The Innocent Witness

by Terri Reed

  The man went to the wet bar and poured himself a drink. He was surprised to find his hands shaking as he lifted the tumbler to his lips. Before partaking of the amber liquid, he mumbled, “May you rot in your grave, Steven Grant. And may your lovely wife and son join you very soon.”

  “Vivian, it’s time to get up.”

  Viv started awake at the sound of her father’s deep, gravelly voice. She whipped her head around to find the other half of the bed empty. She’d finally managed to slip into an exhausted sleep after two restless nights and had apparently been out of it enough for Mikey to leave the room.

  Panic infused her. She bolted upright. “Mikey?”

  “In the living room watching some ridiculous cartoon,” Ben LeMar replied with a frown marring his tanned face. “I had some more clothes brought over from the house.”

  “Mom?” she asked, trying not to grimace as she waited for the reply.

  Dad shook his head. “I’d like to keep her out of this for as long as possible. She’s upset enough that I’ve been working here all weekend.”

  Viv nodded with relief and sent up a short prayer of thanks that she wouldn’t have to deal with her mother. The last thing Viv needed was her mother’s sharp-tongued criticisms and her needling about Mikey being better off in a specialized facility. Besides, Mom would be the one mourning Steven and no doubt blaming Viv for the tragedy. Viv was so not up for that.

  “Has there been anything on the news?” she asked.

  “Strangely enough, no. Someone is keeping Steven’s death very quiet.”

  Dad retreated, leaving the bedroom door open. From somewhere in the house she heard the obnoxious sounds of Mikey’s favorite show. Outside the bright window covered in gauzy drapes, the sound of hammers and saws filled the air, signaling the beginning of a work-week.

  Her stomach twisted. Whoever killed Steven was powerful enough to keep his death out of the media. And send two federal agents to do her harm. Not a comforting thought.

  She climbed out of the warm bed. Immediately the air-conditioned air chilled her skin. Her gaze swept the room, taking in her surroundings. Plush beige carpet, coffee-colored walls splashed with colorful artwork, high ceiling sporting a whirring fan light. A fireplace beside an arched doorway separated the room from the bath. All very tastefully appointed.

  No doubt her mother’s doing. One thing Lilith LeMar was good at was decorating. Decorating her house. Decorating her only child. Most of the time Viv had felt like her mother’s doll rather than her daughter.

  Viv’s gaze landed on her old pink flowered suitcase sitting on the floor at the base of the bed. Tenderness welled at her father’s thoughtfulness. He, at least, did show his love occasionally with his actions if not his words.

  After calling her father two nights ago and explaining the situation, she’d followed his instructions and driven to the airport. He’d arranged for two tickets on the first flight out of Dulles to Boise. She’d been terrified they’d be stopped by authorities, but thankfully, they weren’t. Her father had been waiting in a dark green Range Rover when they’d arrived. After stopping at the grocery store he’d brought them here, where no one would think to look for them.

  “Here” was a nicely arranged model home in a brand new subdivision. Definitely not her childhood home, which, though equally well-appointed, was by far grander and bigger and set on a fifty-acre estate on the outskirts of Boise.

  Obviously, her father had brought her to one of his investment properties. Along with phosphate mining, her father dabbled in residential construction because he liked building communities.

  Probably because there was no community within his own family, Viv thought with a dose of bleakness.

  Quickly, she showered and dressed in black slacks, a pink cashmere sweater and silver flats. She wound her wet hair up into a French twist and secured it at her nape with a jewel-studded clip. She touched her lips with pink gloss, swiped a touch of mascara on her lashes and called it good.

  As she made her way toward the body of the house, she became aware of male voices. She picked her father’s voice out easily enough. But the other, a rich baritone, slid a shiver down her spine. Probably a construction worker, she rationalized to assuage the sudden apprehension gripping her.

