Chapter Eleven
Stacy stared at the door, heart pounding. Could she possible have heard them right? “What are the police doing here?” she whispered to Patrick.
“I don’t know.” He zipped his pants and pulled on a shirt. “Hold on. I’m coming!” he called.
“I’d better get dressed, too,” Stacy said. She looked around for the shirt she’d discarded last night, but realized Patrick was wearing it.
“Better stay put,” he said, as the pounding rattled the door frame again.
“Open up or we’re coming in!”
Patrick jerked open the door and a beefy uniformed officer all but fell inside. Patrick stepped back, keeping his hands in clear view. “Can I help you?” he asked.
A second, older officer followed the first one inside. “Are you driving the black sedan parked in front of this room?” he asked.
“Is something wrong with the car?” Patrick asked.
The older cop’s eyes narrowed. “I need to see some ID, Mr....”
“United States Marshal Patrick Thompson.” He handed over his credentials.
The officer’s eyebrows rose as he studied the ID. He glanced at Stacy. “And this woman is?”
“A material witness in a federal case.”
The officer took in the single bed, clothes scattered around it. “Riiight,” he said, drawing out the word.
Stacy felt her face heat, then bristled. She’d done nothing to be ashamed of—the police were the ones who ought to be ashamed, barging in on them this way.
“We’re going to need the two of you to come with us down to the station for questioning about the murder of two men on County Road 7N yesterday afternoon,” the older officer said. He returned Patrick’s ID to him.
“I killed those men,” Patrick said. “They ambushed us in the canyon and attempted to kidnap this woman.”
The younger officer spoke up for the first time. “Why didn’t you report this to our office?”
“This is a federal case. I reported it to my office and they’re sending investigators. How did you find out about it?” Patrick’s face was impassive, but Stacy felt the temperature in the room drop a few degrees at his chilly tone.
“A couple out snowshoeing stumbled on the bodies,” the older officer said. “Then the hotel owner called to report a couple suspicious customers.” He glanced at Stacy again. She pulled the covers more tightly around her neck—not because she was ashamed, but because the draft from the open door was freezing.
The officer turned back to Patrick. “If you’ll both get dressed and come with us, I’m sure we can get this all sorted out.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said a commanding voice from behind the officers.
The police moved aside to reveal a slender man in a dark suit and overcoat. He flashed an ID badge. “Special Investigator Tim Sullivan,” he said. He nodded to Patrick, then to Stacy, as if he found naked women in the beds of his coworkers every day of the week.
“Agent Sullivan...” the older officer began.
“Thank you for your help, officers,” Sullivan said. “We can handle things from here. We promise to send your office a full report of our investigation.”
“The crime occurred in our jurisdiction,” the younger officer protested. “I believe—”
“I believe you don’t want to be charged with interfering with a federal case.”
Agent Sullivan’s tone, as much as his words, made the officer blanch. He turned to his companion. “We’ll be going now.”
“Good.”
When the door had closed behind the two officers, Agent Sullivan turned and regarded Patrick and Stacy. “I think, Marshal Thompson, you might have a little explaining to do.”
“And I think you two should continue your discussion outside,” Stacy said, “so that I can get dressed.”
Sullivan tilted his head, as if considering the question. Stacy was sure he was about to make an off-color remark, but the glower on Patrick’s face apparently made him think better of it. “Of course,” he said. He glanced at Patrick’s bare feet and unbuttoned shirt. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Patrick retrieved his shoes, then fished a clean pair of socks from the suitcase and sat on the side of the bed to put them on. Stacy studied his back, trying to read his thoughts in the tension there. “What happens now?” she asked.
“Maybe he’s learned something about the whereabouts of the ranch, or Carlo.” He drew up one leg and began tying the laces of his shoe.
“They won’t pull you off the case, will they?”
He stilled. “Maybe they should.”
“No!” She leaned forward and rested one hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve broken pretty much every rule and behaved unprofessionally. They’d be justified in pulling me off the case.”
