Star Witness

chapter Three

When Dani woke up the next morning and stretched, she yelped in pain. Every inch of her body was sore, thanks to her crash landing on her porch floor the day before. Her shoulders were tight and painful, her right knee ached and she had a headache.

She pushed herself up out of bed and hobbled to the shower. Under the hot spray, her muscles loosened and the headache eased, although the scrapes on her knees and elbows stung like fire. She blamed the sore muscles, the scrape and the aching knee on the bastard who’d tried to run her down. She blamed the headache on Harte Delancey, although, if she were truthful, he didn’t deserve it.

After he’d left, she’d gotten into her pajamas and climbed into bed, fully intending to drink enough to wipe his ominous words from her brain. But the wine’s taste was bitter on her tongue. She’d tried to read, tried to watch TV, even put on a blues music station, but nothing helped. So she turned out the light and lay in the dark, feeling sorry for herself.

She missed her granddad. Sure, he’d been eighty, but he’d been as healthy as a decades-younger man. In fact, he’d been planning to run for another four years in the legislature. She had been planning to have her grandfather around for another four years and more.

It hurt so much that he was gone. She wanted this trial over and done for so many reasons. It had been over a year since the night he was murdered, but every time she had to talk to the D.A.’s office, the police or a judge, all the wounds opened up again.

Now Harte was putting her into protective custody until after the trial. She was the one being threatened and targeted. It wasn’t fair that she had to be the one locked up while the murderers were free to go where they pleased.

Under the hot soothing spray of the shower, she felt the weight of sadness and worry, heavier than ever. To her dismay, her eyes stung.

“Stop it,” she told herself. She never cried. To cry meant to lose control, and she did not like feeling out of control.

Turning off the taps, she dried off, then wrapped up in a short terry-cloth robe and squeezed the last of the water out of her shoulder-length hair.

In the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to perk, she couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday and her near miss. It had been almost dark when she’d gotten home. As she’d walked from the driveway to the mailbox, she’d heard a car engine rev.

By the time she’d realized the car was coming straight at her, it was almost too late. Somehow, instinct had kicked in and she’d managed to leap onto the porch. The car ripped through the wooden steps and then swerved back onto the street and took off.

It had been a close call. Too close. She shuddered, her shoulders drawing up. With a long sigh intended to help her relax, she poured herself a mug of chicory coffee. She added cream and sugar and stirred briskly, then took that almost unbelievably delicious first sip of the morning. It was so good it gave her goose bumps.

A few more sips and she felt her courage begin to rise. Coffee made so many things better. Consciously relaxing the tense muscles between her shoulder blades, she headed toward the front porch to see what kind of damage had been done. She stepped outside and breathed deeply of the cool morning air. March temperatures in south Louisiana could be as hot as July, but they could also be fresh and springlike. This morning was leaning toward spring. But she quickly forgot about the weather as she surveyed the damage. The car had taken a huge bite out of the front-porch floor. The steps were nothing but splinters, and if she hadn’t managed to clear the edge of the porch with that desperate leap, she might be just as smashed and scattered as the wood.

Shuddering at that thought, she eased closer to the porch’s edge. Had the car damaged the four-by-fours that supported the front end of the porch? She took another couple of steps toward the edge.

“Dani! No!”

The sharp words shattered the quiet. Dani jerked and spilled coffee down the front of her robe. She whirled toward the voice, her heart racing with shock.

It was him! She’d been so concentrated on the damage to the porch that she’d completely forgotten about his promise to sleep in the driveway. “Stop!” he shouted.

Fury burned the shock right out of her. “You!” she cried indignantly, flicking drops of sticky coffee off her fingers.

“Don’t move!” He held up his hands in a stop gesture.

But she had no intention of budging. He was approaching fast and she was four feet above him on the porch in nothing but a bathrobe that came to midthigh—maybe. No underwear. Oh, brother. Her face grew warm.

“Don’t come any closer!” she cried out. When he didn’t stop, she screeched, “Don’t!”

He stopped, looking bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

“Go around back,” she said, gesturing with her head. She didn’t dare move anything else. Her left hand pressed the front hem of the robe against her thighs. “Go.”

Harte cocked his head quizzically, then shrugged. “I will, but not until you back up carefully toward the door. The front of the porch is sagging.”

“No! You first,” she insisted. Her ears burned, she was so embarrassed. “Please,” she begged.

His brows raised and that damnable smile appeared on his lips. “Ah,” he said, his tone lightening. “Okay, I’ll go. But you meet me at the door in five seconds flat or I’ll come in and get you.” He gave her a brief nod. “Nice robe.”

She glared at him, but she still didn’t dare to move a muscle.

“Go to hell,” she said.

He waved a hand and headed around back.

