Gray, Ginna (3 page)

Apparently he was not the only one affected. Beside him, Dave
whispered, "Wow."

Todd gave a low whistle. "Oh, man, I think I'm in love."

"You? The stud of the Bureau?" Sam snorted. "I
doubt it. In lust—now, that I would believe," he drawled.

"Whatever it is, I'm hooked. And you're going to spend weeks
with her. Damn."

"I'd be glad to trade assignments with you."

Todd laughed. "Hell, Harvey'd have us both strung up by our
balls. Still...it might be worth it. Damn you, Sam. You always were a lucky
bastard."

Both Lieutenant John Dumphries and Detective Allen Morgan of the
Denver P.D. chuckled.

"She is something, isn't she," the detective murmured.

"Mmm." Sam studied the woman through the mirror, noting
every detail of her appearance.

She paced the interrogation room like a frantic animal, her arms
crossed and hugged tight against her body. She was small, not more than five
foot two or three, with a delicate build. Under the harsh light her auburn hair
shone with copper highlights. Every time she reached the end of the dingy
interrogation room and spun back, the long mane swung around her shoulders like
a silk cape.

Sam watched her approach the two-way mirror. Her eyes were green,
he noted when she stood just inches away. And her features were as delicate as
the rest of her, though at the moment her skin was parchment-white.

Terror, probably, he mused dispassionately. And exhaustion, after
being up all night.

She wore a floor-length, fitted black evening gown with long gauzy
sleeves and a modest neckline. Not a bit of cleavage showing, he noted with
surprise. A black velvet jacket, trimmed with black sequins, hung on the back
of one of the chairs surrounding the table. The outfit looked more suitable for
an evening at the opera than something a nightclub piano player would wear.

Her dress was smudged and wrinkled and the skirt had a hole torn
at one knee, but its quality was evident, even to Sam's eye. With every step a
long slender leg flashed in the skirt's side slit and the tear, revealing
shredded sheer black panty hose and bare feet.

"What happened to her shoes?" Sam asked.

"Says she lost them getting away."

"She's not exactly Carlo's usual type." In the past the
mobster's taste in mistresses had run to busty blondes with the fashion sense
of Dolly Parton. Even barefoot, disheveled and agitated, there was an air of
regal elegance about this woman, a certain refinement that all Carlos's other
mistresses had lacked.

The lieutenant cleared his throat. "Well now, as to that,
according to Miss Brownley she and Giovessi are just employer and employee. She
says she works at Club Classico only on weekends and that during the week she's
a music instructor at the University of Denver."

Yeah, right, Sam thought, watching the woman pace the
interrogation room. He'd glanced at her dossier on the way over. So this one
was classy looking and happened to play the piano. Big deal. Carlos's
mistresses always worked at his club in one capacity or another.

Speculation was, that was so he could keep his current plaything
on a short leash, but personally, Sam thought he put them on the payroll to
fool Mrs. Giovessi. If there was one person Carlo feared, it was his wife,
Sophia.

"What have you got on her so far?"

"Not much. She's got no priors that we can find. All we have
is her car license and her address. Our preliminary report, along with a
transcript of her statement is in here," Lieutenant Dumphries said,
handing Sam a file.

As he scanned the first page Detective Morgan grinned.
"Recognize the address?"

"Yeah, I recognize it." That was one of the first things
he'd noticed while skimming through the Bureau's dossier on the way over to the
station house. The apartment building Ms. Brownley listed as her address was a
luxurious high-rise, owned by none other than Carlo Giovessi.

"Uh-huh. And our witness drives a shiny new Lexus."

"Figures."

Insofar as it went, the police report jived with the Bureau's
findings. In addition to the information in the police report, agents had
observed that the woman stayed at the club after hours alone with Giovessi
every Friday and Saturday night. They'd also noted that Carlo visited her
apartment every Wednesday evening and stayed for several hours.

Just an employee, my ass, Sam thought. His mouth twitched. He
wondered what excuse Carlo gave his wife for those evenings? That he was a
member of a Wednesday night bowling league?

