The Witness, Page 38

  now we were both very much in the moment. And in that moment, my survival hinged on escape.”

  “If you hadn’t run, you’d be dead. That’s clear.”

  “Yes, I’ve never questioned that. In those first day, weeks, it was all panic. Get away, stay away, stay concealed. If the Volkovs found me, they’d kill me. If the authorities found me, and they were involved with the Volkovs, they’d kill me. If they weren’t involved, they might arrest me for murder. So I ran, and I hid, the way I told you.”

  “No one could blame you for that.”

  “Maybe not. I was young and traumatized. No matter what the intellect, seventeen is still immature, undeveloped. But after some time had passed, I began to think more clearly, think beyond the moment. There had to be others like John and Terry. Others who’d believe me, who’d listen, do whatever they could to protect me. How could I keep running, hiding? How could I do nothing when I was the only one who’d seen Julie’s murder, who knew the truth of how John and Terry had died?

  “So I hacked into the FBI’s and U.S. Marshals’ databases.”

  “You—you can do that?”

  “I do it routinely, but I learned a considerable amount in the first year or two after I went into hiding. Some from the boy I told you about, some on my own. I wanted to learn everything I could about Cosgrove and Keegan, about Lynda Peski, too. She’d called in sick that day. Was that true? Was she another Volkov mole? Her medical records showed she’d been treated for food poisoning, so—”

  “You accessed her medical records?”

  “I’ve broken many laws. You said sometimes it’s necessary to break the law.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, I did. Let’s put that on the shelf. You were, what, about nineteen or twenty, and capable of hacking into the files of government agencies?”

  “I would have been a very good cyber investigator.”

  “Law enforcement’s loss.”

  “I believed, and still believe, Lynda Peski wasn’t part of it. I can’t be sure, even now, but there’s nothing to indicate she was anything but a marshal in good standing—retired now, married with two children. I suspect Cosgrove put something in her food to make her ill that day. But I can’t prove it, and I didn’t feel safe contacting her. I believed, and still believe, Detectives Griffith and Riley are good, honest police officers. But I hesitated, as they’re Chicago police, not federal, and federal often takes over from the local police. Added to that, I worried I’d put their lives in danger. It seemed more productive, safer, to research and study. At the same time, I needed money. I had fifteen thousand when I ran, but there are expenses in flight, in generating documents, in transportation and clothing and so on. As my primary skill was in computers, I worked on programming. I developed some software, sold it. It was lucrative.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and I developed a computer game, actually three connecting games. It was more lucrative.”

  “What game?”

  “It’s called Street Wars. My research indicated most game players are male and enjoy battle- or war-type games. I—”

  “I’ve played that game.” Eyes narrowed, he pointed at her. “Russ and I used to have marathon tournaments whenever I came home from Little Rock. It’s bloody and brutal. And really cool.”

  “My target demographic enjoys brutal and bloody in their gaming. Having three was also key. If the first gains popularity, the target audience will want, and pay, for a follow-up. I was able to sell the three-part package outright for a considerable amount. It seemed less complicated, under my circumstances, than a royalty-based contract.”

  “You rich?”

  “Yes. I have a great deal of money, which I add to with my current security business.”

  He smiled at her. “I like having a rich girlfriend.”

  “I’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend.”

  “Well, I’m sewing you into that. Because you’re rich.”

  He made her smile. “You said you loved me before you knew I was rich. It’s less complicated and stressful to relocate, to arrange private transportation, if necessary, to equip and secure a new location, if there’s money. I didn’t want to steal it.”

  “And you could have?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I accessed Cosgrove’s and Keegan’s bank accounts, found what I believe are payments from the Volkovs. I could have siphoned funds from them. Even from the Volkovs themselves.”

  “Wait.” Now he held up a hand, circled around. “You’ve hacked into the Volkovs’ network?”

  “Yes. I’ll explain. I secured the money I made in several different accounts, under various identifications. I felt safer, less afraid with money, and with the information I’d gathered. I wanted more time. I’d started to study a particular FBI agent. I wanted to follow her, review her files, reports, her evaluations for at least a year before contact. I’d moved to New York. I felt safe there. So many people, all so busy. Too busy to pay attention to me. And by that time I could work almost entirely out of my brownstone.”

  She thought back on it, a bit wistfully. “I had a very nice house in SoHo. It was there I considered getting a dog. For security, and companionship. I’d started my security business, and at that time dealt face-to-face with clients. I would go to them, evaluate their system, their needs.”

  “When was this?”

  “I located in New York six years ago. I was twenty-three, but my identification claimed I was twenty-six. Older is better in these cases. I started fairly small, designing and installing security systems for homes and small businesses, business computer networks. It gave me considerable time for my research. And in researching I found the agent I felt might be the one. I wanted what I wanted at sixteen. Friends, relationships, normal. And I wanted to do the right thing, for Julie, for John and Terry.

