With everyone and everything she’d known and loved taken from her—even a field contact whose job it was to guide her—was a special person. Allowing Derek Albright to gain such importance illustrated just how screwed-up her life had become.
“Hey, Lindsey, what’s the matter?”
“You jerk! This is the good news?”
He shrugged and tried for a smile.
“Am I supposed to be happy for you?”
“No, not really.” A note of apology crept into his voice. “I thought I owed you an explanation.”
“Really? I can’t imagine why.” Like a balloon inflating, anger was quickly becoming rage.
“I know you expected me to stay with you until after the trial.” He furtively glanced around him to see if anyone was listening. No one was, but he lowered his voice and leaned even closer. “With all the pressure to increase Homeland Security, the Marshal’s pool of agents has been sucked dry. They need me in D.C. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up. Hell, under normal circumstances, it would take me another five…ten years to get to that level.”
When she’d been on the fast track at PowerTec, she had been just as ambitious. Maybe more so. She should give him a break, but she couldn’t. The head of WITSEC had assured her that her handler would be with her until the trial was over. Derek had sworn he would stay until the end.
Well, what did she expect? Close enough for government work, her father used to say. They did whatever they damn well pleased—regardless of their promises.
He waited for the server to put down their salads before saying, “My replacement will be here next week.”
“When are you leaving?”
“On the five o’clock flight this evening.”
Now all she had was Romero, and the way he’d been acting, she might have to distance herself from him. What a hoot! Tyler had once accused her of being “too social.” Now she was alone in the world with just a dog.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re the most self-sufficient witness I’ve ever protected. We just want you to be cautious. At about a year witnesses become careless. They think the danger has passed.”
“That’s why Rutherford and Ames have waited until now to find me by trying to access my file. They think WITSEC has become careless, too.”
He poked at his salad with his fork. “Masterson thinks someone was testing the waters. You know, making sure the electronic security works. Yours wasn’t the only file they tried to access. Could have been the FBI or CIA. Nothing to worry about.”
Curt Masterson directed the WITSEC program. He was an impressive bull of a man who probably knew what he was talking about. If he were wrong, she was dead.
“Your jacket is buried so deep that no one’s going to find it. Trust me, the Feds saw to it and Masterson double-checked them.”
Federal Prosecutors were usually the ones who recommended witnesses for the program. It was in their interest to protect the confidential file—the jacket—on a witness.
Reese Barnaby III—three-fer to his buddies—was among the most ambitious of the federal prosecutors. His successful prosecution of the top executives of PowerTec would make him a household word in Texas without him having to spend the millions it usually took politicians to buy name recognition.
Lindsey took a bite of her salad. It was hard to swallow; life was hard to swallow. “I hope Masterson is right. I want to live to testify.”
“I’m sure Masterson has taken precautions he hasn’t told me about. You’re a top priority. You know the 800 number you have memorized?”
“Yes.” Before she left the safe house in D.C., she had to memorize the special number. Each time she met Derek, he had asked her to repeat the number she was to call in case she couldn’t reach him in an emergency.
“Not every witness is given that number.”
“Why not?”
“Because a lot of them are lowlifes from drug gangs. It’s not safe for them to go home, but hit teams aren’t looking for them.”
She managed a nod, her anger barely under control.
“The number is for high risk, high priority witnesses. You call and a special task force will be mobilized to help you.”
“What a joke! They’re supposed to rush from D.C. in time to save me?”
“WITSEC will notify the FBI’s field office here. They’ll help you.”
Lindsey found this somewhat reassuring. She had contacted the FBI when she’d discovered the discrepancies in PowerTec’s accounting records. The FBI had immediately responded, analyzed the situation and sent in an undercover agent to gather more information. Annette Sperling had been a top-notch accountant who easily joined PowerTec without anyone suspecting who she really was.
Annette had worked at PowerTec six months, covertly analyzing their financial transactions, before someone killed her execution style. An hour after Lindsey found her body, the FBI yanked Lindsey out of Houston and put her in protective custody.
“Any word on when those creeps will be brought to trial?” she asked.
“No. These things take a while.”
“It’s been almost a year.”
“Don’t raise your voice,” he warned. “I know you’re frustrated. Remember Enron. It was over a year before indictments came down. It takes time to build the kind of case they need to get convictions. Rutherford and Ames can afford counsel who’ll provide the most amazing legal gymnastics imaginable.”
Ted Rutherford, CEO and her boss, CFO, Jackson Ames. Thinking of them made something in her gut coil inside itself. Once she’d looked up to them, especially Jack. She’d worked with him every day—and never suspected the truth.
“Has there been any progress in the investigation of Annette’s murder?” she asked, although she was certain she knew the answer. She monitored the case on SmokingGun.com. No leads. Nothing. All the signs of a professional hit.
“No, but everyone knows who’s responsible.”
“Rutherford and Ames.”
“Annette didn’t deserve to die.”
She didn’t say she might have bought it that night, as well. Tyler’s unexpected meeting with out-of-town clients had given her some free time. She’d returned to PowerTec just after the undercover agent had been murdered. If she’d arrived a few minutes earlier, the killer would have shot her, too.
“From what I hear the Feebies thought highly of Annette. They miss her.”
“Why did you come all the way here to take me to lunch and tell me you’re leaving? You could have called.”
Two beats of silence. “There are things I wanted to discuss with you—off the record.”
An ominous premonition snaked through her. What next?
“If Masterson or anyone finds out—I’m finished.”
“I won’t say a word. I swear.”
“Most of the witnesses I’ve worked with have been drug dealers or LCN. Scumbags who flipped—turned on their bosses—but they’re still criminals.”
She’d learned the FBI and U.S. Marshals called the Mafia by the abbreviated term for La Cosa Nostra—LCN.
“I thought less than ten percent of WITSEC people return to lives of crime.”