Rocky Mountain Rescue

“That’s all?”

She looked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. “All the women.”

“And the men?”

She looked around the room, at the masculine furniture and big-screen television, at the black-clad men who dusted for fingerprints and took photographs from every angle. “There were a lot of men here. There always are.” The women were merely ornaments. Accessories. Necessary for carrying on the family name, but otherwise in the way. They were kept in the background as much as possible.

“Was there anyone here who wasn’t a member of the family?”

“You mean besides all the bodyguards?”

“Besides them, yes. Any visitors?”

“Elizabeth was a visitor. She doesn’t live here.”

“Anyone else?”

She shook her head. “But I don’t keep track of everyone who comes and goes.”

“Because you’re not interested?”

“That, and because I don’t want to know about the Giardino business.”

“Sir, the M.E. says he’s finished in the library,” one of the black-clad officers addressed Thompson.

Thompson nodded. “All right. Then you can seal off the room.”

“Where is everyone?” Stacy asked. The first shock of the invasion had worn off and uneasiness stole over her like a virus, making her feel sick and a little dizzy. “The other women and the rest of the family.”

“They’re being taken care of. You were the only one unaccounted for. Where were you when the shooting started?”

“In the bathroom, if that really makes any difference.”

The double doors leading into the hall opened and a man in black backed into the room, wheeling a gurney. Stacy stared at the figure on the gurney, covered by a white sheet. A bone-deep chill swept through her. “Who is that?” she asked, forcing the words out.

“Mrs. Giardino—” Thompson put out his arm to stop her, but she threw off his grasp and ran to the gurney.

The men wheeling it past stopped and looked at Thompson. “Sir?”

“It’s all right.” Thompson glanced at Carlo, who had crawled under the coffee table and was absorbed in orchestrating elaborate car crashes. “Let her look.”

She hesitated, staring at the outline of a face under the white sheet, afraid of what she’d see there, yet knowing she had to look.

The man at the head of the gurney leaned over and flipped back the sheet.

Stacy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Thompson’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder. “Can you identify this man for me, please?” he asked.

“That’s my husband,” she whispered. In death, he looked older than she remembered, his skin waxy and slack, the cruelty gone from his expression. “That’s Sammy,” she breathed, and staggered back into the marshal’s arms.

Chapter Two

Marshal Patrick Thompson considered himself a good judge of character, but he wasn’t sure what to make of Stacy Franklin Giardino. When he’d stepped into the basement of that backcountry mansion, the last person he’d expected to encounter was this woman who looked like a college girl or a rock star, not a mobster’s wife. She was all of five foot two and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. She had fine, sharp features and huge gray eyes, and her short, platinum blond hair only made her look more elfin and vulnerable.

Dressed in leggings, an oversize sweater and short leather boots, she looked more like the little boy’s big sister or babysitter than his mother, but a double-check of the background files on the Giardino family confirmed she was indeed the wife—or make that, the widow—of the late Sam Giardino Junior, and the boy, Carlo, was the heir apparent of the Giardino mob family.

Patrick stood in a darkened office at the police station the feds were using as their temporary base in Telluride and studied Stacy and her son through a one-way mirror. The boy was eating cookies, painstakingly separating each cookie into two halves, licking all the filling out and then nibbling away the cookie portions. Stacy watched her son, scarcely moving except to occasionally cross and uncross her legs.

Nice legs, he thought, though he told himself he wasn’t supposed to notice them. He wasn’t supposed to think of the women he was assigned to protect that way. They were victims or suspects or witnesses. But he was a healthy, single man and sometimes...

“What do you think?”

Patrick flinched, and looked over his shoulder at the man who spoke, FBI special agent Tim Sullivan. Though his first impulse was to say that Stacy was a very appealing woman, he knew that wasn’t what Sullivan wanted to know. “She says she doesn’t know anything about the Giardinos’ crimes—that the women were kept in the dark.”

“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“Maybe.” Patrick turned to look at Stacy again. Beneath the carefully applied makeup he detected dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes. Earlier, she’d been so fierce, like a mother bear protecting her cub. Now she looked more vulnerable. “What makes a woman align herself with a criminal like Sammy Giardino?” he asked.

Sullivan moved to stand beside him. “Maybe she didn’t know he was a crook until it was too late.”

“Then why not leave? Why stay in a marriage with a man like that?”

“That answer’s easy. You don’t divorce a mobster. You know enough about them to be dangerous, and as long as you’re married, you can’t be compelled to testify against them.”

Had Stacy been trapped like that? The thought made his stomach twist. “She had to have known what he was like before they married,” he said. “The background report on her says her father is a shipping merchant who’s suspected of having some shady dealings with the Giardino family.”

As if sensing someone watching, she turned and looked directly into the mirror. Her eyes were hard and cold. So much for thinking she was vulnerable. He’d seen women like her before. They were hostile to law enforcement, uncooperative and difficult. But it was his job to protect her, so he would.

“You want me to talk to her?” Sullivan asked.

“No, I’ll do it.” Patrick picked up a file folder from the corner of the desk and stepped out into the hall.

Stacy looked up when he entered the room. Carlo had finished his cookies and lay stretched across two chairs, his head in his mother’s lap. “When can we go?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s going to be Carlo’s bedtime soon.”

“I’ll drive you to your hotel soon.” He sat, one hip on the table beside her, a casual pose that was supposed to help her relax, but there was nothing at ease about the rigid set of her shoulders. With one hand she smoothed her son’s hair, over and over. “We’ll provide protection for you until we’re sure you and your son are safe. If we decide to press charges against anyone else, you may be asked to testify, and in that case you’ll be under our protection until the trial. After that, you’ll have the option of going into Witness Security and assuming a new identity.”

“No.” The hand that had been stroking her son stilled. “I won’t do that.”

Not an unusual reaction to the idea of starting life over as someone else. It took time for most people to come around. “You and your son could be in danger,” he said.

“I can take care of my son.”

“We can talk about this more later. For now, you’ll be assigned an agent for protection.”

If looks really could kill, the hate-filled stare she directed at him would have felled him like a shot. He pretended not to notice. “Do you have family you want us to notify—parents, siblings?” he asked.

“I’m an only child.”

“Your parents, then.” He consulted the notes in the file. “Your mother and father, Debby and George Franklin, live in Queens?”