Hiding His Witness

by C. J. Miller

  She rolled to face him. “A little. I hate hotel blankets. They’re always so rough and thin.”

  Reilly adjusted the thermostat, turning up the temperature. “I can call the front desk and ask for another blanket.”

  She pulled the blanket tighter around her. “The thermostat should do it.”

  He didn’t miss the fear and worry in her eyes. It had been a rough night for both of them. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

  She hesitated a moment. “I’d rather not sleep alone.”

  He could offer her some comfort. Even if part of him knew it was a mistake, he found himself agreeing. “We can share the bed.”

  He walked to the side of the bed and got under the sheet and blanket. Reaching for the light on the bedside table, he turned it off. She was shivering and his resistance lasted five seconds. He reached for her and pulled her against him, tucking her into the curve of his body. She fit perfectly.

  Shifting her hips, she maneuvered closer, setting her backside against his growing arousal. He looped his arm around her waist and she slid her bare foot up his calf.

  “You were cold,” he said against her neck, as if he needed to give her an explanation for why he’d reached for her. Her cold toes tickled the hair on his legs.

  “Not anymore. I’m feeling quite toasty now.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her, or if she expected him to say anything. She needed comfort and he was holding her to make her feel better. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, trying not to think about making love to her.

  * * *

  Reilly awoke at 6:00 a.m. with sunlight sneaking in between the dark green curtains and Carey’s hot body snug against him. He’d dreamed of her, as he’d known he would. Dreamed of kissing her, of rolling on top of her, of sliding inside her. Things that shouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen again. It wouldn’t end well for either of them.

  The cocoon of warmth beneath the blankets made getting out of bed unappealing, but if he didn’t get up now, the craving building low in his gut would become unmanageable.

  Trying to hold the blankets close to the mattress, Reilly slipped from the bed.

  Carey moved in her sleep and her eyes opened into narrow slits. “What time is it?”

  “Six. We need to get moving soon.”

  “Where are we going?”

  As much as he hated it, they had to keep moving. He didn’t like being on the defensive. Running wasn’t how he handled problems, but going on the offensive with Carey in tow was dangerous. If Mark sensed he was coming after him, he had resources at his disposal to disappear.

  Reilly couldn’t return to his place in Denver. He had to assume Mark knew where he lived. If they moved from hotel to hotel, someone would see them or recognize Carey eventually.

  The ranch was still one of his safest options. His parents had it well protected from public records. Could he return to the ranch without putting his family at risk? “I need a couple of days to gather information. Then we’ll decide.”

  Carey scrubbed a hand over her face. “What information? I know everything about Mark. Or are you talking about the Vagabond Killer?”

  “I’m talking about both.” Though another killing had occurred while the Vagabond Killer was in jail, the situation made Reilly uneasy. He couldn’t quite banish the niggling sensation he had overlooked something about the case.

  “You want to find both?” Carey asked, sitting up in bed.

  Her eyes were drowsy, her hair tousled. She looked good—too good. Reilly rolled his shoulders, trying to work out some of the pent-up tension. “Big picture—we need to find them both. For now, I need to keep you safe. I’m going to get cleaned up. There’s energy bars in the bag if you’re hungry.”

  Carey nodded and reached for the television remote control. “I’ll see if the news has something about the shooting.”

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Carey was sitting on the passenger seat in Reilly’s car, hot coffee in one hand and a bagel from the hotel in the other. “Where are we going?”

  Reilly climbed inside the car and set his takeout coffee cup in the cup holder. “To meet a friend who works in the detention center where the Vagabond Killer was being held.”

  “Why? He’s not there anymore. I saw on the news he was released from police custody early this morning.”

  Reilly glanced at her. Some moments she could feel the intensity in his gaze, could sense the underlying need in him to kiss her. But he wouldn’t. He believed getting involved with her would put this case at risk. “He might have talked to someone in jail. Or he might have had a visitor. I want to know everything about the time he was in custody.”