"Our surveillance team has followed her to the campus several
times. So she could be telling the truth about working there," the
lieutenant went on.

Sam granted. Their men had done the same, but because they had
nothing to link her to any criminal activity, there had been no in-depth
investigation into her background or employment. In the opinions of the agents
who had tailed her, she was merely another of Giovessi's playthings who was
probably taking a few university classes as a lark.

"Has anyone checked with the university to find out if she
actually is employed there?"

"Not yet. We didn't want to start the investigation until you
fellas had heard her story."

"Fine." Sam snapped the folder closed and nodded toward
the interrogation room. "Let's do it."

Lauren made another circuit of the dingy little room. Where was
everyone? What was taking them so long?

She stopped at the front of the room and stared into the wide
mirror beside the door. Were they watching her through there, the way she'd
seen them do on police dramas on television? If so, why? Did they think she was
lying?

Maybe Lieutenant Dumphries and Detective Morgan had gone to Club
Classico to look for the body. If so, they wouldn't find it. By now Carlo's
lackeys had disposed of all the evidence. She'd already told them that, but
would they believe she was lying if they couldn't find anything?

Swinging away from the mirror, Lauren went back to pacing. As she
circled the table she glanced around and shuddered. Dear Lord, what was she
doing in this place? She'd never even been inside a police station before. How
had her life degenerated to this?

Lauren made an aggravated sound and shot her reflection a
disgusted look. "Because you're a fool, that's how," she muttered
under her breath. "A naïve fool. Face it, you have no one but yourself to
blame for being in this mess."

It wasn't as though the signs hadn't been there. Even as far back
as two years ago when she'd been in the hospital and Mr. Giovessi had come to
visit her, the nurses had hinted that he had a dark reputation.

She had brushed aside their subtle warnings, unable to believe
that anyone with such impeccable manners could be anything but respectable.

Lauren sighed. No, that wasn't exactly accurate. The unvarnished
truth was, she hadn't
wanted
to believe that Carlo Giovessi was anything
but what he appeared to be: a nice, courtly old gentleman.

When Carlo had entered her life she had been lost and alone and
completely vulnerable. He had been the only person to come to her aid. The only
person who had been there for her when she had so desperately needed a friend.

So she had blanked out what she had not wanted to be true. And
later she had ignored the obvious.

It had not been difficult to push aside her suspicions. Carlo had
always treated her with a charming, old-world sort of respect and admiration.
And as long as she was being completely honest, she might as well admit that it
hadn't hurt that he'd been a devoted fan of classical music.

Groaning, Lauren raked both hands through her hair. Right. As
though that automatically guaranteed good character.

What a blind fool she'd been.

She was operating on raw nerves, and when the door opened she
jumped and whirled around. Relief poured through her the instant she spotted
Detective Morgan. He had been kind and supportive earlier. His lieutenant, however,
had been harsh and openly skeptical of her story.

Her tension returned when five other men followed the detective
into the room. One was Lieutenant Dumphries, but she hadn't seen the others
before. Three of the strangers were neatly attired in conservative suits and
ties, but it was the other man, the taller of the four newcomers, who drew her
eye.

His hair was thick and black as midnight. So were his deep-set
eyes. Beard stubble shadowed the lower half of a face that could only be
described as hawkish. He looked hard as nails.

His penetrating stare drew Lauren's nerves tighter, and she
switched her gaze back to Detective Morgan.

"Detective, I'm so glad you're back. Have you arrested Mr.
Giovessi yet? May I go home now?"

"No, not yet. Why don't you have a seat, Miss Brownley? This
is Special Agent Sam Rawlins and Agents Todd Berringer, Roy O'Connor and Dave
Owens from the FBI. They'd like to ask you a few questions."

"The FBI? But I don't understand. I didn't know the FBI got
involved in murder cases."

"There's no reason for you to worry, miss," one of the
FBI men replied, flashing a charming smile. "Normally that's quite true.
However, there are other factors involved here."

