Hidden Witness. Beverly Long

      “I think you maybe should have let the guy shoot him,” Dawson said. “The way it turned out, it’s just getting us more work.”

      “Maybe next time,” Chase said. “But listen, I may need to take a day off pretty soon. I’ve...uh...I’ve got something I need to take care of. Family business.”

      “Your brothers okay?” Dawson asked, his tone serious.

      “Yeah. They’re fine. My stepfather just died.”

      Dawson didn’t offer the normal platitudes. He didn’t know everything but he knew enough. “Can I help?” he asked.

      “Nope. Just got to take care of a house. The lieutenant doesn’t expect us back in, does he?”

      “He said tomorrow was soon enough. Lorraine Taylor will be here then. The question is, what are we going to do with her?”

      * * *

      RANEY TAYLOR WAS FURIOUS. The nightmare that had started the evening Harry Malone had wandered into Next Steps and volunteered to help was never going to end.

      Wasn’t it enough that she was going to have to testify and relive every awful moment of the fifty-four hours that she spent with him? As horrible as that would be, she knew she had to do it. The man had to be stopped.

      Once he’d been arrested, it had never occurred to her that she would still be in danger. She’d gone back to work, brushed aside the comments from coworkers that she really should take more time off and hoped that someday, she’d be able to trust again. And each day had gotten a little easier. But six weeks later, when a dark SUV had tried to run her down three blocks from her house, she’d realized that things were about to get a lot harder.

      The police had promised that they could keep her safe. Don’t worry, they’d said, handing her the keys to the two-bedroom house in the modest Miami neighborhood. We keep witnesses here all the time. Nothing ever happens. Now they were going to have to change their sales pitch because last night, eleven days after moving in, someone had taken a shot at her as she took the garbage to the curb.

      If she hadn’t bent down to chase a wayward napkin, she’d be dead right now.

      She’d assumed she’d be moved to another place. She hadn’t expected them to announce that she needed to pack quickly because she was getting on a plane. And going to St. Louis.

      She’d known that at some point she’d have to travel to the Midwestern city. Harry Malone’s trial was taking place there because his three other victims had all resided in Missouri.

      She’d never met the other victims but she knew them. Could easily imagine the terror they’d lived through. After her escape, she hadn’t been able to keep from looking up the news stories. Had wanted to see the women as people, had wanted to know they had lives and that they’d been loved. Had needed to replace the images she carried in her head with something else.

      She did not want to be in the same city with Malone. She’d made a terrible mistake in trusting him. And had almost paid the ultimate price.

      She rubbed her ribs. He’d cracked three of them with a well-placed kick after he’d dumped her blindfolded on the floor of his squalid apartment. The doctor had told her that the bones would knit back together quickly but it might take months for the bruising to heal. Every night when she rolled over in bed, it woke her up.

      Not that she was sleeping a whole lot anyway.

      Maybe that would change in St. Louis. Maybe she could sleep away the next month until she had to testify at the trial. Leaving her job pained her more than anything. She loved her work.

      Her clients, most of whom came from disadvantaged circumstances, wanted to work but for one reason or another had trouble securing employment. The assistance she provided took many forms. She taught basic communication skills to some. Took others shopping so that they understood what to wear to work. She’d helped with table manners, organizational skills and conflict management.

      It made her day when a client showed up with his or her first paycheck. It made her week when they were still working at that same job three months later. She was over the moon when they celebrated their first anniversary.

      Now Harry Malone had taken that away from her. That and more.

      She jumped when there was a light tap at the door. “Ready, Ms. Taylor?” the officer asked. Luis had been with her since day one of her captivity and he’d been unfailingly polite.

      “I don’t understand why I have to go to St. Louis,” she said for the twentieth time. “This is a big city, a big state. Surely you have other safe houses.”

      The older man shrugged. “All I know is that you need to be on the nine-fifteen flight to St. Louis. Maybe it won’t be as hot there.”

      In late September, Miami was still stifling hot. Not that she’d been outside much lately. It would be wonderful if they stashed her someplace where she had access to a balcony or a porch.

      “Fine. Let’s just get this over with,” she said.

      * * *

      CHASE MET DAWSON in the front lobby of police headquarters and they rode the elevator in silence. “How’s Mary?” Chase asked as the doors opened.

      “She said her ankles have swelled to the size of cantaloupes and her back feels as if a small army of angry men with sharp knives have taken residence.”

      “Damn. Want to stay at my place for a few days?”

      Dawson shook his head. “I’d have to stay thirty-six days, and if I did that, I don’t think I’d have a happy home to return to once the little princess is born.”

      Chase pulled open the heavy door that led them to the interior office. “I don’t like coming here,” he whispered.

      Dawson shrugged. “Then, quit doing crazy things that get you noticed by the top brass.”

      “I don’t do crazy things,” he denied.

      “Five weeks ago, you took a bullet in your thigh and still managed to return fire. You pushed your recovery, got the doc to release you early and came back to work last week. A day later, you walked through a wall of fire. And it was all caught on a cell phone. The newspaper called you a hero and the video played on the evening news—both the six o’clock and the ten o’clock,” he said. “And you hadn’t even clocked in for the day,” he added, sounding exasperated.

      It had been early and the two young men had been drag racing on their way to work. He’d just gotten the first guy out of his car when the second car had exploded, potentially trapping the young driver. “You wouldn’t have left that kid to die.”

      Dawson smiled at the young woman behind the desk. “Detectives Roy and Hollister here to see Chief Bates.” When she picked up the phone, he turned to Chase. “I wouldn’t have wanted to,” he said, his tone serious. “But I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to do what you did,” he added. “You had to have been concerned that your leg might not hold up.”

      He’d considered the possibility. Then ignored it. Those kids were going to have a future. That was what mattered.

      The chief only made them wait ten minutes. When they were ushered into his office, Chase was again reminded that Chief Bates was one tough dude. While he was close to sixty, he was six-five, with a barrel chest and a handshake that could bring a man to his knees.

      He extended his arm to Dawson. “Detective Roy,” he said. “Good to see you.” He turned toward Chase. “Detective Hollister. How’s the leg?”

      “Fine.”

      The chief nodded. “Saw you on the news the other day. Nice work.”

      Behind the chief, Dawson made a big deal out of rolling his eyes. Chase ignored him.

      “Sit, please,” the chief said, pointing to the