The Witness

Chapter Two

LUKE KNOCKED on the hotel door for room 202, aware the time was uncomfortably late. He’d been at the office at 6 a.m. before a day in court, and the shooting and manhunt had layered adrenaline in on top of already long hours; this day needed to end sometime soon. He knocked again. He suspected the hotel-room location on the second floor next to the stairwell was no accident. “Kelly, it’s Officer Granger.”

She opened the door a few inches, her foot braced behind it. “You’re the deputy chief of police. What are you doing babysitting a witness?”

Over her shoulder he saw the television on and muted. It was a reasonable question, but he could do without the combative tone. “Making a choice.”

She looked coiled up to him, tension having tightened the lines around her face, and doubts clouded her eyes. She looked at him as if debating the value of that answer, then opened the door and stepped back. “I’m sorry; I just didn’t need the surprise of seeing you on TV with reporters shoving microphones in your direction. Anonymous you are not.”

It was the first time he’d ever had a lady complain about that fact; he let himself smile at the charge. And because he understood the reason and knew it wasn’t personal, he chose to overlook the raw mood she was in. “I wasn’t followed here, and the night shift downstairs doesn’t look old enough to care about the news,” he reassured. “I brought salad, breadsticks, and lasagna. It will beat whatever room service offered.”

Her gaze shifted to the sack. “It does.” He saw her begin to relax, her weight shifting on her sock feet and the tension in her face fading toward deep tiredness. She offered a smile. “What would you like to drink? Vending is at the end of the hall.”

“Something diet and caffeine free.”

She nodded and left the room. He watched her walk away, wondering briefly just how deep that fatigue he could see went. She didn’t reach a hand out to run along the wall for balance, and at its worst she probably would have. They both needed this day to be over.

He turned his attention back to the hotel room. A small, round table and chairs overlooked the parking lot; he walked over to the table and set down the briefcase and sack he carried. He moved aside the jacket tossed over a chair and set it down on the nearest of the two beds. She’d folded a newspaper back together into a rough neatness, and he moved it from the table as well.

The aspirin bottle on the nightstand looked new, the broken seal resting beside the alarm clock. She’d been for a walk to one of the area stores, he suspected; he’d seen a couple down the block from the hotel. He was surprised to see a thriller resting facedown on the bed-reading to pass the time didn’t surprise him, but the subject matter did.

He began unpacking the sack he had brought. She came back into the room and set cold sodas on the table, then slid into the chair opposite him. He studied her, trying to get a read on her underlying mood. Brittle was going to take a finesse he didn’t naturally have. “It’s late, but I didn’t figure you would be sleeping much yet.”

“Safe guess.” She cracked open her soda and took a long drink. “You have an odd profession, standing over dead people, going home to family, playing with your kids, watching the late news, getting up in the morning to a bowl of cereal for breakfast and the newspaper, as if the day part of your life were normal.”

He paused. She’d seen violence today; she knew he saw that kind of violence often. He found it oddly touching that she was trying to square it up in her mind-how he handled it. “It’s the fact the job is so abnormal that makes the rest of the day reassuringly normal. And in my case, it’s two dogs, a cat, a nearby sister, her kids, and a preference for bacon and eggs.”

She smiled. “I never outgrew the preference to skip breakfast and catch the extra sleep.”

He handed her a plate. “What’s your real name?”

She blinked; then her smile softened. “Amanda Griffin. Amy to friends. It’s been years since I used it; the name feels stale.”

“Thanks.”

“You’d run the prints anyway. I was in the army for quite a while, so I’m on file.”

The fact she’d just handed him the information shifted around his perspective on her. She filled her plate and he filled his. The army was an unusual career choice-either she was an army brat who grew up around the service or she probably had an older sibling who had entered the army ahead of her. “Did you enjoy the army?”

“Yes. I’m very good at logistics.”

He tucked away the direct way she said it and liked it. Confidence wasn’t this lady’s problem. He nodded to the television and turned the conversation back to the present. “We don’t have him yet.”

He saw her tension begin to return. “I’ve been watching the news. It’s been quite a thing to see from a distance, the manhunt going on. You’ll find him.”

“We will.” He picked up a breadstick. “I need you to go through what happened for a formal statement.”

“I know. After we eat.”

Her attention shifted away into her memories, and he waited until she resumed her dinner. “I’m sorry you had to see it. Not much will take that image away.”

