Finger Prints (3 page)

“You’re human. Like the rest of us. Self-pity is only natural once in a while. And it’s fine as long as it doesn’t become the major force in one’s life. That will never happen to you. You’re a doer. You’ll move on. Just be patient with yourself. Give yourself time.”

“Time.” Sighing, she leaned back against the counter. “You’re right, I’m sure. Besides, things aren’t really all
that
bad.” And her father deserved to hear a little of the good as well. She sniffled away the last of her tears. “You should see the themes those kids turned in this week. They’re pretty exciting.”

For a while longer, father and daughter talked on a lighter vein. When Carly hung up the phone at last, she felt better. Her father, on the other hand, had another call to make.

t
AKING A WORN ADDRESS BOOK FROM HIS DESK
drawer, John Lyons dialed the number he’d been given to use in case of emergency. It was a Washington number. His call would be forwarded without his ever knowing its destination. Glancing at his watch, he wondered if he might be too late. He was in the process of reminding himself that he had twenty-four-hour access when the switchboard operator’s efficient voice came on the line.

“Witness Assistance.”

“Control Number 718, please.”

“One minute.” There was a click, a lengthy silence, then another ring.

“Seven-eighteen.”

“This is John Lyons calling.”

After the briefest pause, Sam Loomis grew alert. It wasn’t often that John Lyons called, though they’d struck a rapport from the first. Man to man, they had a common interest. “Mr. Lyons. What can I do for you?”

“I just spoke with my daughter. She sounded upset. Nothing’s happened, has it?”

Sam frowned. He’d spoken with Carly himself a few days earlier, and she’d been fine. “No, nothing’s happened. At least, not that I know of. Did she mention anything specific?”

“No. But something’s shaken her. I’m sure of that. She’s usually so composed. There’s been no word on a new trial, has there?”

“Uh-uh. Nothing. And Joliet’s got our men safely on ice.” He pushed aside his papers and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Listen, I’m sure everything’s fine, but let me give her a call.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“And you relax.” Sam was aware of John Lyons’s precarious health. “I’ll take care of things from this end.”

“Thanks, 718.”

Sam chuckled. “No problem.” Pressing the button on his phone to sever the connection, he punched out Carly’s number.

Carly hadn’t moved from where she stood, deep in thought, against the kitchen counter. When the phone rang by her ear, she jumped. For a fleeting instant she wondered if her father had forgotten something, then she caught herself. He never called her. He didn’t have the number. It was part of the scheme.

“Hello?” she answered slowly.

“It’s Sam, Carly.” He paused. “Are you all right?”

Instantly she knew what had happened. “Uh-oh. He called you, didn’t he?”

“He was concerned. He said you were upset.”

“I’m okay.”

“Were you? Upset, that is?”

The deep breath she took, with its remnant of raggedness, bore confirmation of that fact. She twisted the telephone cord around her finger. “I guess I was. Something must have just hit me.”

Sam Loomis was good at his job. He wasn’t about to shrug off a vague “something.” “What was it? Did something happen at school?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine there. I…it was really nothing.”

A fine-tuned feeler caught the sound of fear, very subtle but present. “Listen, Carly, I’d like to stop by. Maybe we can go out for a bite. Okay?”

“No, Sam. You don’t have to do that. I’m really tired—”

“Then I’ll bring something in.”

“I’m not hungry. Sam—”

“Give me fifteen minutes in this traffic. See you then.” He hung up the phone before she could renew her protest. Then, shuffling the papers he’d been reading into a semblance of order, he flipped the file folder shut and tossed it atop a similar pile.

“You’re leaving?” came a voice from the opposite desk. Sam looked up. “Yeah.”

“Problem?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Carly Quinn?”

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.