by Debby Giusti
Now he had to work to find out who had done this terrible crime and who might still want Violet dead.
She huddled in his arms as he stared into the night. The killer was out there, waiting for Clay to lower his guard, waiting for Violet to be vulnerable once again.
Clay couldn’t make another mistake.
FIFTEEN
The safe house was nicely decorated, and the older couple who lived there had done everything to ensure Violet’s comfort for which she was grateful. A guest bedroom with bath in the rear of the home would provide privacy while FBI agents kept watch outside.
Sitting on the couch with the logs crackling in the fireplace seemed surreal. So much had happened. Violet blamed herself and her need to track down information about the mob.
“Heavy cream and two sugars.” Clay held the mug out to her.
She tried to smile appreciating his concern. “Did you tell Bernice where I am?”
“Only that you were safe. Not your whereabouts.”
“She can be trusted, Clay.”
He raised his brow. “No one knows where you are.”
“What about the paper? I’ve got another story to write.” She knew the answer before Clay explained yet again how everything was on hold until they found out who had killed Gwyn. The unspoken reality was they might never find the murderer.
Violet glanced around the small home. As much as she appreciated the people who had taken her in, she felt confined. “Twenty-four hours. That’s as long as I’ll remain in hiding.”
“Violet, please, work with me for a change.”
She pulled the mug to her lips and tried to still the turmoil within her.
Clay’s cell chirped. He pulled it to his ear. “Yeah?”
Walking to the window, he eased back the curtain and glanced down the long, dark driveway. The home was in the foothills, about thirty miles from town. Fairly isolated and supposedly safe.
Violet stretched to see out the window. Headlights appeared in the distance.
“Let him through,” Clay said into the phone.
The vehicle moved forward.
Clay closed the cell. “Micah’s here. He wants to talk to you.”
She placed the mug on the coffee table and waited until the door opened and Micah stepped inside, stamping his boots on a small rug by the door. A swirl of frigid air entered with him.
He nodded to Violet, dropped his briefcase on the coffee table and shrugged out of his parka. “Storm’s headed this way. Forecast is for snow and ice by tomorrow afternoon.”
Hopefully by then, the murderer would have been found, and Violet would be at the paper, finishing her next story.
“We’ve uncovered information about your informant,” Micah said. “Gwyn Duncan was involved with a small-time mobster named Angelo Bertelli. From the motel records, she arrived in town four days ago.”
“Gwyn came to Missoula, thinking I could help her escape Angelo and the mob.” Violet’s throat tightened. She’d done everything but help.
“Let’s go over what happened.”
Violet had relayed the information to Clay and again to the officer at the scene of the crime. For the third time, she recounted the story. Micah pulled a file from his briefcase and made notes on what she said.
When she finished, she looked at the two men. “That’s it.”
“What about your e-mail?” Micah asked.
“You can retrieve your messages, Violet, on my laptop.” Clay booted up his computer and accessed the wireless Internet connection. She tapped in her e-mail account and password. Her inbox appeared with the messages from Gwyn.
Micah moved closer and read over Clay’s shoulder. “Forward everything to my office computer so I can review them tomorrow.”
“Got it. What about tonight’s crime-scene photos?”
“I sent them to you as an attachment.”
Clay opened the photos. The three of them huddled together and studied the pictures that flashed across the screen.
“Do you have Ruby Summers Maxwell’s crime-scene photo?” Violet asked Micah.
He pulled a glossy 8x10 from his briefcase and handed it to her.
She stared at the picture. “Carlie’s autopsy report mentioned—”
“How’d you get a copy of the report?” Clay’s tone was sharp.
“A friend e-mailed it to me.”
“A friend who’s too free with classified information.”
“Clay, please.” Violet’s head hurt, and she was too tired to think straight.
“We’re all a little tense tonight,” Micah said. “It’s late and you’re probably exhausted, Violet. I need a little more information. Jackson sent me the photo Clay took of Gwyn outside the coffee shop.”
Violet was confused. “Why did Chicago FBI need her photo when she had left Chicago and was already in Montana?”
“You knew about the photo I took,” Clay reminded her.
“But I thought Micah needed it, not the FBI. How freely does information pass around their Chicago office?”
Clay’s eyes widened. “What are you implying?”
“That information about Gwyn could have gotten to the street. Wouldn’t take long for Angelo to learn his girlfriend was hiding out in Missoula, Montana.”
Violet rose from the couch still holding the crime-scene photo. All her attempts to protect her informant had failed. “I never should have told you anything about Gwyn. I trusted you, Clay. And Gwyn trusted me.”
“Violet, you’re overreacting.” He stepped toward her.
She shook her head. “I told you too much, and you told your buddies everything. I learned cops couldn’t be trusted long ago when they hauled my father into custody and interrogated him for hours. They wouldn’t listen to the truth. They had their own agenda. Just like you, Clay. After what happened in Chicago, you needed to redeem yourself. If you brought down the mob, you’d be a hero.”
“You know that’s not true.” Clay stepped toward her, but she backed up, knowing if he touched her she’d melt into his arms.
She had to remain strong. Too many women had died. Ruby and Carlie and now Gwyn.