Dani baby-stepped backward until she’d made it through the door. Then she sprinted into her bedroom to get dressed, marveling at the fact that he really had slept in his car in her driveway. The idea that he’d actually followed through with it, in some sort of quixotic effort to protect her, gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt since the night her grandfather had died.

As Harte waited at the back door for Dani to let him in, he chuckled. Once he’d been sure she wasn’t going any closer to the rickety front edge of the porch, he’d paused for a second to admire those amazing legs. As he enjoyed them, she’d squirmed and turned red. When she begged him to go around to the back door while nervously tugging at the bottom of the short robe, it dawned on him why she was so reluctant for him to leap to her rescue.

She had nothing on under the robe. That thought had sent urgent, almost painful signals to his groin, signals that hadn’t faded yet. He clamped his jaw against the sharp, pleasurable thrumming and forced himself to think about something miserable, like hiking in a freezing rain—or sleeping in his car. It helped a little.

He pushed his fingers through his hair and rubbed his stubbled jaw, as if that would help wipe away the sight of those forever legs. He busied himself with smoothing out the wrinkles in his T-shirt. Just as he tugged the tail down, Dani opened the door.

She’d thrown on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, along with a don’t you dare mention my robe glare. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” she groused.

“Morning,” he said cheerily, then pointed vaguely toward the front of the house. “Mind if I...?”

She stepped back from the door. “Down the hall on the right.”

By the time he got back to the kitchen, he felt a whole lot better. He’d found a glass and some mouthwash in the hall bathroom, as well as a comb.

Dani was sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh mug of coffee in front of her. She nodded toward the coffeepot. “Mugs are in the cabinet above. Sugar’s in the white canister. Cream is—”

“Let me guess,” he broke in. “In the refrigerator. That’s okay. I take it black.” He retrieved a mug and filled it with the dark, strong brew.

“Of course you do,” she muttered. When he sat, she looked pointedly at his wrinkled T-shirt. “Don’t let me keep you. It’s obvious you need to go home and get ready for work. I do.”

“No,” Harte replied, setting down his mug. “You’ve got to get ready to go to the bed-and-breakfast. Pack enough for at least two weeks.”

Her mug stopped an inch from her lips. “I told you last night. I can’t be away from work that long. I’ve got my own cases, people depending on me.”

He drew in a frustrated breath. “Listen, Dani. This is your grandfather’s murder trial. Your testimony is vital to link Ernest Yeoman directly to your granddad’s murder. Do you have any idea how long the D.A.’s office has been trying to get something concrete on him?”

“You’ve got fingerprints from that night, right?”

“Not Yeoman’s. He’s got more sense than to show up at a crime scene.” He looked at her quizzically. “Didn’t anyone tell you about the fingerprinting results? There was one good set. They belong to a small-time burglar and general no-count named Chester Kirkle. He’s got two convictions and he’s on parole now. He’s not going to make the most reliable witness. Our best bet is to talk him into giving up Yeoman. Then his testimony, boosted by yours about what they said, should put Yeoman away for conspiracy to commit assault with intent.”

“Not murder?”

“I’m going to try for conspiracy to commit murder, but you know how unlikely we are to get it. Yeoman has an excellent alibi for the time frame.”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I know. What are the chances this Kirkle will give Yeoman up?”

“I think once the trial date is set and he’s looking at his third strike on top of parole violation, he’ll flip.”

She looked thoughtful. “And when he testifies against Yeoman, then Yeoman goes down too?”

“That’s the plan,” Harte agreed, “if Kirkle makes a credible witness and the jury believes that Yeoman sent him and the others to threaten your grandfather.”

“Can you prove it’s Yeoman who’s trying to run me down?”

“I think so. I think it will be fairly easy to show him as a thug who hires thugs,” Harte continued. “It matches his style.”

She ducked her head and took a sip of coffee. “Beating an old man to death,” she muttered.

When she looked up, Harte was surprised to see a shimmer of dampness in her eyes. The two times he’d talked to her over the past three months since he’d been appointed to the case, she’d been determined and angry about her grandfather’s murder. Not once had he seen even the hint of a tear.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

He was absolutely sure that was true. The spark in her golden brown eyes spoke of the kind of person she was. If she wanted something, she went after it. She didn’t sit back and wait. It wasn’t in her nature.

“Look at the bright side. It’s possible the trial could even be over in a few days.”

She eyed him narrowly. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

He shrugged, being truthful. “No one knows anything for sure until it starts. But I can promise you this. Until the trial is over and Yeoman is in prison, you are in danger and it’s my responsibility to keep you safe.”

“Thank you,” Dani said grudgingly.

“Have you heard who defense counsel is? Felix Drury.”

“Jury Drury? I’ve heard he’s been known to list dozens of potential witnesses on his intent-to-call list.” Drury was one of the best-known defense attorneys in Orleans Parish. He was known for his ruthlessness, cleverness and charm. He’d defended some very famous and very infamous people.

