Gray, Ginna (2 page)

The debate went back and forth, but after a few moments she drew a
deep breath and eased the cabinet door open, inch by inch.

Unfolding herself from the cramped space was excruciating, but
finally she managed to roll out onto the cold tile floor onto her hands and
knees. It took three tries to climb to her feet. Her muscles screamed in
protest, and she had to clench her teeth to keep from moaning. She limped
around the room several times, bending and stretching and twisting.

When the pain at last became bearable she peered through the
darkness for something on which to stand. The only item in the room was the
trash can beside the sink. Hip-high, it was made of metal and too heavy for her
to lift, so she tipped it slightly and rolled it on its bottom edge to the
window.

Glancing at the door every few seconds, Lauren grasped the
windowsill, climbed up onto the can and stood with a foot braced on each side
of the rim. When she threw one leg over the sill she lost a shoe and the can
toppled out from under her. The crash against the tile floor set the cats in
the alley to screeching and shot Lauren's adrenaline skyward.

She shimmied through the opening like a greased eel. She hit the
ground hard, falling on all fours and scraping her palms and one knee, but she
didn't feel the pain. Nor did she stop to find her shoe. Before the clatter in
the rest room died away she lifted her long skirt and tore down the alley.

Special Agent Sam Grey Wolf Rawlins knew something big was brewing
the instant he walked into the office of the Senior Agent in Charge of the
FBI's Denver Office, otherwise known as the SAC.

Harvey Weiss sat behind his desk fidgeting, while Sam's immediate
boss, Charley Potter paced beside the window. Both men were puffing on
cigarettes. So were Todd Berringer, David Owens and Roy O'Connor, the agents
occupying three of the chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of Harvey's
desk. Already a hazy blue cloud clung to the ceiling.

"Haven't any of you guys ever heard of lung cancer?"

Harvey looked up with a scowl. "It's about time you got here,
Rawlins. Where the hell have you been?"

"Stuck behind a snowplow for the last thirty minutes. In case
you haven't noticed, the storm dumped a foot of snow on Denver in the last few
hours."

"If you didn't live up in that canyon in the middle of
nowhere you'd be more accessible in situations like this." Harvey took in
Sam's jeans and Stetson and scuffed cowboy boots, and his mouth pinched.

Sam ignored the comment and the look. If Harvey didn't like his
living arrangements, tough. He couldn't survive in the city on a daily basis;
he needed space to breathe. Anyway, he'd be damned if he was going to live in
town just to make Harvey look good.

The SAC motioned toward the fourth chair in front of his desk.
"We're wasting time. Take a seat."

Sam shrugged out of his parka and tossed it and his Stetson on the
brass coatrack. "Thanks, but I'll stand. The air is cleaner over
here." Leaning against the jamb of the open door, he fixed his gaze on the
fresh cigarette Harvey was lighting off the butt of his last one.

Harvey squinted at him through the cloud of smoke he exhaled.
"You nonsmokers are a pain in the ass. Besides, I don't know what you're
complaining about. It was you Indians who introduced the white man to
tobacco."

"Yeah. My relatives call it the red man's revenge."

Roy and Dave started to chuckle, but a look from Harvey silenced
them.

The man never missed a chance to make a snide remark about Sam's
Indian blood. Though Sam had never felt as though he truly belonged in either
world, he was nevertheless proud of his heritage, Indian and white. Harvey's
bigotry grated, but Sam never let his resentment show, not by so much as a
twitch of a muscle.

"Funny, Rawlins. You're a real comedian. Now could we get
back to what we're here for?"

Sam folded his arms and gazed steadily back at him. "Sure.
But this had better be good. It's three in the morning and I nearly froze my
ass off getting here."

Anger tightened Harvey's face, but before he could fire off a
reprimand, Agent Berringer jumped in.

"Whatsa matter, buddy? Your car heater crap out again?"

A ghost of a smile flickered around Sam's mouth. Todd had missed
his calling. He was a born peacemaker. The question was a transparent attempt
to defuse the situation. "Not again. Still."

"Whadda you mean? Dammit, I told you weeks ago to send in a
requisition and get that heater fixed," Charley growled.

"I did. Three times." Sam glanced at Harvey. "For
some reason, my requests keep getting lost."