What had she done wrong?
“You’re not thinking rationally, Violet.”
Her eyes teared. “Am I being stubborn? Like Aunt Lettie?” A huge lump lodged in her throat. “I tried to save her, but I couldn’t.”
His face softened. “Honey, what are you talking about?”
“I knew she was meeting her boyfriend that night when she put on the perfume he’d given her. She saved it for when they went out. My parents didn’t know she’d snuck out of the house. The wind was howling through the trees. I ran after her, but it was dark, and I got scared.” Tears ran down her cheeks.
“You were only seven, Violet.”
“Don’t you understand? I could have stopped her, but I got scared. If I hadn’t run back home, Lettie would still be alive.” Violet shook her head. “It was my fault that she died. That’s why I need to find out if I did anything to cause Gwyn’s death. Did I reveal something that led the mob to that motel? Maybe it was the information on my computer.”
“We may never know how they tracked her down, but you can’t blame yourself. The mob could have followed me to Missoula.” Clay pointed to Micah. “Maybe someone in Billings learned Micah met with us. We can’t know everything, Violet. Some things just happen. Sure we have to try to do better next time so no one else dies, but the mob doesn’t play by the rules. That’s why they have to be stopped.”
No matter what Clay said, she couldn’t move past the fact that something she’d done or said or written could have caused Gwyn’s death.
She was shaking inside, the caffeine, the lack of sleep, the guilt she carried for Gwyn’s murder. For Aunt Lettie’s death.
Violet had fallen in love with Clay, relying on her heart instead of her head like a stupid schoolgirl. She’d thought too much about him and not enough about Gwyn’s safety.
Violet ran from the li
ving room. She stumbled into the bedroom, slammed the door and locked the latch behind her. Glancing down at Ruby’s photo brought back the memory of Gwyn lying on the motel-room floor.
Violet threw herself on the bed and cried for all the women who had died—for Gwyn, for Carlie and Ruby and for Aunt Lettie, who had died so long ago.
She wanted to make everything turn out right. Instead, she’d brought more death and despair.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, her heart breaking. When would it end? The Mafia? The murders? The senseless destruction of human life?
Her own security no longer mattered. She had to warn other women in danger, like Jen Davis, who the Marshals couldn’t find, and Olivia, who was on the run, as well as Eloise, the woman the mob wanted most of all.
Why hadn’t she told Clay about the photo tacked on to the bulletin board at Mama’s Diner? The marshals needed to know Olivia may have been a waitress there, yet Violet had withheld that information. She’d tell Clay about the photo when both of them had calmed down.
Right now, she wanted to concentrate on the three women who had died, so she could warn the other women still in danger. For their sakes, Violet had to publish the article on the mob, if it was the last thing she did.
Violet’s words continued to circle through Clay’s mind as he and Micah reviewed the information Violet had provided. Eventually Micah left, leaving Clay to wonder about his own role in tonight’s murder.
Violet was right about one thing. Clay had passed on the information she’d provided to Jackson and Micah. But she had requested protection for Gwyn and had shared everything with Micah when they’d met at Police Headquarters.
Could there be a leak? Or was Clay imagining a problem where there wasn’t one?
His cell rang.
“We found Ross Truett,” Chief Howard said when Clay answered. “Pulled him in for questioning. The guy seems clean. He and Violet knew each other in college. He’s doing a story on their alma mater for the Yellowstone County Reader. He called Violet a few days ago for a date. Dinner and a movie. Only she canceled on him today.”
“What’s he like?”
“Your average Joe. He’s worried about her. Mentioned Jimmy Baker. Said the guy stayed a little too close to Violet in college. She’d landed an internship in Chicago. Jimmy had a hard time once she left town.”
“Are you planning to talk to Jimmy?”
“We’ll pull him in tomorrow. See if he knows anything. Why don’t you come over in the morning? I’ll fill you in on what we’ve come up with. I’d appreciate you taking an active role in this investigation. Might give you a chance to see how we do things in Missoula. Our department could use a fresh eye, especially someone with your experience.”
Again, Clay appreciated the chief’s support. “Sir, I’m still on probationary leave. The board hasn’t made a decision yet.”
“Jackson has full confidence in you. That’s all I need.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Clay disconnected, then speed dialed Jackson’s cell.
Although it was the middle of the night, he knew the agent wouldn’t be sleeping.
“Thanks for putting in a good word for me with the Missoula chief of police,” Clay said when Jackson answered.
“You know how I feel about what happened here in Chicago.”
“If I hadn’t lost my cool, we’d know the name of the head capo running the women on the street.”
“We’ll get to him, Clay. One way or another. No telling if he would have showed up that night or if he would have been exposed by the sting. We’ve been sure of a lot of things before, and they’ve fallen apart at the last second. These guys aren’t known for stability. As you know, we want the men at the top. Vincent Martino and his father, Salvatore.”
Clay heard the discouragement and fatigue in Jackson’s voice. He’d been at this a long time. Fighting crime without seeing results took a toll. Clay knew that only too well.
“How’s Violet?” the agent asked.
“Exhausted. She’s trying to sleep.”
