Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  Sam’s gaze sharpened. Greg Reilly had been with the service for less than a year and Sam’s assistant for most of that time, yet there was still something about the younger man that made Sam uneasy. “Yeah,” he said simply, unwilling to say more.

  Greg shifted his trim frame in his seat and adopted a more idle pose. “I wouldn’t mind it. She’s a looker.”

  Stuffing a pen in the inner pocket of his blazer, Sam rethought his plans, picked up the file he’d just closed, put it in the lower right hand drawer of his desk and locked the drawer tight. “She’s a case, Greg.”

  “A very sexy one. Man, you must be a saint to keep your distance. Either that—” his grin twisted “—or you’re mad.”

  Sam headed for the door. “Not mad. Married. And respectful of Carly. And aware of the rules. Capice?” He was into the darkened hall before Greg’s parting shot hit him.

  “Anytime you need assistance….”

  “Thanks, pal,” he muttered under his breath, “but no thanks. This one’s mine.”

  Carly stared at the dead receiver for several minutes before putting it back on its hook. He’d had the final say. He was on his way. Not that she didn’t want him to be. She was almost glad he hadn’t let her argue him out of coming. Sam was always a comfort. Though she’d never have called him on her own for such a reason as this, she welcomed his company.

  Fifteen minutes later the buzzer rang. Having sponged her face and freshened her makeup, she took a deep breath and pressed the button on the intercom panel beside the door. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Carly. Buzz me in.”

  Recognizing his voice, she did as she was told, then opened the door and ventured into the hall to lean over the banister and follow his ascent. To this day, Carly believed Sam Loomis to be the least likely looking deputy U.S. marshal she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many. But there was a stereotype that Sam definitely didn’t fit. A six-footer of medium build, he was dressed with a casual, style-conscious flair in navy slacks and a tan corduroy blazer with a white shirt and snappy striped tie. His hair was sandy hued and full, brushing his forehead as he trotted easily up the steps. There was nothing formal or stiff or somber about him. He easily passed as Carly’s beau.

  “You must just love this on a Friday evening,” she began in subtle self-derision as he mounted the last flight. “Bet you didn’t expect quite an albatross.”

  “Albatross?” Sam snickered. “You should only know.” Putting a strong arm around her shoulders, he leaned low to whisper in her ear as he led her back into her apartment, “You should get a look at some of my charges. They’re nowhere near as pretty as you are.” To the onlooker, he might have been whispering sweet nothings. Her comely smile would have supported the suspicion.

  Carly nudged him in the ribs. “That’s the oldest line I’ve ever heard. Besides—” the door slammed behind them “—you’ve already told me that most of them are thugs. Compared to a guy who’s had his nose broken twice, his cheek slashed, his forearm tattooed and his fists battered, I should hope I come out ahead.”

  Giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze, he released her. The affection was genuine and mutual. In the four months since they’d met, Carly and Sam had found much to respect in each other.

  “‘Ahead’ is putting it mildly. It’s sheer relief to get a call from you.”

  “From my father,” she corrected him gently. “I wouldn’t drag you out here just to hold my hand.”

  Sam was quick to respond to the apology in her eyes. “That’s my job, Carly. It’s what I’m here for. You don’t call me half as often as most of my witnesses do.” Gently grasping her shoulders with his hands, he was all too aware of her fragility. “And I’m sitting there in my office, trying to decide whether I should pester you or leave you alone. You’ve got to guide me. Besides, we’re friends. Something really got to you today. You should have called.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “But you’ve been crying.”

