Material Witness (6 page)

But today, she was a material witness
who could finger a killer who now had the means to identify her.
And he was
still out there
…

She peered up at Jake, hoping to find
some assurance. In the end, the lines etched on his tired face and the
tightness around the edges of his mouth didn’t give her any.

“Then how did Maureen know you were
there last night?”

“She's the person I called from the
station.”

He nodded. “You have to admit the
publicity—”

“No!” The sharp tone of Cassie's
voice startled even her.

Jake stiffened as if bracing himself
for yet another unpleasant battle. “How can you be so sure it wasn't Maureen?”

“I just am. I may have wanted to kill
her last night, figuratively of course, but we're friends. She'd never put me
in harm's way.”

Jake lips spread to a cynical grin.

“Look, I know going to Rory's wasn't
the smartest thing I've ever done, but I've known Maureen for six years. If she
really thought I'd be in danger, she never would have made the suggestion. In
fact, if I hadn't been so late getting there in the first place I'd have gotten
all the information I needed and been long gone before the shooting. We both
thought it would simply be an hour or so of people watching. Maybe talking a
little to some of the other girls who might show up. Seeing how they interact
with people who came into the bar. That's something I do all the time for my
books.”

His dark eyebrows stretched high on
his forehead. “You said that last night. You just watch people when they're not
looking?”

“Yes, that's how you really get to
know them. It's not like voyeurism or anything sick like that. I don't peek at
people through their windows or do anything illegal. I just watch people acting
naturally, take in their mannerisms and try to make characters out of them.
Once you meet people, they put on a fake face to impress you.”

“So you were interviewing me as a
prospective—”

“I was doing research. I had no
intention of going to bed with you.”

As soon as the words were out of her
mouth, she was sure her sensual thoughts of Jake had betrayed her. He gave her
a slow, sexy grin, rewarding her with his dimple. She'd been caught.

“Maybe not last night,” he answered
in a low voice.

She closed her eyes and tried to
squash the longing that suddenly engulfed her. Fear replaced it.

“What happens now?”

Jake nodded once, straightening his
posture. Whatever had just passed between them was gone, and the man standing
in her living room was suddenly serious and professional again. “You're going
to be fine. For starters, I'm bringing you down to the station to work out the
details of what to do until things settle down.”

She snapped her gaze at him and
huffed. “Don't patronize me. A crime boss has just been murdered and the one
person who can finger his murderer is me. I may have been a little naive last
night, but my mind is pretty clear right now, and I know what trouble I'm in.”

“You'll be safe.”

A wry laugh escaped her that sounded
almost hysterical to her ears. “You saw how easy it was for you to waltz right
into a
secure
building. Are you going to have someone stand guard
outside my door twenty-four hours a day?”

“If we have to, yes.”

“And what will that accomplish? These
people don’t ring doorbells. They don’t pick and choose who to hurt. And they
don’t care who gets killed in the process. A spray of bullets, a bomb and
broken brake line to make it look like an accident? Hell, they don’t even care
of it looks like an accident.”

“You’re going to be fine.”

Cassie looked at Jake in disbelief.
He was totally serious. “What about you? You were there, too. Aren't you afraid
someone in Ritchie's family will come after you because of your connection with
Angel Fagnelio? And Fagnelio knew you were there. He didn’t care.”

He hesitated. “That’s a problem.”

“You think?”

“I thought I’d gained Angel’s
confidence these last few months. Perhaps I was wrong. Or perhaps his desire to
get back at Ritchie was worth wasting me too. I don’t know. This group isn’t
exactly the warm and fuzzy type. Since Fagnelio made the hit on Rory's, none of
the other informants are talking. They’re all nervous. I’m pretty sure Ritchie
Trumbella was the target and everyone else was just in the way. But that’s just
a guess.”

“And now I’m in the way.” She dropped
her face into her hands, not wanting to think about how differently last night
could have played out. Within seconds, she felt Jake's wide hand stroking her
back. Heat enveloped her where his touch made contact and slowly spread
outward.

“There’s a lot riding on this. But
the most important part of all of it is that someone leaked your name to the
press. That shouldn’t have happened. But since it did, you need protection. You
say it wasn't Maureen—”

“It wasn't. I’ll admit Maureen has
had some wild ideas in her time. She had me dress up as a clown and deliver
singing telegrams once so I could think about ways to get into highly secure
buildings. But all that stuff was harmless. She would never put me in danger
just to sell some books.”

“How famous is Cassie Lang?”

She shrugged. “I have some fans. I
don’t get recognized at the market or anything. People aren’t running after me
to get my picture, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Maybe one of them saw you and called
the press.”

“You flatter me. I've had a good
sales record, but I don't think someone would turn their head twice if they
recognized me.”

“You're wrong there, Cassie.”

She forced air into her lungs. She
tried to convince herself it was to calm her down after learning the disturbing
news she was a target. Certainly not because of the way Jake Santos held her
gaze as if he were balancing a fragile piece of crystal.

The coffee maker cut into the sudden
silence with a loud burping noise as the pot filled. Normally Cassie couldn't
function without at least two or three cups in her. The fear she had racing
through her veins now rivaled anything caffeine could give her.

Jake eased off the sofa. “Why don't
you go pack an overnight bag while I pour us some coffee?”

“A suitcase?”

“We'll probably be moving you to
another location.”

“That won't be enough,” she said, not
moving or looking up at him as he strode toward the kitchen.

Jake turned back, resting his hand on
the doorjamb as he looked at her. He was powerful, magnetic. She was infinitely
glad he was here, yet at the same time she feared everything about him.

