The Witness (45 page)

“Working on it.”

“I have some ideas. But not all of them are strictly legal.”

She watched the grin move over his face. “That doesn’t surprise me. What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been working on something, but I need to refine it a bit more. It’s technical.”

He glanced over, and down at her laptop. “Nerd stuff.”

“I suppose. Yes, nerd stuff. If we do this, I’ll need to spend more time and effort on the programs I’ve been developing. In the meantime, and again, if your captain agrees, you have to decide on your communication. Once he makes contact with the FBI on this matter, they’ll track his communications.”

“We’re going to make a stop on the way, pick up some prepaid cell phones. That should cover it for the time being.”

“It should.”

He reached over, briefly laid his hand over hers. “We’re going to find a way.”

She believed him. It made no sense, defied all logic, and yet she believed him.

Her nerves ratcheted up when Brooks drove down the quiet street in the pretty neighborhood. Old leafy trees, green lawns, lights glowing against window glass.

Captain Anson might attempt to arrest her on the spot. He might insist on contacting the federals.

He might not be home, which would be anticlimactic and somehow more stressful.

He might—

“Relax,” Brooks said and stopped in front of a tidy two-story house with attached garage and a lovely red maple in the front yard.

“That’s not possible.”

He shifted so they were face-to-face. “In or out, Abigail? It’s your choice.”

“In, but I can’t relax about it.”

If she had to run, she wouldn’t allow him to run with her. She wouldn’t allow him to give up his life, his family, his world. She had an extra set of keys in her bag, and could be out and gone, if necessary. If that happened …

“Whatever happens, I need you to know these past weeks have been the best of my life. Being with you changed me. Nothing will be the same for me again, and I’m glad of it.”

“We’re going to win this, starting now.”

“All right.” She ordered Bert to stay, and got out of the car.

After Brooks skirted the hood, he took her hand. She did her best to focus on that contact as her heart began to thud in her throat.

Lights glowed in the window, and she could smell spring, and the oncoming summer—the grass, the heliotrope, dianthus, some early roses. She felt the anxiety build, an anvil on her chest, and closed her eyes against it for a moment while Brooks knocked.

The man who answered boasted broad shoulders and heavily salted dark hair gone thin at the temples. He wore khakis and a blue golf-style shirt with reading glasses hanging from the pocket by the earpiece.

His feet were bare, and from somewhere behind him, Abigail heard the commentary of a ball game.

His eyes were a hard steel blue, until the smile burst onto his face.

“Son of a bitch, it’s Chief Gleason at my door.”

“It’s good to see you, Captain.”

“Son of a bitch,” Anson repeated, then gave Brooks a one-armed hug while he measured up Abigail. “Are you going to introduce the lady?”

“Abigail Lowery, Captain Joe Anson.”

“Nice to meet you, Abigail. Man, Nadine’s going to be sorry she missed you. She took her mom on a girl’s trip—a spa thing—for her mom’s birthday. She won’t be back till Sunday. Well, come on in.”

The living room looked comfortable, Abigail thought, lived in and easy, with framed family photographs on a wall shelf and prettily potted houseplants on the windowsill.

“I was catching the game back in the den. Just let me switch that off.”

“Sorry to interrupt, to drop by like this.”

“No need. It’s my second night baching it. I’m boring the hell out of myself.” He slipped into an alcove off the living room. Seconds later the sound went off, and an ancient yellow Lab followed Anson creakily out of the den.

“He’s harmless,” Anson said to Abigail.

“I like dogs. He has a very intelligent face.”

“Huck was always smart. Mostly blind now, and more’n half deaf, but he’s still got his smarts. Why don’t we go on back to the great room, have a seat? How’s your dad doing, Brooks?”

“He’s good. Really good.”

“That’s good to hear. And the job?”

“I like it, Captain. I like where I am and who I am there.”

“He’s a good cop,” Anson said to Abigail. “I hated losing him. How about a beer?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“I would,” Abigail said, then realized the simple truth sounded rude. “I mean, if I could have some water.”

“Sure. I got some lemonade. It’s not half bad.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

At Anson’s direction, they settled into a seating area off the large, open kitchen. At the back, wide glass doors led out to a patio, where she saw what she assumed was an enormous grill under a black cover, and several outdoor chairs and tables.