"What Agent Berringer is trying to say is, when a suspect is
a known mob boss involved in drug dealing we're talking federal crime. We've
been trying to put your friend Carlo away for a long time."

"Have a seat, Ms. Brownley." Agent Berringer held out a
chair. When Lauren complied he poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on
the table and said kindly, "Now then, why don't you start at the beginning
and tell us what happened."

Lauren's hand shook as she took a sip of water. Her gaze darted to
Detective Morgan. "I don't understand. I've been through this with the
police already. Twice."

"And now you're going to go through it with us," the
hawk-faced man stated without the least hint of sympathy. "For starters,
let's get a little background information. How long have you worked at the Club
Classico?"

"A little over two months."

"And how long have you known Mr. Giovessi?"

"I...well...I first met him two years ago."

"How did you meet him?"

"He came to visit me in the hospital after I had a car
accident."

Sam looked up from the notes he was scribbling. "If you
didn't know him, why did he visit you?"

"He knew of me. You see, at that time I was a concert
pianist. Mr. Giovessi is a fan of classical music and he said he'd been
following my career. I was in Denver on tour when the accident occurred. He
read about it in the newspaper, and when he learned that one of my hands had
been crushed and I might never play again, he came to the hospital to offer
sympathy and whatever assistance he could."

Agent Rawlins's gaze flickered to her left hand. Thin white lines
crisscrossed the back like a road map. Self-conscious, Lauren laid her right
hand over the left to hide the scars.

"And you had no idea who he was?"

"No. I told you, I was on tour. Until two days before the
accident I had never even been in Denver before."

"So why did you stay here? You obviously didn't lose the use
of your hand. You still play the piano."

Sadness flickered through Lauren. "Yes, after several
surgeries and over a year of physical therapy I could play. But not at the
concert level. I'll never achieve that again. The flexibility just isn't there
anymore. True, I can play better than most people, even now, but no longer as a
virtuoso. I've toured for most of my life and had no attachment to any
particular place. Denver seemed as good a place as any other, so I
stayed."

What she didn't bother to explain was, at the time she could not
have afforded a bus ticket to the next town. Nor did she have any intention of
doing so. It was too embarrassing.

"I see. So you're telling us that because Carlo Giovessi is
such a great music lover he offered to help you?"

Lauren darted him a wary glance, confused by his sarcastic tone.
"I suppose so, yes."

"Did he offer you financial help?"

She looked down at the glass of water and clasped her hands around
it to keep them from trembling. "Yes. I thanked him, but I refused."

"Really? Why would he even offer financial assistance? If you
were a concert pianist, as you claim, surely you had money. I know classical
artists don't earn as much as rock stars, but they don't work for pennies,
either."

Lauren bit her lower lip. So much for keeping secret the sad state
of her finances. "I...that's true, but...by the time I left the hospital,
my money was gone."

"Yes, medical bills are steep these days," Agent
Berringer put in.

"Yes. Yes, they are," she agreed eagerly.

It wasn't exactly a lie. Her medical bills had been astronomical,
but her insurance had covered most of those. They certainly hadn't left her
broke. Collin had taken care of that.

But these men didn't need to know about the most humiliating
episode in her life. It had nothing to do with the crime she'd witnessed.

"I see."

Agent Rawlins didn't believe her. Lauren could see that in his
cold stare. She quickly refocused on the glass cupped between her palms.

"According to Lieutenant Dumphries, you claim you're now a
music instructor at the University of Denver. Is that right?"

"What do you mean 'claim'? I
am
a music instructor.
Mr. Giovessi helped me get the job after I was released from the hospital. As I
told the lieutenant and Detective Morgan, I only work at the Club Classico on
Friday and Saturday evenings."

"And your apartment? Did he help you find that, too?"

Something about Agent Rawlins's tone grated. Lauren sent him a
puzzled glance. "Yes. Yes, he did. Actually I don't know what I would have
done if it hadn't been for Mr. Giovessi. He helped me get on my feet and put my
life back together. He even arranged for me to have driving lessons and helped
me find a car that I could afford."

