Identity Crisis (4 page)

She punched the panic button on the wall behind the nightstand. The alarm
wrred
to life. The shadow flew down the hallway toward the front door. She snatched her cell phone off the nightstand, and a can of pepper spray from the drawer. She slid onto the floor next to the bed. She peered over the bed at the doorway, grasping hold of her mom’s wedding ring on the chain around her neck, praying the guy was gone.

The deafening shrill of the alarm drowned out her cell phone, which thankfully vibrated in her hand. She answered it to find the security company, assuring her the police were on the way. The entire building was undoubtedly awake and the intruder long gone, so she turned on a lamp and deactivated the alarm. The wailing stopped, yet ringing echoed in her ears, and blood zipped through her veins.

Ethan Ryder flew into the room. He’d apparently been staking out her home. Unless he’d been the man
in
her home.

• • •

“You all right?” He rushed toward her.

She nodded faintly.

Ethan scanned Olivia for injuries, his gaze pausing briefly on the sheer nightgown hugging her breasts and the curves of her waist. Thank God there was no sign of blood.

“What happened?” he asked.

“A man … ” she gestured a trembling hand toward the doorway, looking scared shitless, “was … in here.” Curiosity and suspicion creased her brow. “How’d you get here so fast?”

As though he’d been the one in her place? The first step in earning a witness’s trust was to protect them. He wasn’t about to let anyone hurt Olivia.

“Only takes a matter of minutes to run upstairs from my car. I’m in pretty good shape,” he joked, trying to ease the tension. “But I’m sure the guy’s long gone.”

“Why were you watching my house?” Her voice held a hint of relief rather than anger, unlike at the museum when she’d demanded he stop following her.

“Someone trashing your dad’s place right after his death is too coincidental. He might be dead, but you’re still part of the program. It’s my job to protect you. Wait here.” He bolted out of the bedroom, Glock drawn, and swept through the apartment.

After losing a witness four months ago, he wasn’t about to lose anyone else under his protection. Worse, he’d also lost his team member, Roy Howard, when they were both blown up in a safe house. Ethan had left after receiving a call that his aunt, the last person he had on earth, had a severe heart attack. It was the only time Ethan had let his personal life and emotions cloud his judgment and interfere with his job.

He’d returned to the safe house two hours later and stepped from his car as an explosion blew out the windows, showering the lawn with glass and wood. He’d gotten off with a gash on his forehead. Frank Meyers, the marshal guarding the exterior, had been shot and was looking at years of rehabilitation. Not only had Ethan tarnished his impeccable record, but also the organization’s, since this was the first witness killed while under U.S. Marshals’ protection. At least the first one who’d been killed while following the program’s guidelines.

Unless the witness had gone against policy, disclosing their location. She’d been allowed one call to her mother while Frank Meyers was present … or at least should have been present. Frank wasn’t the sharpest. The pretty witness might have talked him into permitting her a private call.

The alternative was almost unthinkable: A snitch on the inside was responsible for the death of one of their own.

Ethan finished checking the closets and any potential hiding spots, even though he guaranteed the guy was gone. How had he not seen him escape? For that matter, how hadn’t he seen someone entering when he was camped out right across the street in his car? He’d seen only one couple and later three teenagers enter the five-unit house. The back entrance exited into a dimly lit alley. He doubted any tenants used it at night, and he’d stuck a magnetic alarm on the door to signal if someone did. The guy must have seen the alarm and deactivated it.

He opened the door to scan the hallway for potential escape routes and found neighbors congregating. After flashing his badge, assuring them everything was under control, he returned to Olivia sitting on her bed, rocking back and forth, sliding a ring along the chain around her neck.

“Nobody’s here,” he said, slipping his gun in its holster.

“Thanks,” she muttered, a tear trailing down her cheek. “I’ve never been so scared.”

He fought an overwhelming urge to wipe the moisture from her cheek and take her in his arms, promising to protect her. He’d never had such a strong desire to physically comfort a witness. Keeping an emotional distance was critical to maintain an edge. Once you lost that edge and let down your guard, everyone was in danger. He remained a good two feet away.