  She looked away. “My father shouldn’t have told—”

  “He didn’t tell me. I can see for myself.” Cupping her chin with his forefinger, he tipped up her face. She had no choice but to meet his gaze. When her eyes grew helplessly moist, she broke away and went to stand before the window. With one arm wrapped tight about her waist, she pressed a fist to her mouth. The reflection in the window told her of Sam’s approach. “You don’t want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

  She held out a hand, her fingers spread, asking him to give her a moment. When she felt herself sufficiently composed, she took an unsteady breath. “I was walking home and I panicked. It was dark. I heard footsteps coming fast from behind.” When she closed her eyes, the scene was vivid before her lids. “I just assumed they’d found me, so I started to run. And all the while I was waiting to hear a shot or feel a hand clamp over my mouth.” Her eyes opened wide, bespeaking her fear. “It was a jogger, a stupid jogger. But I thought…I thought….” She waved her hand suggestively as her voice cracked and her tenuous composure dissolved. Though the last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Sam, she couldn’t help herself. “What’s the…matter with…me, Sam?” she sobbed, her voice muffled against the hand she’d put up to shield her face from him. “I never cry. And here I am. Twice in…in one day. It’s disgusting.”

  Without a thought, Sam put his arm around her and drew her close. Of all the witnesses he’d dealt with in his ten years on the job, only she inspired this kind of protectiveness. Oh, yes, she was a woman. And a looker, as Greg had said. But she was different all around—her intelligence, her personality, the very nature of the case that had brought her to him. Holding her now, offering her a silent kind of comfort, he recalled the first time he met her, when she arrived four months before with the marshal from Chicago in that unmarked car. She had been frightened and vulnerable. He’d found it hard to believe her to be the journalist who had so systematically, so single-mindedly probed an arson conspiracy. That was before he’d gotten to know her. Through the months of July and August he’d witnessed her dedication firsthand, tracking her day after day to the library, aware of the other days she spent, holed up in her apartment preparing to teach in the fall. When she set her mind to something, she went after it determinedly. He respected her tremendously. He also respected the susceptibility that now reduced her to tears.

  “It’s only natural, Carly,” he said soothingly, as he rubbed her back. The other nice thing about their relationship was that he could hold her, even dote on her, without misunderstanding. He was happily married and loved his wife. Carly knew this, seemed able to relax with him all the more for it. Never once had either of them felt threatened. Theirs was a rare friendship, one that went well beyond the rules of his trade. He knew that wherever she went, whatever she did in life, they’d keep in touch. They were truly friends.

  “You’ve lived through something most people would only dream about if they tried to sleep on a stomach full of Guido’s supersubs with fried onions, hot peppers, diced pickles and salami.”

  She answered with a groan. “It’s not funny, Sam. I don’t have to eat anything and I have nightmares.”

  “Still?” He drew back to look at her face. “You’re not sleeping again? I thought that was better.”

  “Oh, it is usually. It’s just…once in a while…I really shouldn’t complain.”

  “Do you want something for it?”

  “No! God, the last thing I need is something to knock me out. Then I might never know if someone had broken in until he was on top of me.”

  “Carly!” Sam gave her a punishing glower. “That’s exactly the kind of thinking that’ll get you into trouble. No one is going to come after you.” He deliberately enunciated each word. “No one is going to break in.”

  “Then why am I in this program?” she countered, matching his glower with the fire of her own as she took a step back and blotted her cheeks with her hands. There was nothing like healthy debate to stem tears. “If there
was no threat, I’d still be Robyn Hart living in Chicago working for the Tribune.”

  “Your reasoning only goes half way. As Robyn Hart, you would be in danger. That’s why you were admitted to the program. On the other hand, now you’re Carly Quinn. No one knows that, or where you live, or what you do. That’s the whole point. You have a new identity, a new background, a new life. Take my word for it, Robyn Hart has vanished. We’ve taken care of that. And we know what we’re doing.”

  Carly eyed him, feeling guilty even as she cornered him. “That wasn’t what Michael Frank said.”

  Sam stared for a minute, then raised his eyes to the ceiling in frustration. When he looked back down, his expression was one of regret. He should have warned her. “You saw the program last Tuesday.” No wonder she’d been upset. That garbage would have been enough to frighten even the most uninvolved of viewers.

  “How could I help it? It was advertised for a week, blasted all over the evening news.”