"You didn't know how to drive? How old were you then?
Twenty-four? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-seven. And no, I had never driven before the
accident. I'd never had to. When you're touring you're always met at the
airport by a limo, and when I wasn't on tour my father or his assistant
drove."

"How about before you turned pro? I've never met a teenager
yet who didn't want to drive."

"Agent Rawlins, what you don't understand is I was a child
prodigy. I've been touring since I was four years old. I can't remember any
other life. During my teen years we were always on the road. Plus I rehearsed
six or eight hours a day. When I wasn't rehearsing, I was either studying music
or being tutored. There was no time for other pursuits. My father, who was my
manager, saw no reason to make time for them. I needed to concentrate on my music."

"A child prodigy, huh? Now there's a new twist." Sam
stared at her, his expression disbelieving. "So you're saying your
slave-driving father chained you to the piano bench and forced you to practice
all day? Next you'll be telling me all he gave you to eat was bread and
water."

"Don't be ridiculous. I said nothing of the kind. My father
didn't force me to play the piano. He didn't have to. I love to play. Music is
my life.

"My father took very good care of me. He guided my career and
saw to everything so that I could concentrate on my music with no distractions.
If anything, he was overprotective, but that's not a crime.

"Why are you asking me these questions anyway? What does my
background have to do with Frank Pappano's murder?"

Agent Rawlins continued to scribble in his notepad. When he
finished he ignored her questions and asked, "Where is this paragon of a
father now? Why didn't he help you after the car wreck?"

Lauren fixed him with an icy look, but he didn't so much as
flinch. "My father died ten months before the accident. After that, his
assistant took over as my manager."

"What's his name?"

Panic fluttered through Lauren when she noticed Agent Rawlins
scribbling in the notepad again. "Why do you need to know that? He had
nothing to do with what happened tonight."

"Just answer the question, Ms. Brownley."

She glared at him, but it was a waste of effort. He merely stared
back and waited. Finally Lauren huffed. "His name is Collin. Collin
Williams."

"How can I get in touch with him?"

"I have no idea. Once he realized that I would never play on
the concert level again he...he left."

"And you haven't kept in touch?"

Hardly, Lauren thought. "No."

"Ah, I see. So, you're saying you had no one to turn to after
your accident, and that's why you took up with Carlo."

Lauren frowned. "I wouldn't have phrased it quite that way,
but yes, I suppose so."

Agent Rawlins stared at her for so long she began to squirm.

"When I needed a friend, Mr. Giovessi was there. He was
wonderful to me," she blurted out defiantly.

Suddenly remembering what she'd witnessed just a few hours
earlier, the staunch defense sounded ludicrous, even to her own ears.
Grimacing, Lauren groaned and cupped her forehead, massaging her temples with
her thumb and fingertips. "It's...it's still difficult for me to believe
he murdered Frank in cold blood. If I hadn't seen him pull the trigger I
wouldn't believe it. He's always been so nice to me."

"Yeah. I'll bet."

Lauren looked up in time to see the men exchanging a cynical look.
"Well, he
has!"

"Oh, I'm sure he has. Carlo is known to be generous with the
women in his life," Agent Rawlins drawled, somehow making even his
agreement sound like an insult. "All right, why don't you tell us what
happened last night."

"After the club closed I stayed for a while to play for Mr.
Giovessi."

"Do you often give private concerts for him?"

"Yes. Every night that I worked at the club. Mr. Giovessi is
a great lover of classical music. As I told you, my playing isn't perfect, but
he understands. And he's a very appreciative audience."

She didn't bother to try to explain to this man that an artist
needed an audience, how just knowing that someone was listening and being moved
by the sounds you coaxed from the keyboard fired your creativity and inspired
you. The job at the college was just that: a job, a means to support herself,
but her soul cried out for more. To some small degree, the job at Club Classico
assuaged her need to perform, but it had been Mr. Giovessi's deep appreciation
for her music that had made her feel like a true artist again. Those evenings
had saved her sanity.