  “I was there more than a year, the longest I’d stayed in one place. I thought about buying a home in the country, because I realized, though I enjoyed the convenience of the city, I preferred the quiet. But it felt safe there, in SoHo. All those people, the busy pace. And I’d landed a big account, a law firm. I’d done the personal security for one of the associates, and he’d recommended me. Six more months, I told myself. I’d stay in New York, complete the new contract, continue my research. Then, if I felt absolutely sure of this agent, I’d contact her and begin the process.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was nearly there, nearly ready. I’d completed the contract, and that had netted me another for one of the clients of the firm. My first corporation. It was good work, exhilarating, challenging. I believed, absolutely, my life was about to begin again. And I came out of the client’s building. Houston Street, downtown. I was thinking how I’d go home, change, go to the market and buy myself a good bottle of wine to celebrate. I was thinking the six months I’d set to contact the agent was nearly up. I was thinking of getting a dog, of where I’d want to live when I could really live again. I was thinking of anything but the Volkovs. And he was just there.”

  “Who?”

  “Ilya. Ilya Volkov and another man—his cousin, I found out later. They got out of a car just as I started for the curb to hail a cab. I almost walked into him. All those people, all that city, and I nearly walked into the man I’d run from for nearly eight years. He looked right at me, and I froze just as I had on the terrace that night. He started to smile, as a man does at a woman who’s staring at him, I suppose. And then he knew me, and the smile went away.”

  “He recognized you? Are you sure?”

  “He said my name. ‘Liz. Here you are.’ Just like that. He reached for me, he nearly had my arm. His fingers brushed my sleeve before I jerked away, and I ran. He came after me. I heard him shouting in Russian; I heard the car gun away from the curb. I thought, He’ll shoot me in the back, or catch me and drag me into that car.”

  She pressed a hand to her heart, rubbed it there as the beat began to thud as it had that day in New York.

 
“I ran into the street. It was crazy; I was nearly run over. I didn’t care. Anything would be better. I lost my shoes. It was like that night again, running in my bare feet. But I was smarter now. Panicked at first, but more prepared. I knew the streets. I’d studied them, and I’d pulled away when I’d run into traffic, and his driver couldn’t make the turn. I don’t know how far I’d run before I realized I’d gotten away. I got on a crosstown bus, then I got in a cab.”

  Too warm now, she thought, and crossed to a window to open it. “I didn’t have any shoes, but no one seemed to notice or care. It was a benefit of a large city.”

  “I guess I’m a country boy, as that doesn’t strike me as a benefit.”

  “It was that day. When I got home, I got out my go bag. I would have run again with only that, but I calmed down, packed up what I felt I’d need. I wasn’t sure how much time I had. If he’d seen which building I’d come out of, if he’d managed to dig out the name I was using, find my address. I kept a car, in another name, in a garage. It was, I’d thought, worth the expense. And it proved to be true. I called a private car service, had it take me to the garage. They might trace me there, but that would take time. By then I’d be gone, I’d buy a new car, change my ID.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I stayed mobile for weeks. Motels, paid cash. I watched Ilya’s e-mail. I learned they hadn’t been able to trace me for several days. I didn’t have to leave so quickly after all. And they weren’t able to trace me once I left the brownstone. No one had seen, or paid attention to, me leaving. But I learned a lesson. I’d gotten careless. I’d let myself plan for a normal life, even in some way to live one. They’d never stop coming after me, so I had to accept the way it was. And do what I could to get justice for John and Terry and Julie another way.

  “I’m tied in to the Volkovs’ network—e-mail, e-files, even text messaging. When I have something that seems worthwhile, I leak the data anonymously to the FBI agent I studied and cleared to my specifications. I don’t know how much longer it’ll be safe to use her as contact. If Volkov’s people connect her, they may eliminate her. I think, logically, they’d try to use her to find the source of the leaks before they eliminate her. But that may be worse. They could torture her, and she couldn’t tell them because she doesn’t know. I’d be safe, but she wouldn’t. Neither will you, if you involve yourself.”

  “You’d have made a good cop, cyber or otherwise, to my way of thinking. But I am a cop. You’re just a cop’s rich girlfriend.”

  “Don’t joke. If they connect you to me, in any way, they’ll kill you. But not just you. They’ll kill your family. Your mother, your father, your sisters, their children. Everyone you care about.”

  “I’ll take care of my family, Abigail. I guess we’ll stick with Abigail for now.” He stroked a hand over her hair. “I’ll have to get used to Liz when this is finished.”

  “It’s never going to be finished.”

  “You’re wrong. I want you to promise me something.” To keep their eyes level, he shifted his hand to cup her chin. “I want your word on this. You won’t run out on me. You won’t run figuring you’re doing what’s best for me and mine.”

  “I don’t want to make a promise I might break.”