Harte nodded. “He’s a shark.”

“Can you limit the number of witnesses he can call?”

“There’s not much case law on limiting the number of witnesses,” Harte said. “All I can do is discredit them or object if he tries to parade too many character witnesses in front of the jury. Of course, even if he doesn’t bombard us with witnesses, even if he rests early, the jury could take forever to deliberate.”

“I thought you were confident,” she said, frowning.

“I am fairly confident, but there are problems. You didn’t actually see the men, and you’re the only witness to what they said. As you know, that can be construed as hearsay. Chester Kirkle is wavering. I think he’ll roll on Yeoman. Until he signs on the dotted line, he’s a wild card. So it very well may come down to your veracity versus Yeoman’s reputation.”

“Why is that even a question? He’s a drug dealer and I’m a public defender.”

“He owns twenty-three Hasty Mart convenience stores in the New Orleans area. On paper, he’s a fine, upstanding businessman who made a couple of mistakes in his youth. He’s known for his substantial political contributions as well as community support. And he’s never been arrested as an adult,” Harte said.

“Oh my gosh, the way you’re talking, he sounds a lot more like a model citizen than a thug. We’ve probably already lost.”

“Not if I can help it. I’ve got some feelers out about his connection with Stamps and Paul Guillame.”

Dani groaned as she rose to put her mug in the sink. “So the trial could last from one day to forever. Please don’t make me stay locked up until the trial is over. Why can’t the police officers babysit me here?”

Harte stood too. He reached around her to set his mug down, and immediately regretted it. It put his nose way too close to her hair, which smelled like strawberries and sunshine. He backed up. “You know the answer to that,” he said, his voice a bit husky from reaction.

“They know where I live,” Dani responded, hoping the flutter in her pulse wasn’t evident in her voice. Thank goodness he’d backed away. He’d been way too close to her as he set his mug in the sink. His arm brushing hers along with his warm breath against her hair had sent a thrill through her, a thrill she didn’t welcome. She thought she’d gotten over this little crush, or whatever it was. After all, even though she’d been wildly attracted to him from the first moment she’d met him as opposing counsel, she’d quickly seen how pompous and arrogant he was, with his custom suits and his designer briefcase.

She turned toward him, forcing her mind back to the problem at hand. “How long do I have to get ready?”

“Go pack. I’ll wash the mugs and the coffeepot. You can call the newspaper and the post office from the B-and-B.”

“This is so inconvenient,” she whined as she turned on her heel.

“Not as inconvenient as getting yourself killed,” Harte shot after her.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER Dani pulled the crisscross strap of her purse off over her head and tossed it onto the white bedspread patterned with roses and lovebirds as Harte rolled her suitcase into the room. The entire bedroom was decorated in cluttered Victorian, just like the living room she’d just walked through. Frilly, lacy white curtains graced the windows, and every surface was covered with doilies, vases of silk flowers and filigreed photo frames.

The room was much too girlie for her taste. It was beautiful and she certainly appreciated pretty feminine things, but she limited the lace and frills to her underwear. She preferred her clothes tailored and her furnishings and décor sparse and open.

“Ugh,” she groaned.

“What?” Harte said. “Is something wrong?”

She swept the air with her hand. “You tell me. Do I look like the type who would live among roses and lace?” She winced as she remembered the pink lacy panties and bra she’d donned this morning.

His gaze sharpened as if he were activating X-ray vision.

“That was a rhetorical question,” she said archly. “Why am I on the first floor? Wouldn’t I be harder to get to upstairs?”

Harte was still looking at her.

“That one wasn’t rhetorical,” she said.

He blinked and met her gaze. “Yeah, you’d be harder to get to, but also harder to get out. I don’t want you stuck with no means of escape.”

She frowned. “Means of escape? Really? I thought the reason you brought me here was so they won’t know where I am.”

He nodded. “That’s true. But it’s possible that someone could follow me or the police officers.”

She knew she had to have a police babysitter, but him? “You?”

“I’ve got to prep you for your testimony. And since we’re paying for this lovely place, we might as well use it. Besides, I don’t want you traveling back and forth to my office—or my home.” His mouth curved up in a quick, crooked smile, different from the knowing smirk he usually sent her way. It was a little comical and very charming.

Charming? Where had that come from? Dani shook her head.

“What?” Harte asked.

“What?” she retorted.

“You were shaking your head.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she muttered as she grabbed her suitcase and hefted it up onto the cedar chest that sat at the foot of the bed. “I guess I’ve got to unpack.”

“I guess you do, if you’ve finally accepted that you’re stuck here. I can promise you that a knight in shining armor is not going to sweep in and save you from protective custody.”