  She found Mikey in the expansive living space sitting on a leather couch in front of a flat-screen plasma television watching his favorite cartoon. The great room, with its twenty-foot-high ceiling and bank of windows overlooking a small lake, was elegantly styled in warm, earthy tones and expensive-looking furnishings. More of her mother’s handiwork.

  Viv stood beside Mikey. His gaze never strayed from the screen. His body didn’t move. He gave no indication he knew she was there, which wasn’t unusual when he was expending so much concentration on the television.

  Ignoring the irritating cartoon, Viv laid a hand on Mikey’s head and gently stroked his hair. “Morning, sweetie.”

  He grabbed her hand, gave a squeeze and then let go.

  Their ritual. One that Doctor Mason had worked on with them. She’d learned the hard way not to try gaining Mikey’s attention when he was engrossed in something. Didn’t matter what it was; if anything disturbed him, he reacted. Sometimes with anger, sometimes with tears. But always loudly and nearly uncontrollably. Getting him to calm down took time and energy that at the moment she didn’t want to spare. She left him to his program and sought out her father.

  Though the kitchen had the same panoramic view of the lake and the high, exposed-beam ceiling and shiny hardwood floor as the rest of the house, the trappings in here were a departure from her mother’s usual style. Rich red-toned granite countertops sporting bright red small appliances and shiny stainless steel major appliances called for attention. But it was the tall, dark-haired man standing beside the island and towering over her father who drew her gaze as she stopped short.

  Probing, coffee-colored eyes assessed her from beneath lashes most women would give their eyeteeth for. A roman nose and blunt jaw completed the face that could rival Michelangelo’s David. The stranger was dressed in a black custom-tailored suit, if she wasn’t mistaken, with a crisp white dress shirt and a thin black tie. Ray Ban sunglasses hung from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  He had broad shoulders and a trim waist. His black slacks hung just right over his polished black dress shoes. He looked like he’d stepped out of an advertisement from the pages of a GQ magazine or was the poster boy for the federal government. Like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones in Men in Black. The two agents who’d taken her for a ride last night had nothing on this guy.

  Viv narrowed her gaze as suspicion and wariness infiltrated her mind. She didn’t trust anyone right now. “Dad, you called the feds? After what they did?”

  “What? Oh, no, no. Not to worry, my girl. You’ll be in good hands. Carlucci’s no longer with the government.”

  Carlucci arched a raven-colored eyebrow ever so slightly. He held out his hand. “Anthony Carlucci. I’m with Trent Associates. Your father has apprised us of the situation.”

  Her gaze flickered to his outstretched hand then back to his face. “The situation being that I found my husband murdered and then fake FBI agents drove me to a secluded place where they were going to do…who knew what?”

  “Exactly,” her father said. “Trent Associates specializes in personal security. Mr. Carlucci has intimate knowledge of Washington politics and law enforcement.”

  “Really.” She couldn’t keep her doubts out of her tone. Just how was this going to play out?

  Her gaze slid to her father. His craggy face gave away nothing. Even at nearly seventy, his white hair was thick and his body muscled from years of working alongside his men in the mines. “Why did you do this?”

  “I can’t stay with you any longer without telling your mother what is going on. You’ll be safer if you turn yourself in. And it’s only a matter of time before your whereabouts are discovered.”

  Either by the police or Steven’
s killer. A shiver of dread rippled over her.

  Carlucci inclined his head in agreement. “Your father has hired me to help you navigate through the mire of red tape associated with the investigation of your husband’s death.”

  Not liking the undertone of accusation in his voice, she said, “I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “You fled from the scene of a murder. That doesn’t look good,” he shot back. “The D.C. police and the FBI will have questions.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” She stared at him incredulously. “Two men claiming to be from the FBI picked Mikey and me up from the house. They drove us to a secluded part of town and we barely got away.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I checked into the story you told your father. Officer Peal tells a different version.”

  Shock siphoned the oxygen from her brain. She gripped the counter for support. “Excuse me? What does he say?”

  “He claims to have put you in a cruiser. Then while he checked with his men, you and your son took off.”

