Reluctant Witness (7 page)

“Good. Stay quiet. Whatever you hear, don’t
come out. Don’t move around. Don’t make any noise. You may be in
there a while.”

With that warning, the door
shut and I was suddenly, utterly alone. Unexpectedly abandoned in
the windowless dark hole beneath the eaves, my senses were thrown
into a confused state. It wasn’t as if my eyes, given time, could
adjust to the dim light, for there was none. No wonder he had
wanted to know if I was claustrophobic.
Now
what?

As I felt my way around the narrow attic, I
managed to avoid striking my skull on the overhead beams. The slant
of the chalet’s roof was steep, leaving me little room to maneuver,
but at least it wasn’t as bad as being locked in the trunk of that
car. I had seen a pull knob on the door to the storage area, but no
latch or bolt, so I was pretty sure I could let myself out, if need
be. That was a relief. Eventually I realized I could sit up if I
stayed beside the door. I managed to shift a couple of boxes and
plastic cartons to either side of me, allowing enough room to
sprawl out.

Downstairs, things got noisy. I could hear
loud voices.

“Good heavens,” I whispered to myself and any
critters within earshot, “what is going on?”

Sounds like poker.
That was my conclusion after lying on the carpeted
floor for what seemed like half an hour. I could hear the titters
from raunchy jokes passed around the table as the playing cards
were dealt, the belly laughs when the bets were made, and even the
exaggerated groans of the losers when the pot was claimed. Had I
been shoved into this little rabbit warren so Jack’s friends could
have their usual weekly game? Surely I could have simply gone to
bed, with Brutus to keep me company, if this was their normal
routine. I would have been more than happy to keep the door closed
and not complain. There must be another reason I was stuck in the
attic. Jack made several phone calls to summon his buddies and
arranged for the armed guards outside. They were expecting trouble
in some form or another. When would it arrive?

Dozing on and off, I awakened several times
to find the party continued downstairs without me. Voices got
louder as the night wore on. There was a lot of ribald ribbing as
the men poked fun at each other and occasionally I found myself
wincing as I overheard snippets of conversation. How long had I
been hidden in here? I checked my watch, grateful for the momentary
illumination. It was just after two-thirty.

Unlike the trunk of the Toyota, this attic
was heated. I was comfortable enough even without a blanket. Bored,
exhausted, frustrated by circumstances beyond my control, I put my
head down, careful not to disturb my injured ear and, determined
not to think about Jared, finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

I wasn’t sure what hour it was when I shook
myself awake, but I was suddenly conscious of the need to be alert.
Careful not to make a sound, I stretched my cramped limbs and
listened with my good ear. This time, the voices were quieter, and
they sounded like they were engaged in serious conversation.
Stealthily, imperceptibly, I poked at the door to open it a crack,
just enough to hear more of the conversation.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ron.
Apparently, someone gave you some bad information. We didn’t
actually coordinate with the people responsible for the WitSec
case. If she’s in the program, you might want to talk to whoever is
in charge.” Jack was talking about me. Who was Ron, one of the
poker players? I didn’t think so.

“I’m afraid she’s voluntarily left the
program and is hiding out somewhere, unaware of the real danger
she’s in,” announced the stranger.

“But why would she leave the program? That
would be pretty dumb, wouldn’t it?” The voice sounded like Steve’s,
but I couldn’t be certain.

“That’s why I’m trying to reach out to her,”
Ron explained to the others. “I want her to know that I can bring
her in safely.”

“Don’t you and your people have a way to
track her?” That was Jack again.

“We thought we did, but it looks like she’s
developed trust issues, so she’s avoiding us.”

“Speaking of the incident at the park, Ron,
we never did identify the guy who tried to snatch her and shot at
us in the process. Do you know anything about that?”

“Me? Naw! How would I know
about that? I’m just a cop from Rhode Island.”
Just a cop from Rhode Island.
I took
an involuntary gasp at that unexpected piece of information.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who found it
disconcerting.