  “You didn’t have to watch.”

  “Come on, Sam. How could I not? It was an intensive study of the Witness Protection Program, of which I am a part. I was curious.”

  “And you believed all that crap?” he growled. “I can’t fathom that. You’re an intelligent woman, Carly. You’re media, for God’s sake! You should know how the facts can be twisted, how they can be selectively used to make one point or another. Television is a medium of exaggeration, and that show was nothing but a crude distortion of the truth.” He paused long enough to hear his own anger, then looked down, shook his head and let out a long breath. “I’m hungry.”

  Carly stared at him. “You’re hungry? What does hunger have to do with anything?”

  He looked around, then headed for the sofa to lift the coat she’d dropped earlier. “I can’t think straight on an empty stomach. Let’s go get a snack.”

  “We can’t do that, Sam. Ellen is sure to be sitting home waiting for you. She’s probably spent the afternoon planning dinner.”

  For the first time since he arrived, Sam smiled broadly. “You’ve never met Ellen or you wouldn’t worry. Ellen is the perfect deputy marshal’s wife. She knows never to expect me unless I call.”

  To Carly it sounded awful. She and Matt had prized their dinners precisely because their days were so busy and apart. “How does she stand it?”

  He grinned then. “My charm. She’s a sucker for my charm.” He held the coat for her. “Come on, lady. We’ve got some talking to do.” Had it been anyone else, Carly would have steadfastly refused. With Sam, though, she felt safe on every level.

  Once in his car, they headed toward a deli on the fringe of the Square. There, over corned-beef sandwiches and beer, they very sanely discussed the program she’d watched. “It only spoke of the failures, Carly, and those are a ridiculously small percentage of the whole. Sure, there have been thugs who’ve been brought into the program, who theoretically then have a clean slate to launch a second lifetime of crime; there have been misjudgments here and there. In most cases though, it’s been decided that the importance of the testimony outweighed the potential risk.”

  “I know, Sam, but that wasn’t what—”

  “Bothered you most?” When she nodded, he grimaced. “That’s what I thought.” He took a long swig of his beer.

  “I mean, you have to admit that hearing about cases where the person supposedly under protection is discovered and—and killed—isn’t terribly encouraging.”

  “But look at those cases, Carly. Those were situations where the witness was a crook himself, where he had a whole army of enemies. And the one most important thing that bastard Frank failed to point out was that in every one of those cases, the witness was himself responsible for his cover being blown. Think about it.” He spoke softly, a gentle urgency in his voice. “Here you are. You’ve got an entire background fabricated for you—birth certificate, social security number, school and employment records, even a marriage certificate and phony newspaper clippings of your husband’s death. We’ve given you a past that parallels the truth enough for you to feel comfortable with it. Names, dates, places may have been altered, but as Carly Quinn, you’re a complete, believable individual. And there’s no way, no way that anyone can connect Carly Quinn to Robyn Hart. In fact, wasn’t that the main thrust of Frank’s argument? In the few cases he chose to explore, when the local authorities would arrest our witnesses on suspicion of a crime, they were unable to get so much as a fingerprint ID from the FBI. These were police officers, unable to break through the cover.” He straightened and offered a half smile of encouragement. “In some situations, where local police don’t know and can’t learn that they have a dangerous person in their midst, it may be counterproductive. In your situation, it should be comforting. No one can find out who you are. Not Nick Barber. Not Gary Culbert. No one.”

  Carly winced at the mention of the names that had brought terror to her life, then reflected on Sam’s argument as she idly rearranged the potato salad on her plate. Finally, setting down her fork, she looked up. “I suppose,” she murmured, but her skepticism lingered. “It’s just that I get so frightened at times.”

  “Is that what happened this afternoon?”

  Puzzled and frustrated, she frowned. “I don’t know what happened this afternoon. I must have been edgy for some reason.”