  This was unbelievable. “That’s not true. He talked to those men who took us. They even had badges that looked real.” She grabbed for her bag sitting on the counter and dug out a piece of paper. She held it out to Carlucci. “I wrote down the license plate number of the SUV. Run the plates. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

  His skeptical expression unnerved her. He tucked the paper into his jacket pocket.

  Desperately, she turned to her father. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  There was the briefest hesitation before her father answered, “Of course. That’s why I called Trent. He sent Carlucci.”

  “To do what?” she nearly shouted. “Take us in, all neat and tidy like a pretty package?”

  Carlucci’s eyebrows dipped. “As I’ve already explained, I’m here to protect you and make sure you’re treated fairly.”

  A knot the size of a fist lodged in her chest. They all suspected her of killing Steven and making up the agents. “Shouldn’t I have a lawyer, not a…” She waved a hand, not sure what to call him.

  “A bodyguard,” her father finished for her.

  “Right. A bodyguard. Unbelievable.”

  “I am in fact a lawyer as well as…a bodyguard.”

  “That makes me feel so much better.” Not.

  Distrust and doubt flickered in Carlucci’s eyes. She didn’t like the way this man stared at her as if seeking her secrets so he could determine her guilt or innocence. Viv didn’t care what the man thought as long as he protected her son.

  Her gaze snagged on a file folder sitting on the island next to her carryall bag. Her name was on the label. She didn’t like that this stranger had a dossier on her.

  “Do you know any reason why someone wanted your husband dead?” Carlucci asked.

  “Not off the top of my head. He was a politician. Politicians tend to have enemies. You’d need to speak to his secretary.”

  The sound of shuffling feet dragged Viv’s attention to Mikey. He stopped beside her, his bear clenched in his hand. Love filled her heart and eased some of the tension in her shoulders. “Hi, sweetie,” she said, moving toward him.

  “Hungry.”

  Slipping her arm around him, she was in the process of squatting to look in his eyes when Carlucci shouted, “Sniper!”

  Before she could even shift her gaze to her bodyguard, she was tackled by a hard driving body, taking both her and Mikey to the ground. She cried out as the kitchen window exploded. Something passed within inches of her head to embed itself in the island cabinet.

  Another bullet slammed into the floor beside Mikey.

  Shock dulled the pain of impact. She grappled to make sense of what was happening. Someone was shooting at them.

  “Behind the counter, now!” her new bodyguard commanded as he pushed at her and Mikey. “Move!”

  Reality slammed into her brain as she scrambled to the other side of the island. She gripped Mikey close, though he squirmed to be set free. Anthony pressed his back to the cabinet and pulled a gun from a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket. He checked the clip.

  “Mr. LeMar?” Carlucci shouted.

  “I’m fine,” her father replied from somewhere on the other side of the island. “Viv, Mikey?”

  “They’re unhurt.” Carlucci turned to stare at her as if making sure his words were true.

  Viv blinked at him in horror. “Just what kind of bodyguard are you? You led them right to us.”

  With his back pressed against the cupboard, Anthony yanked his gaze from the stunning woman beside him. He chanced a look around the kitchen island out the now nonexistent window toward where the glare of sunlight had bounced off what could only have been a rifle scope.

  Granite exploded on the island’s surface. Pieces of stone stung Anthony’s face. He drew back. The muzzle flash put the shooter on a ridge to the left of center roughly four hundred meters away on the other side of the lake. A lone shooter?

  “I can’t believe this. From one nightmare to another,” Vivian Grant groused beside him. “You’re sure not worth whatever my father is paying you.”

  Anthony glared at the blonde. The minute he’d seen her photo, he’d known she’d be trouble. Too pretty, too smart and too spoiled.

  Her already pale complexion had gone pasty and her sky-blue eyes held a mixture of dazed shock and righteous anger. But clearly Miss Idaho Potato wasn’t the type to mash under pressure. Good for her. All that polished exterior better not be just for show. He needed her to keep her head if they were to get out of here alive.