“Paula was twenty-two going on sixteen. There should be angels protecting people that innocent from making bad lifetime decisions.”

“She married young?”

“Seventeen. He gambled and she didn’t know it. The marriage lasted until she was twenty, and it was already a year too long.” She shook her head. “Sad all around.”

“Are you running from someone in the military days?”

She set down her fork. “Would you let me not answer and not go probing?”

“In forty-eight hours you’re going to disappear on me, and I need to know how that decision can be changed.”

“Knowing won’t change reality. It will just put you personally at risk.”

“It’s my choice.”

“And mine to live with for having told you.” She broke a breadstick in two and studied the broken bread, and while it was obvious the mere topic had brought back bad memories, she seemed more reflective than afraid. She set the breadstick pieces on her plate and looked over to meet his gaze. “Let it go for now. Until I’ve slept on the events of today I’m not going to consider answering questions about my past. You’ve got enough to ask tonight just on the facts of today.”

He studied her, the face pale, the hair slightly messed, but at ease with herself and clear in her words. She was segmenting the problems in her life and coping; he admired that fact even as he wished he knew what was driving her. Whatever her past-and he could make a few pretty clear guesses-it was going to be a lot deeper hurt than what she’d seen today. But trust was a tenuous thing, and for now the answers he sought were going to stay protected. He stabbed a leaf of lettuce with his fork as he nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Thanks.”

He thought she might push away her plate, for she’d been eating some but toying with the food more, but she picked up her fork and turned her attention back to the meal. She was either hungry under that overwhelming tiredness or wise enough to eat a good meal while she could. He wasn’t going to speculate on which it was; he didn’t think he’d like the answer.

He talked her into taking seconds on the lasagna and between them they finished the take-out container. “Have a preference for ice cream? I’ll stop at the corner deli tomorrow.”

She smiled as she tore open one of the chocolate mints that had come with the carryout meal. “I hear a small bribe in that offer. Fudge ripple, cookie dough, chocolate cherry-I’m easy to please. I appreciate this; not many guys would have thought to stop to bring a meal.”

“I was hungry and not in the mood to cook once I got home. And while I’m sorry for the occasion, it is nice to have company for a meal for a change.” He opened the other mint package and considered what the chocolate would do to his sleep when it finally came. Coffee didn’t bother him, but chocolate for some reason tended to keep him awake. A stop at the office was still in his immediate future. He ate the mint.

“Were you able to stop at home at least long enough to walk your dogs?”

He smiled. “Chester and Wilks are fine; they’ve got a dog door into a fenced backyard to come and go as they please. A burglar wants to try and get past those two, let him try.” He motioned to the containers. “Finished?”

She nodded.

He stored away the remaining salad and the plates in the sack and wiped the table while she threw away the trash. He opened his briefcase and retrieved the laptop he used when he was on the road and a pocket cassette recorder.

Amy didn’t sit down. “Would you like another drink?”

“Sure.”

She left for a minute, returning with two more sodas. She settled back into the seat across from him, the smile no longer near, stiller now.

He watched her, calculating the best way to handle this. “Have you given a police statement before?”

“Yes.”

He absorbed that quiet answer and wondered not that it had been done but the number of them she’d probably given. He was more accustomed to seeing nerves during an interview rather than this stillness. “Since it’s just a matter of time before some reporter has a copy of this, I’m going to use your name, address, and personal information off your employment application. I’ll make the officer or clerk who shares the statement regret it dearly, but I’m not going to assume I can prevent it from happening.”

“Matching the application information will help me out, thanks.”

He turned on the cassette recorder and noted down date and time and witness information for the record. He’d thought about what he most needed from her, knowing the odds were still strong that this might be the only evidence they had to present to a grand jury if she disappeared on him, and made a decision. “I want you to talk through what you did and saw today from about noon on until I met up with you at your home. I want you to stop there and then tell me everything you can remember about Paula Grant and her ex. Things Paula said, the date you first met him, what you know about the situation between them.”

She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, then nodded and began. “I took my lunch break today just before 2 p.m., ate at the food court, and then returned to work.”

Luke started typing, appreciating her steady pace.