"Dammit, could we knock this off and get down to
business?"

"Sure. Shoot."

"We got a call from the Denver P.D. about an hour ago. They
have a woman in custody who claims she saw Carlo Giovessi murder Frank
Pappano."

The three seated agents jerked to attention. Sam didn't turn a
hair.

"No shit?" Dave, a rookie agent and the youngest of the
group, sat forward, so excited he was almost giving off sparks. Even his red
hair seemed brighter than usual.

"Not only that. Her story also positively links Giovessi to
drug running." Harvey took another puff and leaned back in his chair,
looking as pleased with himself as if he had personally gotten the goods on the
mob boss.

"Why'd Carlo whack his own man?" Todd asked.

"Well, it seems Frankie boy has been helping himself to his
boss's merchandise. Carlo took offense."

"I'll bet."

Dave let out a whoop. "Man, this is great! We got the bastard
now!"

"Yeah," Todd agreed, grinning. "It's about time we
caught a break on this case."

"Who is this woman?" Sam asked quietly.

"Her name's Lauren Brownley. She plays piano at Carlo's Club
Classico.

"The Denver cops have been keeping an eye on her for a while.
So have our guys. Nothing serious, though. Just tailed her a bit, checked out
where she lived and how she spent her time. The cops and our agents both
believe she's Giovessi's latest mistress, but probably not part of his
organization." Harvey tossed a legal-size envelope to Sam, and he caught
it reflexively. "The dossier they worked up on her is in there.

"I didn't get all the details, but Ms. Brownley swears she
saw and heard the whole thing—the murder, Frank's admission that he stole the
drugs. Even the address of the warehouse where he stashed it."

"Why would Giovessi's mistress rat him out?" Sam asked.

Harvey spread his hands and shrugged. "Who knows why women do
anything? Maybe she and Carlo had a falling out. Maybe she had something going
on the side with Frank and she's looking to get revenge. What difference does
it make? The important thing is, we got ourselves a witness."

Todd gave a low whistle. "This is big. Looks like Dave's
right. We're finally going to nail the bastard."

"All of you keep your lips buttoned," Harvey cautioned.
"I don't want any leaks this time. No one outside of the six of us is
going to know anything about this until we have our witness stashed in a safe
place. And I mean no one.

"Rawlins, you, Todd, Roy and Dave go to the police station
and check out this woman's story. If the Denver cops have it straight, we'll
take over the case. When we do, Todd, you and Roy take some backup and arrest
Giovessi.

"Charley's already sent Sweeney to get a search warrant and
we have a stakeout watching the warehouse. They'll arrest whoever shows up for
the stash. If we get lucky, it'll be old Carlo himself. I expect he's still
plenty pissed about Frank betraying him. He'll probably want to see for himself
that his coke is there.

"Rawlins, I'm assigning you to guard the witness. Dave will
go along as backup. If you're satisfied this woman is giving us the straight
skinny, hustle her out of town as soon as you can make the arrangements. Take
her someplace safe and sit on her until the trial."

"Send someone else. I've got more important things to do than
baby-sit one of Carlo's little chippies."

Angry color crept up Harvey's neck. He leaned forward and stabbed
a nicotine-stained forefinger in Sam's direction. "You listen to me,
Rawlins. This woman's testimony can put Carlo away for a very long time.
Whether you like it or not, you're going to stay with her and see that she
lives to give it, no matter how long it takes. You got that?"

"I'm already working on a case, remember? I'm close to
cracking it."

At once the room hummed with tension. The three agents shifted in
their chairs and cleared their throats. Charley Potter's jaw clenched, and he
stared at the floor.

Sam's assignment was one every lawman hated— digging up dirt on
his fellow agents. Their office had been trying to build a case against Carlo
Giovessi for years, but every time they thought they had him something would go
wrong—key evidence disappeared, witnesses were killed, some minute irregularity
in the investigation would mysteriously surface and Carlo's sleazeball attorney
would get the case thrown out on a technicality. The whole thing had begun to
smell of inside help.

There was nothing more hated within the Bureau than an agent gone
bad—unless it was the guy who tried to ferret him out.