“I won’t let them,” she said. “Not when we’ve come so far. You know me and you know the case. I trust you.”
He turned his head to meet her gaze at last. “We’ve crossed the line. You’re not just a stranger I’m duty bound to protect.”
“Does that mean you’ll be any less committed to keeping me safe or helping me?”
“It means I’ve lost my objectivity. That could affect my judgment.”
“I won’t let them take you away from me. I won’t.”
He turned his back to her again and finished tying his shoe. “That could be up to Sullivan.” He straightened. “You’d better get dressed.” He walked out the door, not looking at her again.
* * *
SULLIVAN STOOD IN the light from a single bulb that illuminated the stairwell several doors down from the room. Patrick moved toward him, zipping up his coat as he did so.
“You look like someone dragged you through the mud.” Sullivan nodded at a smear of dirt on the sleeve of the jacket.
“Those two in the canyon ambushed us. I thought I’d sneak up behind them and they moved in and tried to kidnap Stacy.”
“And you shot them.”
“Yes.”
“How gallant.”
“I was doing my job. You would have done the same.”
“Maybe.”
“How did you end up here?” Patrick asked. “Your timing is uncanny, by the way. The local cops were ready to haul us off to jail.”
“We had someone monitoring the scanner. They heard the call go out.”
“You must have been close.”
“We were at that convenience store. Nobody knows anything about anyone named Marne.”
“What about the surveillance tapes?”
“What do you know—the machine had a malfunction and stopped working for half the day yesterday.”
Patrick grunted and shoved both hands in his coat pockets. Neither man spoke for a long moment. An eighteen-wheeler sped by on the highway, Jake brakes rattling as it headed down the grade.
“Want to tell me what’s going on with you and the Giardino woman?” Sullivan asked.
“No.” He blew out a breath. “I know I screwed up. It just...happened.”
“Sometimes it does. Is it going to affect your ability to do your job?”
“No.” He faced the other man, surprised at the sympathy he found there. “I’m not some besotted schoolboy. I know how to handle myself.”
“What about her?” He tipped his head toward the hotel room. “Women sometimes read more into these things.”
“Stacy’s concerned for her son. She knows what happened between us.... She knows there’s no future there.”
“Does she?”
“She’s a lot stronger than she looks. Stronger than anyone I’ve known. Are you going to report us?”
“I don’t work for the U.S. Marshal’s office, do I?” His gaze slid past Patrick to the walkway beyond. “Hello, Mrs. Giardino. How are you doing?”
She nodded and stopped close, but not too close, to Patrick. “Have you found out anything about my son?”
“Maybe we should go inside to discuss this. Where it’s warmer.”
They trooped silently back to the room. In the men’s absence, Stacy had made the bed and picked up the scattered clothes. Patrick relaxed a little. Not having the evidence of their indiscretion staring them all in the face helped a little. Stacy sat on the side of the bed and the two men took the chairs at the table. “Have you found my son?” she asked. “Have you found Carlo?”
Sullivan shook his head. “Marshal Thompson asked us to locate a ranch that belongs to Abel Giardino. We’ve found a place we think might be his and we’ve put it under surveillance.”
“What have you seen? Have you seen a child?”
“We’ve only been watching the place a few hours at this point, and so far there’s been nothing to see.”
“Where is this place?” Stacy asked. “Can we go there?”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Patrick said. “If they are holding Carlo and we go busting in, they might harm him—or carry him away to an even more remote location.”
“As long as there aren’t any signs that the boy is in danger, it’s best to watch and figure out when to make our move,” Sullivan said. “The first step is to verify that Carlo is even there.”
“That’s all you can tell me?” she asked. “We have to wait?”
“Maybe we’ll know more later this morning, when people on the ranch wake up and start moving about. One of our spotters might see something then.”
“You’ll let me know right away?”
“We’ll let you know as soon as it’s safe to do so.”
Patrick wanted to reach out, to squeeze her hand and offer her some sort of comfort. But with Sullivan looking on, he didn’t dare. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” he asked.