It had been months since he’d touched a woman intimately. A lot longer since he’d touched the same woman twice. Women weren’t real understanding when he disappeared for days or weeks at a time, or when he had to leave in the middle of the night to play family counselor or therapist to a distraught witness. Being unable to disclose his reason for leaving didn’t help. Keeping witnesses alive required keeping his job a secret.

At least he preferred to blame his lack of relationships on his job.

He glanced at the paintings on the walls. “So you still sticking with the random robbery theory? I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I have no clue what’s going on.” She exhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t know why my dad’s place was broken into or why somebody would break in here. I don’t have anything anyone would want.” The desperation in both her voice and her green eyes conveyed honesty, and fear.

“Maybe you do, and you just don’t know it.”

The front door opened and Ethan drew his gun, turning toward the bedroom doorway.

“SFPD,” a guy called out.

He relaxed, lowering his gun. “Back here.”

Ethan snagged a red silk robe off a hook by the door and held it out for Olivia to slip on. She stood, giving him a faint, appreciative smile and turned her back to him, slipping her arms into the sleeves. His fingers, curled around the robe, grazed her collarbone and the swells of her breasts as he slid the robe on her. He swallowed hard, promptly removing his hands from the garment. Avoiding Olivia’s gaze, he stepped back as two officers entered, one of whom was Brian Gibson. Ethan knew him from his short stint with the SFPD, before he’d joined the Marshals. He was a good guy, around Ethan’s age. Tan and blond, he still looked like the California surfer dude he’d been in his early twenties.

“Ethan,” Brian said, looking surprised to see him. “Everything all right?” He glanced over at Olivia.

“Yeah, the alarm scared away whoever it was,” Ethan said. “Don’t think anything was taken, but she needs to check out the place to be sure.”

Brian took Olivia’s statement, and fifteen minutes later he and his partner were gone.

“You know that officer?” she asked. This appeared to give him at least some legitimacy in her eyes.

“Used to work with him on the force.”

She sat on the bed and her robe slipped away from the silk nightgown covering her legs to just above her knees. She brushed her hands nervously over the sheer material, and he imagined the warm, smooth feel of her skin underneath.

Reminding himself she was under his protection, he took a step back.

Her gaze narrowed, full lips slightly parted, she appeared to be contemplating something.

“What is it?” he asked.

She glanced up at him. “Why would the mob kill my dad before getting what they wanted? That doesn’t make sense.”

“If the mafia killed your father, he’d have taken a bullet or his house would have been blown up. They wouldn’t have spent time making it look like a heart attack. That’s not their way. If he had something they wanted, they’d have attempted to get it out of him, and his death could never have been deemed a natural cause. Besides, Vinnie Carlucci died in prison a year ago. Not like he’d still have a hit out on your father.”

A look of relief flashed across her face, then her gaze narrowed in concern. “Maybe his death sparked a renewed interest in finding my dad. A family member seeking retribution.”

“I highly doubt it. Too much time has passed. If someone
had
come looking for him or evidence, he’d have handed it over, knowing they’d kill him anyway and then come looking to see if you had it. I don’t think his death or these break-ins are mafia related. If your father was still selling forgeries, he likely had a partner who’s after any remaining paintings or money due to him.”

Her soft features hardened into a scowl. “I’d have known if he was selling forgeries. I knew about his life now, even if I didn’t know about his past life.” A hint of doubt flickered in her eyes. “Looking back, I realize the great lengths he went to not to be found. He never even confided in our priest about his past. Why take the chance on selling forgeries and possibly exposing his real identity?”

He shrugged. He wondered the same thing, but half the time there was no rhyme or reason why criminals did what they did. Greed. Addiction. Stupidity. Who knew?

“Maybe he had a false sense of security,” he said.

“Believe me, a sense of security was something my dad never had.”

That was apparent by his kick-ass alarm system and the two deadbolts on his front door. “I’m not saying he for sure continued his life of crime. I’m just not ruling it out at this point.”