  Carey took a sip of her coffee, the hot liquid warming her. Coffee would make her feel normal and would help her think. “Why do you care about an innocent man’s visitors in jail?”

  Reilly started the car. “I’m not sure he’s innocent.”

  Carey stilled, her eyes darting to Reilly. “You think they had the right guy?”

  “A hunch tells me we did.”

  A sick feeling settled over her, her half-eaten bagel sitting like lead in her stomach. “How did he commit another murder while he was in custody?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t you think Vanessa would have already checked the visitor log?”

  Reilly reached into his pocket and handed her his phone. “She wouldn’t have had a reason to check it. As far as she knows, she had the wrong person. Can you call Harris and put the phone on speaker?”

  Carey set her cup in the holder in front of her. She dialed Harris’s cell phone number.

  Harris answered on the second ring. “Hey man, we were worried about you guys. The news was talking about another Vagabond Killer murder and how they released the guy they had in custody. Are you both okay?”

  Reilly filled Harris in on what had happened in the last twelve hours.

  “I think they had the right guy. I think someone else committed that murder.”

  Harris blew out his breath. “They wouldn’t have let the guy go unless they had strong evidence it was the same killer in each case.”

  “What if the Vagabond Killer told someone how he commits his murders?” Reilly asked.

  Startled, Carey’s gaze swerved to Reilly’s face. If the Vagabond Killer told anyone his secrets, who would be deranged enough to go on a killing spree?

  “Assume he did tell someone. That person would have to be willing to kill in the same manner as the Vagabond Killer, same signature,” Harris said, his voice indicating he was considering it an option. “Generally, serial killers work alone and they keep their crimes separate from their life. For this guy to commit as many murders as he did without getting caught, he’s smart and he doesn’t say or do anything in his life to indicate he has these compulsive tendencies. For him to tell someone about them, he took a big leap.”

  The information swamped her, lighting the fear in her stomach. The killer was out there somewhere, maybe looking for her.

  “I need you to find out what you can about Mark Sheffield. He took over Croswell Leone’s enterprise after the man died.”

  “His relationship to Carey is what?”

  Carey cringed.

  Reilly needed his family’s help. They could be trusted. “Mark Sheffield is the man she’s running from and Croswell Leone was her father.”

  “So we’re dealing with some seriously dangerous people,” Harris said.

  Misery and embarassment streamed through her.

  “It’s good we know who we’re up against,” Reilly said.

  Reilly’s phone beeped twice. “Harris, I need to take another call. Let me know if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”

  Reilly motioned Carey to flip his phone to the other call, and an angry voice started before Reilly could give a greeting.

  “Where have you been? Are you with the girl?” The lieutenant’s voice shook with anger.
<
br />   Carey’s nerves tensed.

  “Yes, I’m with Carey Smith. Things have been hectic.”

  “Get your butts down here now. I want her in protective custody. The mayor is furious for our incompetence and the media is having a field day with this.”

  “Respectfully, sir, she is in protective custody. I’m in the best position to watch over Ms. Smith.”

  Surprise streamed through her. Reilly had had a chance to pass her off to someone else and he hadn’t. Her heart soared.

  The lieutenant sputtered. “You were almost shot last night. Vanessa told me what happened.”

  “Neither of us was injured.”

  Reilly glanced at Carey and she self-consciously touched her face where a few scratches were. In the last month, she’d been battered more than she ever had in her life.

  “Where are you now?” the lieutenant asked.

  “I’m looking for a safe place to hide the witness,” Reilly said.

  “I don’t have time for games. I need a status. I need to keep track of the witness.”

  “I’ll let you know when I have a safe place to stay.”

  Was any place safe?

  “I’ve got the mayor riding me on this. This is a total screwup. Get down here now. I won’t stand—”

  Reilly disconnected the call. “I don’t care what the mayor’s agenda is. I don’t have time for that.”