  “Look, lady, no one followed me here. I didn’t even know I was going anywhere until an hour before I boarded a plane. And I came from Boston, not D.C.” So it was more likely she’d been followed, but pointing that out right now wouldn’t get them out of the situation. “Mr. LeMar, we need wheels.”

  “The garage,” Ben LeMar said as he crawled on his belly, military-fashion, into view from around the other end of the island. He gestured with his head. “This way.”

  Anthony positioned himself between the bank of windows and Vivian and the child. He nudged them toward the now open doorway. The stove took a hit; the distinct ping of metal hitting metal filled the air.

  Vivian duck walked forward and coaxed her son to move. “Come on, Mikey. Follow grandpa.”

  The kid tried to stand, but his mother pulled him back down. “No, like this, honey.” She demonstrated by crawling on hands and knees. The kid didn’t budge.

  Placing a hand on the kid’s back, Anthony urged the child into action. Mikey reared away with a squawk.

  “Don’t touch him,” Viv shouted as she made a grab for her son but missed. He scrambled out of reach and stood next to the stove.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt him,” Anthony snapped, yanking the child back down just as a bullet whizzed past and smacked with a thud into the wall behind the stove.

  What was up with the kid? He was old enough to understand they needed to keep low and get out of the line of fire. Exasperated with them both, he growled to Mrs. Grant, “Get to the garage. I’ll bring your son.”

  “My bag!” In a swift move, she grabbed the black bag from the counter. Another bullet barely missed her. She cried out and dove out of the way.

  Grinding his teeth in frustration, Anthony charged forward in a crouch with the squirming kid tucked under his good arm and hustled his mother out the door with the other arm. The kid swatted at him, his small hands barely registering against his forearms, while making high-pitched noises that could wake the dead. As soon as they were clear and in the safety of the garage, Vivian rushed to take her son from Anthony’s grasp.

  LeMar shoved a set of keys at Anthony, his face a mask of concern and anger. “Take the Range Rover. The steel’s reinforced. There’s a map inside. Once you get them to safety, call me.”

  Fear clouded Vivian’s blue gaze. “What about you, Dad?”

  LeMar chucked his daughter under the chin. “No problem. I’ll take the
Humvee and go out the back way of the subdivision. If we separate, they won’t know which vehicle to follow.”

  The plan had merit. Anthony needed to get his clients out of there before their would-be assassin decided on a more up close and personal approach.

  “Get in,” he ordered, opening the rear door of the backed-in Range Rover.

  “Get in,” Mikey mimicked in a voice eerily like Anthony’s.

  Viv slid onto the backseat and pulled Mikey onto her lap.

  Anthony opened the driver’s door. LeMar stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You take care of them.”

  Anthony’s gut twisted. His shoulder throbbed, reminding him of the last time he’d been charged with someone’s safety. He hated being in this position. What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to take this job?

  “I will, sir.” He climbed into the front seat and started the engine. “Stay down and out of sight,” he cautioned the pair in the backseat.

  Without a word, Viv sank to the floor of the backseat.

  Mikey was still making his high-pitched wails. Viv wrapped her arms around him and gently rocked. Anthony could feel the kid’s agitation with solid kicks against the leather backrest of the driver’s seat. The garage door rumbled open too slowly. Anthony’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. He revved the engine. The second the door was high enough, LeMar, in the bright yellow Humvee, roared out of the garage, down the short drive and took a sharp left.

  Anthony threw the dark green Range Rover into gear and sped out of the garage, turning right. He gunned the motor and zipped toward the subdivision’s front entrance. Nerves stretched tight, he kept a sharp eye out.

  Five minutes later he hit the highway and drove the Rover to the limit, dicing through the mid-morning traffic and around curves like a pro racer. Or more like he was driving a go-cart from his youth.

  When he was sure they were far enough away and not being followed, he said, “You can sit up now.”