Sadness settled over Clay when he disconnected. Gwyn had tried to make a difference. Violet had wanted to get her into Witness Protection. Now one woman was dead and the other felt responsible.
He dropped on to the couch. So much pain and despair. So many deaths. And law enforcement wasn’t any closer to bringing down the Martino family.
Clay looked down the hallway to the door of the guest bedroom. Crazy to have thought he’d have a chance with Violet.
She deserved a good man who wasn’t tainted by the corruption that had surrounded Clay for too long. Violet needed a man who could love her and protect her.
Clay had thought he was that man. Now he knew better.
He glanced at the built-in bookcase. A small crystal cross like the ones he’d seen in gift-shop windows sat on the shelf.
Early on, Clay had questioned the reality of a God who could allow the bad things he saw every day on the streets of Chicago. Now he realized every man had a choice. He could choose good or evil. Trouble was, too many folks Clay came into contact with made bad decisions.
The book he’d read mentioned free will, a gift from God. The Lord couldn’t interfere unless He was invited into a person’s life. Clay glanced at the cross again, then flicked his eyes to Violet’s door.
For more years than he wanted to admit, Clay had turned his back on God, claiming the Lord had been the one at fault. As a teen, he’d blamed God for his parents’ deaths and then later for Sylvia’s addiction. Everything was God’s fault, when the real problem was Clay.
Violet had mixed up reality when she was seven and continued to hold on to the belief she could have saved her aunt if only Violet had followed her that night. In a similar way, Clay had mixed up the reality of his life. Accidents happened. Some people were prone to addiction. Others stole or killed to get what they wanted. But in spite of all the bad, God was good and loving and forgiving.
Lord, forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made, and if You need my invitation, so be it. Give me a hand here. Keep Violet safe. Help law enforcement find the person who killed Gwyn Duncan. Bring down the Martino family and every other arm of organized crime. Let good triumph over evil. Amen.
Clay felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Renewed by the prayer, he knew law enforcement would find Gwyn’s killer and bring him to justice. Then Clay could leave Violet alone and let her get on with her life.
Reflecting on the choices a person could make, Clay realized leaving Violet would be the right choice for her, but the wrong choice for him.
SIXTEEN
Violet stayed awake throughout the night, trying to put the puzzle parts together. Was there anything she could have done that would have prevented Gwyn’s death?
An intruder had entered Violet’s home. Someone had gone into her files at work. More than likely the same person had stolen her laptop. Between the two computers, the intruder had accessed the information she had compiled on the Mafia. If the perpetrator had gotten into her e-mail, he would have seen the messages from Gwyn, as well.
Gwyn had run from the coffee shop, thinking someone from Chicago had been following Violet. Not Clay, but who?
Violet studied the photo of Ruby. As she had started to say to Clay earlier, Carlie’s autopsy report mentioned a black smudge on the victim’s right hand.
Looking closely at Ruby’s photo, Violet realized her hand was similarly marked. The Mafia had been called the Black Hand in the early 1900s. Was the mob marking their victims?
Violet pulled up the photo she’d taken of Gwyn on her cell. No such mark appeared on her hand. Maybe the Mafia hadn’t killed Gwyn. If not, then who had committed the crime and why? Or had Violet surprised the killer before he’d had a chance to darken Gwyn’s hand?
Footsteps sounded in the hallway followed by a knock at her door. “Violet, Chief Howard needs my help this morning.”
Clay’s voice.
“I’ll be at Police Headquar
ters for a few hours.”
She cracked the door open.
The gray light of another overcast day filtered through the hallway window. The subdued lighting played over Clay’s face.
Unruly hair, heavy shadow of a beard and tired eyes reminded her of the way he’d looked that first night at the bar and grill in Chicago. Minus the cockiness.
But this morning, he was totally focused on his job. One hint of softening and she’d be in his arms. The pull between them had always been strong.
“Two guards are on the driveway,” he stated matter-of-factly. “A couple more guys are in the woods. There’s a radio on the coffee table. Push the squawk button to talk to them if you need anything.”
Once again, he was a cop doing his job.
She searched his eyes, hoping he’d soften.
“Mrs. Jones and her husband just left for the grocery store. They didn’t expect company and need to stock up on supplies. She’ll fix breakfast for you when she gets back.”
“I’m not hungry.” At least not for food. She was hungry for the old Clay to return. The man she’d fallen in love with who wrapped his arms around her when he walked her home, whose kiss sent her heart into freefall, who helped an older neighbor with odd jobs around the house because he was a good man who cared about others and wanted to make the world a better place.
“I’ll have one of the guards come inside to stay with you,” he said.
Violet didn’t want anyone she didn’t know underfoot. “No. Please don’t.”
“A female agent went to your home and packed a suitcase with everything you should need for the next few days.”
“Twenty-four hours. No longer, Clay.”
He held up his hands. “Violet, please, let me do my job for a change.”
Her back bristled, recalling he’d said something similar last night. “For a change?”
“You didn’t listen to me. I told you to stop investigating the mob. It almost cost you your life.”
“Gwyn Duncan had to pay for my mistake. Is that what you’re saying?”
He stretched out his right hand, palm up. “Give me your cell phone.”