  “Do you think it was Frank’s program?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It could also be the holidays coming up. These will be the first. It’s kind of hard not to look back.” Though her eyes were averted, her pain was evident. “We used to all get together, my father and brothers and their families and me.”

  “None of your brothers can get to New York?”

  “Naw.” She made light of it, but she knew she’d miss them terribly. “It’s an expensive trip with the kids and all. I think that we’ll try to rotate visits. I’ll see my father in New York at Thanksgiving, my brother Jim and his family down south at Christmas, Ted and Doreen and the kids sometime in the spring God knows where. Exciting, huh?”

  She made it sound anything but. In total sympathy, Sam felt helpless to come up with a remedy. “You really want to go home, don’t you?”

  Looking as sad as he’d ever seen her, she nodded. “Yup.”

  “It wouldn’t be smart, Carly.”

  “I know.” She gave a rueful smile. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting it.”

  This time it was Sam who nodded. He’d feel the same way if, for some reason, he couldn’t go home. The times he spent in Montpelier had become more and more special with the years. Beyond that, he had Ellen, not to mention Sara and another child on the way. Carly Quinn was alone.

  After several quiet moments during which they were both lost in thought, Sam shifted in his seat. “Why don’t we get going,” he suggested, gesturing for the check. “You can make me a cup of coffee at your place before I hit the road.”

  It was back in Carly’s kitchen, over a second cup, that he finally broached the topic that had been on his mind since dinner’s end. “You still don’t date, do you?” he asked, stretching back in his chair with studied nonchalance.

  Her gaze narrowed in mock reproach. “You’re not going to start in on that again, Sam Loomis, are you?”

  “You have to admit it’s been a while since I mentioned it last,” he argued good-naturedly, feeling not at all guilty. “And I’ve been patient. I’ve given you time. But you aren’t dating, are you?”

  “You sound like an older brother,” she teased.

  But he was serious. “No, Carly. Just a friend expressing his concern. When you were in protective custody, you were isolated, in a kind of limbo. It would have been impossible for you to lead a normal life then. But that’s over. The trial is over. It’s time you returned to the real world. You’re young and attractive. You’ve got so much to offer a man. And you need one.”

  In vain she fought the blush that stole to her cheeks. “I need one?” A single auburn brow ventured
high beneath her bangs. “Do I look that desperate?”

  “You know what I mean,” he scolded. “You need companionship. For God’s sake, you’re afraid to go out at night! A man would be company, protection.”

  “Ahhh,” she drawled. “A knight in shining armor.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously, Carly.”

  “I am.” And she was, suddenly as sober as he. “I’ve given it lots of thought, Sam. Believe me, I have. I’m busy. There are always things to do for school—reading papers, planning classes. I want to be a good teacher. Honestly, it’s better this way for now.”

  “Better? To sit up here alone, night after night? Hell, you’d never have gone out tonight had I not come over and trundled you off!” He glowered. “Maybe I should turn you over to Greg, after all.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Greg Reilly. My assistant.”

  She grinned. “That charming fellow with the hungry eyes?”

  “You noticed?”

  “How could I help but notice. Every time I walk into your office he all but strips me naked.” She held up a hand against Sam’s scowl. “Figuratively, of course. I certainly wouldn’t have to worry about nightmares with Greg around, would I?” she quipped, tongue in cheek. Actually, had the circumstances surrounding her presence in the U.S. marshal’s office been different, she might have found Greg Reilly’s appreciation to be flattering. Not tempting—just flattering. He was young, perhaps a year or two younger than she was, certainly more appealing than Brozniak, the assistant state’s attorney she’d had occasional dealings with in Chicago. “It must be something about law enforcement as a profession that does strange things to you guys,” she kidded, then added whimsically, “Actually, I prefer older men.”

  Sam ignored her humor, picking up his thought where he’d himself broken it moments earlier. His gaze narrowed. “But it’s not only the nights, is it? Your weekends must be gruesome. My guess is that in the four months you’ve been here you’ve seen just about as much of the area as I’ve shown you. Hmm?”