  “Reilly!” Carey protested. They had enough trouble with Mark and the Vagabond Killer without adding the rage of an angry lieutenant to their list.

  “If I take you to the DPD, Mark might be waiting. Or the media. And if they assign you other protection, will you trust them enough to tell them about Mark? Will you lay it out so it’s clear what you’re up against?”

  She was putting Reilly in a difficult position, pinning him between her and his job. But in truth, it had been a leap for her to tell him about Mark. She wouldn’t trust a stranger. “No. I can’t tell anyone else.”

  “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 10

  Carey drank the last of her cold coffee, needing something to do with her hands. Reilly had arranged to meet an old friend at Crestmoor Park. His friend worked in the detention center where the Vagabond Killer had been held.

  Would his friend have any evidence to support the theory that they’d had the right man all along? Apprehension swept over her.

  They parked in the half-full lot. Carey stuck close to Reilly’s side as they made their way toward the walking trail surrounding the park. His arm brushed hers and desire streamed through her. She resisted the impulse to press herself against him or reach for his hand. Her heart skipped a few beats, nervous energy tightening her muscles.

  At the start of the trail, a gray haired man in jeans and a flannel jacket stood from a wooden bench and approached them. He and Reilly shook hands.

  Reilly introduced her. “Brent, this is Carey Smith. Carey, this is a friend of mine from the police academy.”

  Carey and Brent shook hands and the three of them walked along the well-worn trail. Reilly stayed close to her, his stance protective.

  “You had the alleged Vagabond Killer housed at the detention center,” Reilly said, heavy emphasis on the word alleged.

  Brent tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “I knew him. Crazy son of a gun. Sat in his cell in some kind of meditation pose, mouthing words to himself. If he was sent to trial, I’d guess his lawyer would claim mental insanity. He sure was acting like he had problems.”

  “Did he make friends with anyone?” Reilly asked. “Did he talk to any of the guards or other prisoners?”

  Carey hung on to every word.

  Brent shook his head. “Word got around who he was, and by the way he behaved the other prisoners left him alone. They knew he was a short-timer. He was only being held until trial. If he was convicted, he’d be sent to a maximum security prison.”

  Brent glanced at Carey. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

  Carey squelched the bubble of hysteria that rumbled in her chest. Could she trust Brent with the truth? If word got out that she and Reilly had spoken with someone in Denver, Mark would be hot on her tail.

  Recognition lit in Brent’s eyes. He snapped his fingers. “I know who you are. You’re the woman from the news. You stopped him from killing someone.”

  A surge of panic flared in Carey’s stomach. She instinctively leaned closer to Reilly, wanting his protection and his reassurance she would be okay now that she’d been recognized.

  “We’re trying to lay low,” Reilly said, setting his hand on her lower back. Heat from his touch shimmered up her body. She wanted to bury her face into his shoulder, to let Reilly handle this situation.

  Brent nodded. “I got you. I won’t say a word.”

  Reilly lowered his voice. “Did you bring the visitor logs?”

  Brent nodded once. “No one can know where you received these. This is unofficial at best.”

  “Understood,” Reilly said.

  They stopped on the trail. Brent extended his hand to Reilly and shook it. Carey saw a white slip of paper moving from Brent’s hand to Reilly’s. Reilly made the paper disappear into his pocket. “We’ll get together soon for a beer.”

  “Sounds great,” Brent said.

  They said goodbye and Brent continued down the trail in the opposite direction from where they’d met.

  Reilly and Carey hiked toward the car.

  “You okay?” Reilly asked, glancing at her. He brushed his hand lightly over her cheek where she had a few scratches, frowning mightily at them.

  This whole situation made her nervous. “I’m fine. I’m a little rattled that he recognized me. I thought the hair and clothes were a good disguise.”

  “Brent works in law enforcement and we were asking him about the case. He’s trained to notice details and he had time to study you.”