“We did learn more about the wills,” Sullivan said. “Both Sam’s and Sam Junior’s.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through it. “We were able to get a judge to unseal the documents and they proved very interesting.”
“How interesting?” Patrick asked. The hair on the back of his neck rose, a sure sign that the information was going to be good.
“Both Sammy and his father left everything to Carlo. But it’s tied up in a complicated trust. The manager of the trust directs the distribution of the money until Carlo is twenty-one.”
“Who’s the manager of the trust?” Stacy asked.
“You are.” Sullivan closed the notebook and replaced it in his pocket. “You didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “Why would Sam—or Sammy, for that matter—give me control over any of his money?”
“You’re the boy’s mother,” Sullivan said. “Aren’t you the most logical choice?”
“In the Giardino family, women never control the money,” Stacy said.
“Was this one more way Sam was getting a dig in at Sammy?” Patrick asked. “It made sense that he’d die before his son, and then Sammy would have to watch while his son inherited everything—and you had control.”
“Sammy would have hated that,” Stacy said. “But Sammy had a will, too. Why didn’t his will name someone else as administrator for the trust?”
“Maybe Sam forced him to agree to the same terms,” Patrick said. “It seems to me that Sammy did what Sam told him to, at least some of the time.” He’d married Stacy because his father had arranged it, hadn’t he?
She nodded. “But this...”
“He may have had something else in mind,” Sullivan said.
They both looked to him. He waited, clearly enjoying the suspense. “The terms of the trust make clear the custodian can do anything with the trust—including signing over control to a third party. Maybe Sammy figured he’d persuade you—or force you—to sign control over to him after his father died. And if he died first, his father could do the same.”
“What happens to the trust if I die?” she asked.
“Control goes to Carlo’s legal guardian.”
“Do you have a will?” Patrick asked. “Have you named a guardian in the case of your death?”
She shook her head. “I’m only twenty-four. I never thought...”
Patrick did touch her hand then, moved by her distress. “It’s all right,” he said. “Of course you didn’t.”
“In lieu of a named guardian, it would be up to the court to decide,” Sullivan said.
“Wouldn’t the court give the boy to his next of kin?” Patrick asked.
“Maybe,” Sullivan said. “Who would that be?”
“Not Uncle Abel,” Stacy said. “I’d think it would be Elizabeth. She’s his aunt.”
“That could explain why the kidnappers decided they needed you alive,” Patrick said. “Abel might have known enough about the will to know Carlo would receive everything. Later, he found out he’d need you to sign over control to him, so he sent his men back to get you.”
“Why go to so much trouble?” she asked. “Abel has money of his own. And the government is liable to seize all of Sam’s assets, aren’t they?”
“The government can only seize assets they can link to crimes,” Sullivan said. “And money we can get to and know about. Though we are still conducting our investigations, we suspect Sam had considerable amounts stashed in foreign accounts, in Switzerland and the Caymans, for example.”
“So by gaining control of Carlo’s trust, Abel Giardino could gain control of that money,” Patrick said.
“Or someone else who is controlling Abel could gain control of the money,” Sullivan said.
“But they need me alive, and they need Carlo alive, to do it,” Stacy said. She didn’t quite smile, but her eyes held a new light, and Patrick felt an easing of the tension within himself, also.
“So we can be reasonably sure the boy is safe for now,” Sullivan said. “Which gives us more time to connect the dots between Giardino and our chief suspect.”
“Senator Nordley,” Patrick said.
Sullivan frowned and cut his eyes to Stacy. Clearly, he didn’t approve of Stacy knowing of the government’s interest in Nordley. “Yes, we would like to know more about the senator’s involvement in this.”
“Wait a minute.” Stacy leaned toward him, her eyes blazing. “What exactly are you saying?”
Sullivan faced her, hands on his knees, his voice just this side of patronizing. “I’m saying we believe your son is safe with his uncle for the time being. The best thing for you to do is to go home and wait and we’ll let you know when he can return to you.”