As Anson got the drinks, the old dog shuffled over, sniffed at her, then rested his head on her knee.

She stroked his head, rubbed his ears.

“If he bothers you, just tell him to go sit.”

“He isn’t bothering me.”

“Abigail’s got a dog. Great dog. Bert’s out in the car.”

“What the hell did you leave him out there for? Go get him. We’ll take this out back, let the two of them get acquainted and pal around.”

“Bert would like that. If you’re sure, I’ll go get him. I ordered him to stay, so he wouldn’t get out of the car for Brooks.”

“You go ahead, and just bring him on around the back. Side gate’s on the left.”

“Thank you.”

When she went out, Anson handed Brooks the beer, jerked a thumb toward the sliders. “What’s going on, Brooks?” he asked, as they stepped out.

“A lot.”

“Your lady covers it well, but she’s got enough nerves lighting her up to power the whole city of Little Rock.”

“She’s got reason for them. I talked her into coming here, to you, because she needs help. And because I’m in love with her.”

Anson let out a breath, took a long swallow of beer. “What kind of trouble is she in?”

“I want her to tell you, and I need you to hear her out. All the way. I’m counting on you, Captain.”

“She’s not from around here, or up where you come from, either.”

“No, but Bickford’s her home now. We both want it to stay that way.”

They heard the gate open and shut. Huck’s head went up—not at the sound, Anson knew—at the scent.

Anson’s eyebrows lifted when Abigail walked around the house with Bert.

“That’s one big, handsome bastard.”

“He’s very well behaved,” Abigail assured him.
“Ami,”
she said when Huck, quivering, walked over to sniff the newcomer.
“Ami. Jouer.”

Tails slashing the air, the dogs sniffed each other. Huck walked over to the fence line, lifted his leg. Bert followed suit. Then they wrestled.

“Huck’s got some life in him yet.” Anson offered Abigail the lemonade, gestured to a seat. “Brooks said you had a story to tell me, Abigail.”

“Yes. I should start by saying my name isn’t Abigail Lowery. Technically. It’s Elizabeth Fitch. When I was sixteen I witnessed a man named Yakov Korotkii, who is a lieutenant in the Volkov crime organization, murder his cousin Alexi Gurevich and my friend Julie Masters.”

Anson sat back. After a moment, he glanced at Brooks. “You did say a lot.”

Then he turned those steely eyes back on Abigail. “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

S
HE COULDN’T KNOW IF HE BELIEVED HER. HIS FACE SHOWED
nothing, no surprise, no doubt, no understanding. As Brooks had, he interrupted the flow a few times with questions, then only nodded so she’d continue.

Before she finished, the dogs came back for rubs, and were both sprawled out, exhausted from the play, when she stopped.

“I remember some of what you’re telling me,” Anson began. “It was big news at the time, especially within law enforcement. Two U.S. Marshals killed, another wounded, the witness in a Mob-related double murder missing. Your name and face was all over the national media for some weeks, and there were a number of interagency memos on you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“As well as an outstanding warrant for fleeing a scene. A BOLO and APB. You’re wanted for questioning in the matter of those agents’ deaths, and the explosion of the safe house.”

Her fingers linked together, painfully tight, in her lap. “Interoffice communication indicates that Keegan and Cosgrove have been taken at
their word. Wanted for questioning is simply a ruse in order to charge me for murder, or accessory to murder.”

“How would you be privy to interoffice communication?”

Saying nothing, Brooks reached over, unlaced her fingers, kept his hand on hers.

“I’m a computer scientist, and specialize in security. I’m also a hacker.”

“And you’re telling me you can access confidential files and memos inside the U.S. Marshals Service and the FBI?”

“Yes. I’m very skilled, and this has been a priority for me. Both Keegan and Cosgrove made statements which claim they came in, found Terry down in the kitchen and her weapon missing. As they began to call it in, they were fired on by persons unknown, and Cosgrove sustained a wound. As Keegan returned fire, the lights went out. Keegan was able to get Cosgrove outside, call in the incident. But before he could go back in for Terry, or to find me or John, the house exploded. He also claimed he believed he saw someone fleeing.”

“That about sums up what I remember from it,” Anson agreed.