  “Your word. I’m going to trust your word, and you’re going to trust mine. You promise me that, and I’ll promise you I won’t do anything without your full knowledge and approval. That’s no easy promise for me to make, but I’ll make it.”

  “You won’t do anything unless I agree?”

  “That’s my promise. Now I want yours. You won’t run.”

  “What if they find me, the way Ilya did in New York?”

  “If you have to run, you run to me.”

  “You’re like John. They killed John.”

  “Because he didn’t know what was coming. Now, if you look me in the eyes and tell me you’re seriously worried the Russian Mafia’s going to infiltrate the Bickford Police Department, we’ll pack up Bert and whatever else we need and head out tonight. Name the place.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Good. Then promise me.”

  “You won’t do anything without telling me. I won’t run without telling you.”

  “I guess that’s close enough. You’ve had enough for tonight. We’re going to get some sleep. I’m going to think about all this. I may have more questions, but they can wait. And after I’ve thought on it awhile, we’ll talk about what we’ll do. That’s ‘we.’ You’re not alone anymore. You’re not going to be alone anymore.”

  He urged her into bed, pulling her close after he turned off the light. “There. That feels right. Maybe I do have one question for tonight.”

  “All right.”

  “Did you hack into our system at the station?”

  She sighed, and in the dark didn’t see him smile at the sound. “I felt it was important to know details about local law enforcement. The security on your network isn’t very good.”

  “Maybe I should talk to the selectmen about hiring you to fix that.”

  “I’m very expensive. But under the circumstances I could offer you a large discount on my usual fee.” She sighed again. “I’d secure your personal computer for free.”

  “Jesus.” He had to laugh. “You’re in my personal e-mail and all that?”

  “I’m sorry. You kept coming here and asking questions. You’d looked up information on me. Well, the information I generated, but it was disturbing.”

  “I guess it was.”

  “You should be careful, calling the current mayor a fuckwit, even in correspondence with your good friend. You can’t be sure who might see your personal e-mail.”

  “He is a fuckwit, but I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned his head, kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

  She pressed her face to the side of his throat. “It sounds lovely in bed, in the dark, when everything’s quiet.”

  “Because it’s true. And it’ll be true in the morning.”

  She closed her eyes, held the words to her as he held her. And hoped, in the morning, he’d give them to her again.

  Let justice be done,

  though the heavens fall.

  LORD MANSFIELD

  23

  ROLAND BABBETT CHECKED INTO THE INN OF THE OZARKS ON a spring afternoon that simmered hot and close as August. In his room with its engaging view of the hills, he set up his laptop on the glossy old desk. He appreciated the amenities—the complimentary Wi-Fi, the flat-screen TV, the carefully (he imagined) selected furnishings, and the generous shower.

  A great deal of the time he worked out of crap motels with piss-trickle showers and stingy slivers of soap, or out of his car, where the facilities ran to a Mason jar he could empty of urine periodically.

  Such was the life of a private investigator.

  He enjoyed it, even the crap motels and Mason jars. Two years as a cop had taught him he didn’t work all that well with rules and regs. But he’d been a pretty good cop, and that had segued into a job with Stuben-Pryce Investigations. In the nearly ten years he’d worked there, he’d proven himself reliable, inventive and dogged. Qualities appreciated by the firm.

  He also enjoyed his bonuses, and hoped to net another on this job.

  He unpacked—cargo shorts and pants, tees, sweats, rough boots. He’d selected the wardrobe to go with his cover as a freelance photographer, one that would allow him to wander the town, the outskirts, take photographs, talk to locals.

  He didn’t like the client. Roland considered Lincoln Blake a first-degree asshole, and the fruit of Blake’s loins a raw pimple on society’s ass.

  But work was work, and Blake generated a lot of income, being a nosy, pushy, scheming first-degree asshole. When the boss said go, Roland went. Especially since he had one kid in private school, another who’d enroll in the fall and—surprise—a third on the way.

  He loved his family, and the pay from Stuben-Pryce, plus bonuses, gave them a good life, whi
ch included a hefty mortgage on their new four-bedroom in West Little Rock.

  So asshole or not, the client was king. If Blake wanted to know all there was to know—especially the dirt—on one Abigail Lowery, Roland would find out all there was to know. The same for Brooks Gleason, Bickford’s police chief, and according to the client, Lowery’s lover.

  The client claimed the two in question, along with the Conroys—the owners of the hotel with the very nice view and amenities—had set up his son in order to extort money. Blake fervently, and loudly, denied his boy had caused the extensive damage to the hotel’s premier suite as claimed, nor had he assaulted Russell Conroy, nor had he pulled a knife on the chief of police.

  Roland, nobody’s fool, fervently but quietly believed the butt pimple had done all that and more. But he’d do his job, earn his salary. And pay his bills.

  He checked his camera gear, his recorder, his notebook and lock