“You’re a cop from Rhode Island with a
witness in a federal protection program? How does that work
exactly? Are you on loan to the FBI? Or to some other federal
agency, maybe the DEA or Treasury?”

“The Department of Justice took jurisdiction,
right after Jared Spears was murdered, and all our files were
turned over to the FBI.”

“So, you’re not actually working on a federal
task force?” I didn’t recognize the voice that said that, but I
understood the concern he and the other men shared. Had they just
caught Ron in a bald-faced lie?

“Yes and no. I knew Jared Spears personally.
I worked some private security details for him. He was a good guy.
I’m just trying to look out for his fiancée and to make sure what
happened to Jared doesn’t happen to her. I feel like I owe that to
him. And I plan to share my information with the local FBI field
office. Consider me a consultant on the case.”

“Do you have a reason for thinking the FBI
doesn’t have this straight?” Steve asked.

“No, no. It’s nothing specific. It’s just
that with the marshal shot and Marigold out on her own, I’m worried
about her.”

“Who told you her handler was shot? How did
you know she was out on her own? You have a source in the Marshals
Service...or one in the FBI? What’s the guy’s name? I’d like to
talk to him.” Jack’s voice took on an aggressive note as he poked
holes in Ron’s story. “It seems unusual that the feds would share
that with someone who’s, as you put it, just a Rhode Island
cop.”

“Okay, you got me,” the admitted liar agreed,
sounding sheepish. “I’m investigating another murder case, an
informant shot last week, and I think it might be related. If there
are connecting threads, it could change the outcome of both
investigations, but I’ll only know when I question the
witness.”

Chapter Seven

“Meaning Marigold,” the third voice offered,
“a woman who’s been in a witness protection program for how long
now? How exactly does she have information for your new case?”

“Well, the murder case is new, but the
suspects go way back....” Even I could hear how lame Ron’s
explanation was. After all, it had been months since Jared’s face
was obliterated by a gunshot wound. The date was permanently etched
in my mind: May 1, 2013, better known in party circles as May Day.
I had been whisked away two days later. From that moment on, I
hadn’t set foot in Rhode Island, let alone spoken to anyone from
the old days there. The prosecutors kept asking for delays as
witnesses suddenly developed amnesia, while I undertook the task of
rebuilding my life. I left the old Margot Floyd behind and created
a whole new career for myself as Marigold Flowers, Lake Placid
party planner, with Tovar and Eve’s help.

Your new name is Marigold Flowers. We’ve
created a fictitious family background to give you credibility. You
will maintain a blog to promote your new party business. Don’t post
any photos of yourself. We don’t want anyone to recognize you.
These days, with all the photo recognition software, we just can’t
chance it. If you need us in an emergency, all you have to do is
include the word ‘special event coordinator’ on your profile page.
We’ll get the site updates and know you’ve got trouble.

“If you’re just a guy trying to determine if
your case is tied into a federal case, shouldn’t you be having this
conversation with the FBI, Ron?”

“We still have an open murder investigation
and the feds apparently closed theirs.”

“So the FBI has concluded there is no case to
prosecute?” said that third unidentified voice. “That sounds
odd.”

“I really do need to talk to Marigold,” Ron
told the group. “Even if the feds did cut her loose after her
handler was shot, she’s still got information we need for our case
and I can get her protection.”

“Like I told you before,” Jack replied, “I
haven’t talked to anyone at the Marshals Service, so I don’t really
have the kind of information you’re looking for, Ron. I’m just a
K-9 cop.”

“But you never answered my question. Do you
know where she is at the moment?”

“I actually did answer that. Your best bet is
to talk to whoever is in charge. Why you thought tracking me down
at my weekly poker game was a good idea is beyond me. Personally, I
think you crossed a legal line in the sand and I’m beginning to
resent....”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ron replied, quickly
changing his tone to seem harmless, jovial. “I’m not pumping you
for information on a whim, Cornwall. I ran into someone at the
barracks who saw you talking to the girl before she disappeared
again and he suggested I might find you at this address.”

“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.