In law enforcement, teamwork was vital. No one wanted to believe
that their partner or friend was dirty, and defenses went up when anyone
started asking questions. Sam had tried to be discreet, but the word was out.
Lately, with a few exceptions like Todd and Charley, everyone in the Denver
office had been giving him the cold shoulder.

Which, Sam suspected, was one reason why Harvey had assigned the
investigation to him instead of following proper procedure and turning it to
the OPR, the Office of Professional Responsibility, which was the FBI's
Internal Affairs division. The OPR was made up of all experienced investigators
of supervisory rank.

Harvey claimed that he took it as a personal affront that an agent
on his watch had sold out. He wanted the matter resolved in-house. Right now.

He justified that decision by pointing out that they had no hard
proof that there
was
a mole—just suspicions and a string of
coincidences. Never mind that the Bureau didn't believe in coincidences.

What the SAC really wanted, Sam suspected, was to turn every agent
in the Denver office against him and make his life miserable.

Not that it bothered him particularly. He tended to keep to
himself anyway.

"Nailing Giovessi is more important. Charley agrees with me.
Hell, he recommended you for this job."

Sam shot his boss a hard look, and Charley raised his hands.
"Now, Sam, before you say anything, hear me out. If this woman is Carlo's
mistress, you'll have months to pump her for information that might help our
case, including the name of our mole. It's worth a shot."

"That's right," Harvey agreed. "You never know what
the man might've spilled during pillow talk. So consider yourself reassigned,
Rawlins."

"Why me? Any one of a dozen agents could guard the
woman."

"Because you've worked on this case longer than anyone else
and you know it inside out. You know what we're up against. And I trust you. I
don't particularly like you, Rawlins, but I trust you." Harvey took
another long drag and sent a stream of smoke upward to join the cloud hovering
around the ceiling. "Now get the hell out of here and go check out the
woman."

Without a word, Sam plucked his hat and coat off the rack and
walked out.

He was halfway down the hall when Todd sprinted up beside him and
fell in step.

"Christ, Sam, when are you going to wise up and stop butting
heads with that guy? You know you can't win."

"Is that what I do?"

"Hell, yes. You know damn well you do everything you can to
get under his skin. Just look at you right now. You know what a stickler Harvey
is about the dress code. Would it have killed you to put on a suit and tie
before coming in tonight?"

"Screw Harvey. I had the weekend off. Plus I got approval to
take a day of vacation. Officially I'm on my own time for another..." He
shot back the cuff of his flannel shirt and checked his watch.
"Twenty-seven and a half hours."

"Yeah, well, you could've at least shaved."

Sam dragged a hand down his sandpapery jaw and shrugged. "I
had a lazy weekend. So sue me."

"You're one stubborn bastard. Look, I know you don't like the
guy. I don't, either. But he is the SAC."

Sam snorted. "Harvey Weiss is a tight-assed, ambitious
politician, not a lawman. His main concern— hell, his
only
concern—is
making
Harvey
look good. He doesn't make a decision without weighing how
it will affect his image and help with his next promotion. He probably plans to
be running the Bureau by the time he's fifty."

"Yeah, well, that may be. But that's all the more reason to
do yourself a favor and stop baiting the guy."

"Hey! Cochise!"

The bellow set Sam's hackles up and stopped him in his tracks.
Beside him, Todd lowered his head and groaned.

Sam turned slowly. His gaze shot past Charley, Dave and Roy to where
Harvey stood in the doorway of his office, puffing on another cigarette.
"Yeah?"

"Remember what I said. You get that gal out of Denver fast. I
don't want any slipups this time. Take her out of state. Somewhere remote out
of Carlo's reach."

"I plan to. Anything else?"

"Just be sure you keep in touch. You know the drill. You
contact either me or Charley once a day without fail. No one else."

"Fine." Sam turned and walked the remaining few feet to
the elevator and jabbed the button. The doors opened at once, and Todd darted
inside, as though anxious to get out of the line of fire, but Sam paused and
looked back at Harvey again.

Lauren Brownley was not at all what Sam had expected. To his
surprise, and annoyance, the instant he got a look at her through the two-way
mirror he experienced the sharp pull of attraction. That had never happened to
him before with a female witness, and it irritated the hell out of him.