Sanctuary (19 page)

During her senior year, she often felt she was being watched, especially when she headed for her car after school. Sometimes she wondered if she was being followed as she drove home. At first she chalked up the tension to the lingering creepiness she’d come to associate with Howard Breit.

Unwilling to trust a new relationship with any of the boys at school, she decided she wasn’t going to miss out on her own prom. “Let’s go together … in a group,” she suggested to three other girls who were also without dates.

They danced and laughed the night away. But coming home late—in the wee hours—she felt she was being followed again. The back of her neck broke out in a cold sweat, and she wished she hadn’t offered to drop off the others. On the drive back to the Brownings’ little home, she felt vulnerable and alone.

Slowly making her way down the narrow road, she thought of diverting the other car by pulling into another residence. See what the driver might do. Not feeling particularly courageous, she pulled up in front of her father’s former rental house—the darling home she and Daddy had lived in for such a short time. Her heart leaped up when she realized that the car had pulled in behind her and was parked at the curb.

Not thinking, she gunned her car forward, hightailing it down the street, so frightened was she. Her need for safety had led the stalker to her very door. She burst into tears when she was safe at last, trying to make sense of it to dear Mrs. Browning. “Someone’s after me!”

“Oh, honey, not in
this
town. More than likely the driver was a bit soused, just trying to find his way home from the tavern, that’s all. No, no, you’re perfectly safe here. No need to worry.” Mrs. Browning seemed so sure of it that Mellie dismissed the night’s events as a figment of her own imagination. After all, she was quite tired, her head filled with the music and the handsome tuxedoed boys. Maybe Mrs. Browning was right. There was nothing to worry about at all.

Emery Keaton had set aside money for college in a trust fund for Melissa. After high school graduation in the fall, Mellie bid a fond but sad farewell to the Brownings, having enrolled in the Rocky Mountain School of Art in Denver. There she lost herself in the world of figure drawing, acrylic and watercolor painting, her greatest passion being landscapes and still life. The peculiar incidents of the past years faded as she poured herself into study, hoping to have her own art studio and gallery in the future, as both Nana Clark and Mrs. Browning had encouraged her to do. Nana, more recently in letters and phone calls. “Your grandfather and I are so proud of you, Mellie. Please keep in touch,” Nana often said before hanging up. “We love you.”

Love …

Where did love ever get you? Where did it lead … but to heartache?

In suffering the death of both her mother and father, and at such an impressionable age, she had lost a chunk of herself. What did she have to give another person when half her heart was buried six feet under?

  
Chapter Twenty-Three
  

ON THE EVENING OF March twenty-first, during her final semester at the art school, Melissa received a phone call. She was delighted to hear Mrs. Browning’s voice, but her spirits promptly sank when she was told the sad news. “Mr. Browning has passed away just this afternoon, God rest him. I hated to tell you so late in the day—”

“No, no, I’m glad you did.”

“I worried that you might not sleep, