother’s shoulder to take a look. When he grimaced, I knew it wasn’t good news he was keeping from me.
“You want something to take the edge off the pain?” the state trooper asked me. I nodded. “Let me read those discharge instructions from the hospital again, so I can figure out which pills I’m supposed to give you.”
He disappeared down the hallway as his younger brother got busy. Lincoln took a first aid kit from the medicine cabinet.
“It looks inflamed, but you’re not supposed to get it wet yet. I’ll put a new gauze pad on there. Philomena said we shoul
d be careful when we put a hat on you because you have stitches on top of stitches.” He gently attached a gauze pad over my ear with some paper tape. I bit my lower lip, fighting the urge to cry out. “That will have to do. I’m afraid I’m not much of a country doctor.”
Jack handed me a glass of water and shoved three different pills at me. I took them one by one, letting the cool water carry each of them down my throat. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was, and once I started drinking, I had to finish what was left in the glass. Lincoln waited until I had downed it before he spoke again.
“We’ve got to disguise you, so don’t expect to look glamorous.”
“Not a problem. Better to stay alive as an ugly duckling than die as a beauty.”
“That’s a good attitude to have, because this ain’t gonna be pretty,” he laughed.
Jack left us for a few moments, returning with a pile of ski clothes. He handed me a pair of navy nylon ski pants, thickly quilted on the inside for warmth, and a navy-and-yellow North Face down-filled parka. I don’t know what I was expecting to wear for my transformation, but it surely wasn’t this outfit.
“Sorry, kid. You have to wear the Patty Porker clothes, so you look like you’ve got some bulk to you. Seems a shame to turn you into a Butterball turkey, but it’s for your own good.”
“Great,” I rolled my eyes, trying to find my sense of humor. It seemed to be missing. I pulled on the padded pants. “I feel like I just gained twenty pounds.”
“You look it, too,” Lincoln agreed, satisfied. “No one’s likely to recognize you in that get-up.”
The K-9 cop held up a thick, dark object covered in some sort of woven fabric. I had no idea what it was.
“Marigold, I need you to wear a vest, just in case anyone decides to take a shot at you. Not that anyone will,” Jack quickly added. How could he be so sure? And then I remembered I was worth more to the bad guys alive than dead. Is that why the hired killers let me live?
The men helped me into the Kevlar contraption and fastened the Velcro straps. It was bulky, just slightly less annoying than a life preserver, but definitely more useful on dry land for someone like me. By the time the big ski parka went on, I was feeling like the Michelin Man.
Lincoln had a handful of ski hats to choose from, and he selected a silver faux fur one that he tied under my chin.
“There. Beautiful. You look just like Lara in Dr. Zhivago. ” He took a step back, looked at me from several different angles, and declared me unrecognizable. “Jack, can you see that bandage?”
“Nope. The fake fur takes care of that.”
“In that case, we’re ready.”
“I’ll get the guys coordinated. The buzz phrase is ‘stormy weather’, Lincoln Log.”
“Roger that, Cracker Jack,” the FBI agent told his brother. “Be safe.”
“You too. And good luck to you, Marigold. I hope it all works out for you.”
“Thanks...for everything.” I put out my hand and he shook it, his grasp still remarkably firm. Brutus came up for a nose rub and a scratch behind the ear. “Good dog.”
Three minutes later, Lincoln and I were huddled by the back door, waiting for our signal. Jack was on the front deck, observing the slope down to the road. His men had scattered just before Ron arrived at the door; once he stormed out of the house, two of them followed him. The others were positioned around the property, to make sure Ron hadn’t left a colleague, or worse, another hit man behind.
“We’re going to do some walking. The snow’s starting to come down, so it will hide our tracks rather quickly. Ready?” asked the FBI agent.
“Ready.”
The moon was barely visible as the big flakes floated down from the heavens. Lincoln led me up the hill behind the chalet and we crossed into the yard belonging to the closest next-door neighbor. From there, we moved on to the next yard, and then the next, weaving our way west. When we reached a side street, we headed down the hill towards the main road. About a hundred yards ahead, I saw a snow-dusted car. Lincoln leaned over to me.
“Not to worry. That’s our getaway vehicle, Marigold. “One of the guys has been sitting on it for us. Are you a decent driver?”
“I guess so,” I responded.
“Then you take the first shift at the wheel.”
A moment later, I was sitting in the driver’s seat of a dark VW Jetta and Lincoln was encouraging me to start the engine.
“I’ve got to take you away from here. Right now, my job is to make sure we’re not being followed. I’ll give you directions as we go.”
Chapter Eight
We were on the road for what remained of the night. Overheated, I soon shed the ski parka and hat, and unzipped the ski pants from the ankles all the way up to the knees.