“One of the prevailing theories is I grew panicked, or perhaps bored, and contacted the Volkovs to make a deal. They tracked me to the safe house, and I fought with Terry as I tried to get out. Either I or persons unknown associated with the Volkovs shot John, fired on Keegan and Cosgrove, and I either escaped in the confusion or was taken. The assassins then blew up the house to cover the tracks—or I did it.”

“A sixteen-year-old girl getting the draw on two marshals
and
blowing up a house.” Brooks shook his head. “I wouldn’t buy it.”

“A highly intelligent girl who’d been trained personally by one of those marshals in firearms, who’d requested and received five thousand in cash from her trust fund, who’d forged IDs, had spent a summer while the legal wheel slowly turned, thinking about what would happen to her once she testified.” The logic of it stood firmly enough for Abigail. “It’s reasonable to believe that girl snapped, tried to make it all go away.”

“Reasonable,” Anson commented, “when there’s nothing to contradict the statements and timelines, such as a conflicting statement from an eyewitness.”

“I don’t believe the theory I murdered John and Terry, or had a part in their murders, will hold,” Abigail told him. “But I do believe if I’m taken in, that won’t matter. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours. It might be staged as a suicide, but I favor direct elimination.”

“You’re very cool about it,” Anson observed.

“I’ve had a number of years to consider what they’d do to me if they could.”

“Why come in now?”

She looked at Brooks. “If I don’t, nothing changes. And so much already has. Brooks asked me to trust him, and in doing so, to trust you. I’m trying.”

“She’s been feeding, anonymously, an FBI agent based in Chicago with intel on the Volkov organization.”

“And you have that intel because you’re hacking into the Volkov network?” Puffing out his cheeks, Anson sat back. “You must be one hell of a hacker.”

“Yes, I am. The Volkov organization is very computer-centric, and they believe they’re very safe, very well shielded. They have excellent techs,” she added. “I’m better than they are. Also, Ilya is consistently careless in this area. It’s, in my opinion, a kind of arrogance. He uses e-mail and texts routinely for both business and personal correspondence.”

“They’ve made a number of arrests on that intel, Captain,” Brooks said.

“Who’s your FBI contact?”

Abigail looked at Brooks, got his nod. “Special Agent Elyse Garrison.”

“Why didn’t you go to her with your story?”

“If it leaked—and I know there’s at least one Volkov mole inside the Chicago office—she could be taken, tortured, killed. Killed outright.
She could be used to lure me in. They haven’t been able to trace the contact to me. Once they do, her life and mine are put at serious risk.”

“You want someone to make contact for you, someone who isn’t—as far as any check would show—connected in any way to Elizabeth Fitch.”

“Someone,” Brooks continued, “with a sterling record in law enforcement, someone with position and authority, credibility. Someone this Garrison is likely to believe.”

“And if I buy into this, I go to Chicago and make this contact, what then?”

“It opens the door for us to set up a meet between her and Abigail, at a location we choose.”

“I would continue to monitor law enforcement chatter and communications, so I’d know if they’d attempt a trap, or if any of the people I believe or suspect to be in league with the Volkovs learn of the communication.”

“You’re crossing a lot of lines here.” He turned a cool, hard eye on Brooks. “Both of you.”

“Tell me, Captain, what do you think her chances are of living to testify if she goes in straight, with the moles in place, the Volkovs whole?”

“I believe in the system, Brooks. I believe they’d protect her. But I can’t blame her for not believing it. If it was someone I loved, I’m not sure I’d believe it, either.”

He exhaled deeply.

In the quiet yard with the dogs softly snoring, a little garden fountain gurgling, Abigail wondered the scrape of her nerves under her skin didn’t screech like nails on a blackboard.

“We may be able to do this your way, smoke out Keegan and Cosgrove, and those like them,” Anson began. “We may be able to make some key arrests that put a hard dent in the Volkov organization. And then? Are you willing to go into witness protection?” he asked Brooks. “To give up where you like to be, who you like to be?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Abigail said immediately. “No. I wouldn’t have agreed to come here if I believed that would be a result. Elizabeth Fitch will meet Special Agent Garrison, will testify. Only three people know Elizabeth Fitch and Abigail Lowery are the same person, and that has to remain constant. If a connection is made between them, I’ll disappear. I can do it.”