“A girl can dream,” she said on a sigh as she unzipped the case. Her makeup kit and hairbrush were on top. She picked them up and started toward the bathroom, then turned back and looked at Harte.

“So, are you taking the first shift?”

“No. I’m waiting to hear from Captain Mahoney, letting me know who he’s sending over. I’ll stay here until they get here.”

Dani straightened and propped her hands on her hips. “I don’t like this. You are way too serious. Shouldn’t I be somewhere farther away? Like maybe Seattle? If you’re that worried about them figuring out where I am.” She expected him to say no, that he was just taking precautions, but he didn’t.

That worried her.

“It’s possible they were just trying to scare you, but from the looks of your front steps, I’d say if you hadn’t managed to jump onto the porch, you might be in the hospital, or—”

“Do not say smudge on the sidewalk again. I get the picture. So when—?” she had started to ask when his cell phone interrupted her.

He held up a finger as he fished it out of his jacket pocket and answered it. “Delancey,” he said shortly, turning toward the picture window as he listened. “Hello? Hello?” He walked closer to the window. “Mr. Akers, I can hardly hear you. Hold on.” He looked at the phone’s display and muttered, “What’s with the bad reception? It was fine the other day.” He stepped into the living room.

Vincent Akers was the district attorney. Dani could hear Harte trying to talk with him. After a moment, she heard him utter a mild curse, and then he appeared in the bedroom doorway. “The cell service here sucks,” he said irritably, pocketing his phone. “Your day-shift officer just pulled up. I’ll get you two introduced and then I need to take off.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the D.A., I think.”

“Should you call back on the B-and-B’s phone and check?”

“Nah, by that time I could be halfway to his office.”

“Speaking of offices, when can I get some things from mine?” she asked. “My desk is full of stuff I have to read and reports and briefs I need to write.”

“I told you, the public defender’s office will assign your cases to someone else. You need to worry about staying safe.”

“That’s all well and good, but even if somebody picks up my caseload, I still have paperwork to complete. I brought my laptop. I need that stuff.”

“Okay. I’ll ask the officer to take you to pick them up. One hour, no more. And that’s the last time you leave this B-and-B until I say so. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Prosecutor, sir,” she said, not even trying to hide the irritation in her voice. She heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door and sturdy footsteps approaching.

Harte turned and took a step backward. “I’m Harte Delancey.”

“Field, sir,” the officer said, coming into view at the bedroom door. “Ronald Field, reporting for protection duty.” He stood straight and solemn, his right hand resting on the butt of his gun.

He was a medium-height officer with medium-brown hair and a medium build. He was pleasant-looking, but he didn’t look as if he could do any better job of protecting her than she could herself. He wasn’t in uniform, but even so, he looked spit-and-polished, from his crisply ironed shirt all the way down to his mirror-shined shoes.

As a public defender, she was no stranger to the police. But the sight of Officer Field standing in the doorway of the frilly Victorian room looking so earnest and official, despite his street clothes, and knowing he was there to spend eight or ten or however many hours every day guarding her, sent a frisson of fear down her spine.

“This is Danielle Canto,” Harte said, gesturing toward her.

“Yes, sir.” Field regarded Dani with a slight nod. “Ma’am. I know you, at least in the hall. I’ve been the arresting officer on a couple of cases you’ve defended.”

“Oh, of course,” Dani said, although she didn’t recognize him. She felt her cheeks begin to warm in embarrassment. “Nice to see you, Officer.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Please call me Dani.” She held out her hand and Field took it. He was nice, only a few years older than she.

She listened as Harte laid out the ground rules to Field about taking Dani to the courthouse to retrieve her papers—nowhere but her office, only as many papers as fit in one box or briefcase, straight back to the B & B.

“Take a different route each way and make sure you’re not followed,” he said. Then with a quick glance at her, he added, “And she’s not to leave the house again.”

She met Field’s gaze over Harte’s shoulder and rolled her eyes. Field’s expression didn’t change from quiet respect.

“Okay, then,” Harte said. “Dani, be a good girl and don’t give Officer Field a hard time, okay?”

She raised her eyebrows, wishing her superpower was shooting daggers from her eyes. “Watch it, Mr. Prosecutor. I could file harassment charges against you for calling me girl.”

“You could,” he said, amusement tingeing his voice. “Anybody can file suit, but it would be dismissed as frivolous.”

“I could make it stick,” she retorted.

Harte’s face grew solemn. “Seriously, don’t give him any trouble. This is for your own safety.”

Suddenly, the back of her throat quivered and she felt a twinge of fight-or-flight adrenaline course through her veins. “I understand,” she said evenly, silently willing him to go away and stop trying to scare her. Because it was working. The image of the mangled porch stairs rose in her mind’s eye. If the car had done that kind of damage to four-by-fours, what would it have done to her legs—or her body?