By the time we hit the Garden State Parkway a couple of hours later, I figured out we were heading for the Jersey Shore. Thankfully, the traffic was light, due to the four inches of snow that fell. Lincoln spent much of his time watching the action in the passenger side mirror.
We stopped for coffee at a Dunkin Donuts just before we got to Atlantic City. Feeling stiff after so much time sitting in the car, I yawned and stretched. My body was too aware of every bruise, every muscle ache accumulated over the last two days, and my ear, hot to the touch, throbbed with pain.
“Don’t forget your hat,” he reminded me, handing me the faux fur cap. With a grimace, I pulled it over my sore ear again.
In these last few hours before the dawn, there were few customers. We passed another couple as we entered the coffee shop. Handing me a tote bag, Lincoln urged me to change my clothes in the ladies room.
Once ensconced in a stall, I found a pair of black stretch leggings inside the canvas bag. Hardly glamorous, but at least they were a little more stylish than the ski pants I wore. There was also a black wool poncho in the bag, a great improvement over the down jacket. I pulled it over the Kevlar vest before I slipped my feet back into the police-issued, black rubber-soled shoes and socks before I put the faux fur hat back on.
Lincoln was at a small table in the glass-fronted coffee shop, watching the action in the parking lot. Most customers used the drive-up window, picking up their to-go orders, so we were by ourselves as we sat eating our egg sandwiches, juice, and coffee.
“How are you holding up?” he wanted to know.
“Fair to middling,” I answered, giving him a tired smile. “It’s been a long day and night.”
“I’m sure. We’re almost there, Sleepy Beauty. Atlantic City is just down the road.”
“That sounds good to me,” I admitted, yawning again. My eyelids had grown heavy.
It was my first trip to the legendary oceanfront gambling Mecca and I had no idea what to expect. As he took over the driving duties for the last ten miles, Lincoln promised we’d get a hotel room and settle in for some well-deserved sleep.
He found us a spot in a covered parking garage by a high-rise hotel and we took the elevator to the main hotel lobby. People wandered in and out, casino zombies with dull eyes, jaded by their long hours at the slot machines.
“Room 837,” the clerk announced, sliding the electronic room keys across the counter. “Take the elevators to your left. You’re on the concierge floor.”
“Good, good,” Lincoln nodded, nudging me forward. “Come on, Suzy. We have just enough time to get a nap before we hit the casino floor.”
For a split second, my mind tried to process the name. Suzy. In my exhausted state, it took time to realize he was talking to me.
The elevator glistened with tinted mirror panels on the walls and purple Berber carpeting, tinged with flecks of gold, red, green, and blue, on the floor. When the doors opened on the eighth floor, we spilled out onto a vividly patterned carpet in a similar color palette, but this looked like casino decor by Picasso. Wild scribbles and child-like figures danced across the hallway in a wide swath. We followed the path to the concierge desk, where a young woman sat at reading. When she noticed our approach, she slo
wly stood up and activated the computer screen on the upper counter.
“May I help you?”
“We’re in Room 837,” my companion told her.
“This way, please,” was her reply as she came around to meet us. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a purple vest, black tie, and black slacks. Her name tag identified her as Mindy.
We walked down an overly long hall, all the way to the end, and then continued down another hallway to the right. At the seventh door down on the left, we stopped. Mindy waited for Lincoln to swipe the card through the electronic lock, and once she heard that automatic click, she pushed the lever down and opened our door.
I gazed around at my temporary quarters. The room was dressed with pearl gray walls with contemporary furnishings that were a little too sterile for my taste. On the double beds were woven coverlets in a contemporary pattern of pewter gray, black, and blue. A large-screened flat TV was mounted on the wall opposite the double beds. By a picture window that afforded an early morning view of the high-rise coastline sat a pair of blue club chairs. When Lincoln pulled the blue and silver drapes, shutting out the emerging sun, the room was instantly transformed into a sleep cave. I was ready to hibernate for at least twenty-four hours.
“Here is your remote control for the television,” Mindy told us, as she began a short tour around the room, moving from the dresser to the built-in kitchenette by the bathroom. “You have a coffeemaker and refrigerator over here. Please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be happy to assist you.”
The red button she pointed to by the door was marked “concierge service”. It seemed simple enough to use.
“Thanks,” Lincoln told her as he moved to see her out, but she wasn’t done with us yet.
“Would you like breakfast in bed? We serve until ten. We also have a small dining room right by the elevator, if you prefer that.”
“Right now, I think we just want to get some sleep, Mindy. It’s been a long night of driving to get here.”
Reluctant Witness Page 6