“Why do you care? He’s dead.”

“I’m not out to destroy your father’s memory. I need to know if he had a partner. He needs to be stopped. My buddy’s a cop and just buried a ten-year-old boy dealing drugs at a middle school. The drug ring recruiting these kids is at least partially funded by stolen, possibly forged artwork.”

“My dad wouldn’t have sold forged art to some drug dealer.”

“Not saying he did, but it doesn’t take long for stolen or forged art to circulate into others’ hands. Besides, protecting you would be a lot easier if I knew who I was protecting you from.”

“Thought
I
was his partner.” Her tone challenged him, yet a hint of a smile teased the corners of her mouth.

“I don’t believe that,” he said with conviction, his gaze never wavering from hers.

Her gaze narrowed as she debated the sincerity of his comment.

“If he was using your gallery as a front, you didn’t know about it.”

She rolled her eyes in frustration. “He wasn’t.”

“Look. Only one supposed compliant witness has ever died while in the WITSEC program. Anyone else died because they violated the program’s procedures, contacting family and friends, somehow giving away their new identity. From what you’ve said, your dad seemed too cautious to make such a blatant error. That’s one reason I believe this guy was from his present life. There’s like a point zero one percent chance someone from his past found him.”

“Slight, but not impossible,” she countered.

He groaned under his breath, glancing down at the desk next to him, wanting to beat his head against it. He spotted a sheet of paper listing flight schedules to Madison, Wisconsin. “Planning a trip?”

“Not sure. My dad wanted to be buried in Five Lakes.” She slid the ring back and forth along the chain around her neck, peering over at a green marble container on the dresser, apparently her dad’s remains. “Not sure he deserves to be. And I don’t want to lead whoever this is back to my family. It’s bad enough they’re after me, or whatever I supposedly have. Yet, his parents have a right to know what happened to their son. If they’re even still alive.”

“They’re alive. Did a little research and discovered some cottage rentals in Five Lakes, owned and operated by the Donovans.”

Her eyes widened. “They’re alive?”

He nodded.

A hopeful expression brought a smile to her lips. She had the most incredible smile. He’d do everything in his power to give her plenty of more reasons to smile.

She gazed down at the ring on the chain, a pensive look on her face. “I need to get his remains back to his parents, but I’m not sure I want to go back there. What if his family never forgave him and don’t want anything to do with me?”

“I doubt they’d feel that way. Until I figure out what this guy wants, I need to keep you someplace else while someone camps out here to see if he returns.” He glanced at the flight schedules. “A small town cottage would make a good safe house. And if this guy doesn’t find what he wants here, his next stop might be Wisconsin if he discovers your family. They might need protection also. Along with your grandma, Isabelle Newman.”

“My mom’s mom?”

He nodded.

“Did my dad’s file contain any other information?”

“Not much, it’s pretty sketchy. It was back when the program and Roy were both pretty new. The Marshals were flying by the seat of their pants half the time.” She stopped sliding the ring across the chain and pressed it against her chest, nestling it between her breasts. He glanced away. “Olivia Doyle could lead whoever this guy is on a wild goose chase to some art galleries in Paris, while … Opal Davidson flies to Wisconsin.”

Olivia’s nose crinkled in disapproval. “Opal Davidson?”

“It’s best to keep the same initials, even the same first name, so you can catch yourself if you’re about to say or write your real name. But I don’t think you should keep Olivia in this case.”

“Yeah, but Opal Davidson sounds like I should be in a nursing home knitting scarves.”

“It was the first O name that came to mind. How about Olga?”

She let out a faint laugh. “You actually help people change their names for a living?”

He smiled. “What name would you like?”

“Well if it has to start with an O, then Oriana. Read that in a book one time. An Italian heroine.”

“Fine, Oriana, I can have a new I.D. by morning.”

“So soon? I … don’t know. I need time to think about this.”

“Sleep on it. I’ll get the I.D. It’s best nobody knows who you are at this point. Your true identity could jeopardize your and your family’s safety. I have something to take care of in the morning. We can leave right after that.”