“I rearranged the ring display, helped three new customers who bought earrings, a necklace, and a ring, respectively, and wrote up two repair orders for a longtime customer. Shortly before four Jim asked me to take the day’s cash deposit to the bank; the branch office in the mall is near The Limited clothing store. I left the bank about 4:15-the time is on the deposit receipt-and walked back to the jewelry store.” She hesitated and reached for her soda. She took a long drink. “I saw him when I came around the candy display out in the center mall aisle.” She went on in the same steady voice, and Luke kept with her, not pausing to correct the typos or the punctuation.

It took her more than five minutes to get the narrative out, and when she again paused he clicked off the recorder, rose, and went to get a washcloth from the towel rack. He brought it back cold and wet.

She pressed it against her eyes.

“We can take a break before you finish.” He was leading her back through rough terrain, and he knew the cost it was taking to keep her composure. There was a brutal rawness to remembering blood and death, and that reality was only hours in her past.

She shook her head. “Thanks, but no. Let me get this done. You need the words, and I’m going to be better just getting them out and having it over.”

Courage, but maybe a little too brave, he thought as she pushed back the tears and the reaction and didn’t let herself grieve. He waited until he thought she’d gotten a few deep breaths and taken at least the first steps back from the roughest memories.

He set a new section in the file, then clicked on the recorder again. “Okay.”

“I first met Paula’s ex on August ninth. I remember the date because we were taking inventory, and her ex shoved a display being put together and sent rings flying.”

Her voice was husky now, but her words were solid and flowing. Luke typed, and as the story unfolded he knew the signs of what had happened today were in the history. He wished someone in his office had put it together before the explosion.

Her words came to an end. He watched, concerned, as she twisted the cold rag around her hand and then back off, the motion just a place marker for the fact that mentally she was remembering more than what she was saying. She was feeling the events of today now as she spoke of them, really feeling them for the first time, he thought, for her emotions had been too numb for that before. They were friends who had died, and nothing he said could touch that pain.

He shut off the recorder and returned it to his briefcase. He turned back to the start of her narrative and read for content and corrections, giving her time. “Did you notice shoes?”

She blinked back at him for a moment, then nodded. “Black tennis shoes.”

Luke printed the document. Her statement ran six pages. He handed it to Amy. “Read it through, note any changes you want to make, and I’ll print a revised copy for you to sign.”

“Okay.” She started to read.

He picked up the soda she had brought him but didn’t open it. Her words had stayed steady, but there was a fine tremor in her hands making the pages flutter just a bit. Sleep was going to be hard for her in the weeks to come, her mind having to process the images enough times to wash out the emotions attached to the event.

What gave you the courage to go see, Amy? to make that awful effort to confirm that none of your friends were still alive before you left them there? You’re shaking, but you had the courage to stay and check and to know before you bolted. You did something even cops struggle to do.

She set the statement on the table. “It’s okay as is. Where do I sign?”

“Initial the corner of all the pages, then sign and date the last page.”

She reached for his pen.

He accepted the signed document. “I’ll have a copy for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” She rubbed her eyes. “Now what?”

“We get him off the streets. Tomorrow we’ll work on how to make your testimony safe for you to give.” He initialed her statement, checked his watch, and recorded the time. He looked at her and didn’t have a solution to offer that could make things better for her tonight. She would be alone with the memories of this day and her own past that she hadn’t shared yet, and that worried him in a quiet way, how very alone she was in this. “Sleep with the television on tonight and don’t set the alarm.” He repacked his briefcase.

“I’ll take that advice and also leave the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so housekeeping doesn’t come by.” She rose. “Thanks for dinner.”

“I wish it had been under different circumstances.” He hesitated but let what he wanted to say be left unsaid. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Amy.”

He wondered if she thought of that as a promise or a threat, knowing how much had not been said tonight, but she merely nodded. She followed him to the door. He waited in the hall until he heard both locks click in place.

Amanda Griffin: former army and now in her forties. That timing probably put her in at least one war. One very bad relationship in her past. He wouldn’t guess which experience she found worse. Luke dug his car keys out of his pocket. He wasn’t going to let the signs of another coming tragedy slip past him. He wasn’t even sure who would be dead in the encounter: Amanda or the guy she ran from. The lady was civilian and yet not, running scared but with purpose. She might be ducking the collision, but when it came-and it eventually would-

Luke unlocked his car. Amanda Griffin struck him as a survivor. Tomorrow he’d get the details from her or start searching them out on his own. Trouble was here. He was inclined to stand in its way.