  Reilly reached for her hand, clasping it in his. Whether it was intentional or a subconscious move to soothe her, she liked when he touched her. It forced away some of the tension wound tight in her muscles, heat infusing her body. Her insides clutched with yearning. Every moment with Reilly was precious and limited. Didn’t he see that?

  He squeezed her hand. “I’ll keep you safe. Just relax.”

  Her thoughts turned to the visitor log. She inhaled sharply as realization dawned. “You’re hoping Mark visited the Vagabond Killer, aren’t you?”

  Acknowledgment flickered in his eyes. “Or any name that jumps out at you from your past life. Maybe an associate of Mark’s, someone who would be willing to help the Vagabond Killer,” Reilly said. He rubbed a slow circle with his thumb against her hand. The gesture tossed her train of thought off track, sending her heart skittering against her ribs. “Have I told you how much I like the new hair color?”

  No, he hadn’t. She patted her hair. “Better than the red?”

  “Much.” For a moment, his gaze switched to her mouth and she knew he was thinking about kissing her. Thinking about it and trying to talk himself out of it.

  When they reached the parking lot, they lowered their heads to avoid eye contact with a couple entering the park.

  Inside the car, Reilly said nothing as he pulled from the parking lot and onto the main road. Only then did he reach into his pocket and remove the scrap Brent had given him. He handed it to Carey, one eye on the road, one eye on her.

  She unfolded the paper. It was a quarter sheet of paper, with two names written on it. “It’s the names of the Vagabond Killer’s visitors.” The first was Thomas Hartle, Esquire. The second name was Mark Connors. Carey’s chest tightened. One of the aliases Mark used. Her hands trembled and her voice shook. “It’s Mark. You were right. He visited the Vagabond Killer.”

  Tension pulsed off Reilly in waves. “How did Mark get in to see him without throwing up any red flags?”

  Another show of Mark’s power and extensive reach. “Mark has money and resources to bribe or build a cover. If he
wanted to get into the detention center, he would have paid whoever he had to pay or lied to whoever he had to lie.”

  Why had Mark visited the Vagabond Killer? Did they have anything in common besides the fact that they were both killers and each had reasons for wanting her dead?

  A cold shiver ran down her spine. Mark was a silver-tongued negotiator. If he wanted information, he would get it one way or another. Carey reached for Reilly’s hand, needing his strength. His hand tightened around hers.

  “They planned this together. Mark found a way to get the Vagabond Killer out,” Reilly said. “But why? The killer doesn’t know where you are. What does Mark gain by setting the killer free?”

  Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded hard. She knew Mark. “When I show up dead, he gets the perfect person to pin my murder on.”

  * * *

  “Holiday shoppers,” Reilly said as they walked toward the front of the superstore. “We’ll blend right in.” He handed Carey the generic blue wool cap he had picked up at the gas station. She wound her hair to the top of her head and plunked the hat on top of it as he put on his generic red one. He wasn’t worried about being followed to the superstore—he’d been careful about doubling back and watching closely—but he couldn’t take the chance that someone would recognize either of them.

  Carey got out of the rental car. “I’m desperate for some clean clothes.” She plucked at her rumpled T-shirt.

  Though the shirt was neither tight nor revealing, she looked like a knockout in it. Maybe because he knew what was beneath it. A thought that haunted him more than it should have. His libido was overriding good sense. The impulse to take her, right here, right now, was intense. Would he be able to make it another night lying next to her without kissing her? Without making love with her? He had good reasons not to touch her, not to destroy the case they were building, but those reasons wouldn’t quell the longing to hold her.

  Reilly forced his mind to their immediate concerns. They both needed fresh clothes. Their overnight into the city had turned into a much longer stay. “Keep your head down and keep close.”

  Without anyone recognizing them, they could pretend to be a couple and he could keep her close. Hand in hand, fingers interlaced, they walked to the entrance of the store where a blast of hot air and Christmas music greeted them. Carey’s hand in his felt good; it felt natural. But it was part of their cover. He wouldn’t allow it to lead to anything else.