“No, it won't,” he said, the deep timbre
of his voice echoing the severity of the situation. “But it'll have to be
enough for now. Anything else you need you can get on the way.”

“Like a computer? My work? How about
my life?”

“We're talking about your life,
Cassie. Now go pack. The sooner we get you to a safer place, the better.”

He wasn’t demanding, but Jake made
his point clear. She should put her trust in him and go. Why did that fill her
with a fear she hadn't felt in a long time? Why did she think that by giving up
her trust to a man like Jake Santos to take care of her, to keep her safe,
she'd risk endangering her heart?

* * *

District Attorney Martha Landers gave
a new definition to dog spitting mad. She had always been a powerhouse, Jake
recalled, but after reading the file on Ritchie Trumbella and Angel Fagnelio,
she was ready to have someone's head readied for the guillotine.

Jake was first in line.
As
they walked down the hall toward the interrogation room where his partner,
Kevin Gordon, was talking to Cassie, Martha let him have it.

“Did it ever occur to you to check to
see if there was another ongoing investigation? You were tripping all over the
FBI’s case and didn’t even know it!”

“Courtesy would have gone a long way
if the FBI had informed the local PD about their own investigation. This is our
turf,” Captain Russo said. “We’ve cooperated with the FBI before. We play nice
if they do.”

“The FBI doesn’t give a shit about
playing nice,” Martha said in disgust. “And they don’t have to. I spent an hour
on the phone with the head of the Bureau in Quantico this morning convincing
him I love my job and want to keep it. They have jurisdiction on this, our turf
or not. They’ll be here to collect their witness within the hour.”

“
Their
witness. That doesn’t
give us much time,” Russo said.

Martha folded her arms across her
chest, stretching the shoulder seams of her blue power suit. She had been
working in the DA's office longer than Jake had been on the force. Except for
the slight tint of stubborn gray at her temples that hair color couldn't tame,
and the deepening crow’s feet creasing her eyes, she hadn't changed much. “I
suggest you tread lightly. If the FBI suspects you’re even looking at Ms.
Alvarez wrong… Where is she?”

“Here. She’s with Kevin.” Jake opened
the interrogation room door. Cassie sat at the table. Across from her was his
partner, Detective Kevin Gordon. Kevin was his usual charming self, laughing
and leaning his chair on two legs. He pushed back errant strands of hair that
had fallen from the tight ponytail he wore while working to keep his
shoulder-length dark blond hair at bay.

Martha smiled politely at Cassie.
“Ms. Alvarez.”

“Hello,” Cassie said.

“Detective Gordon, can I steal you
away for a minute?”

Moments later, they were standing in
the hallway. Martha appeared uncomfortable as she spoke. “My hands are tied on
this one. Not that the outcome would be any different for Ms. Alvarez, but I
wish you’d kept me in the loop regarding your investigation of Ritchie
Trumbella. It would have saved me a little embarrassment with the Bureau. My
complexion doesn't look so good with egg on it.”

“We didn't have anything to give you
until last night,” Kevin said. “It goes both ways, you know. But whatever they
were investigating had to be more than just local or they wouldn’t have invested
this much time.”

“Bond fraud.”

Captain Russo whistled.

“Jeez, no wonder the feds are
pissed,” Jake said.

“They lost an agent last night in the
shooting. He'd spent over two years deep undercover cozying up to Trumbella.
They've been closed-mouthed about much of it, but I do know the investigation
was focusing on a connection with a company called The Aztec Corporation out of
Colombia.”

“Never heard of them. South America?”
Kevin asked.

“There is a unit out of Chicago that
has been working on this for some time. They traced a connection to the Aztec
Corporation to Massachusetts. But that connection somehow ended here in
Providence. Anyway, they’re a long way from home if they’re working up here.”

“With Ritchie Trumbella,” Russo said.

Martha shrugged. “That’s the way it
looked. And that’s all I know. With their inside agent gone, they’re back to
square one. They want to salvage whatever they can by leaning on Angel
Fagnelio. They want him to roll.”

“Me, too. If we can find him,” Jake
said.

“Which means they want to keep their
witness safe,” Martha said with a sigh. “I feel sorry for the girl. Cassie
Lang. I’ve read her books. She’s good. I’m not sure how they’re going to be
able to keep her hidden until they bring Angel Fagnelio to trial. That is, if
they find him.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Jake opened the
door to the interrogation room. His breath caught in his throat when he saw
Cassie sitting in the cold metal chair, looking lifelessly at the empty chair
across from her until he, Kevin and the captain walked into the room.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms.
Alvarez,” Captain Russo said. “Agent Tate will be here shortly to give you an
update on what’s going to happen next.”

“Tate? As in Charlotte Tate?” Jake
asked. “I thought she was in Virginia.”

“She transferred to the Chicago
office a year ago,” Russo said. “She's in charge of the investigation. She's
calling the shots.”

Jake cursed under his breath.

Cassie’s stomach dropped. “What’s
wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jake said.

Cassie gave Jake a hard look. “Don’t
give me that.”

Both Kevin and Captain Russo
exchanged a look. “Working with the feds can be…difficult at times,” Kevin
said.

“But it’s nothing you need to worry
about. It’s just logistics.” Russo reassured.

Jake noticed the bags under Russo’s
eyes were more pronounced these days. Since he'd lost his eldest son to a drug
overdose nearly a year ago, he'd let himself go, gaining a thick middle that
made the buttons of his white shirt pucker, courtesy of too much take-out and
maybe a few too many beers when the day grew long. The hours he kept at the
station were taking their toll on him as well, and had less to do with his
commitment to the force than his being unable to go home and face what he'd
lost.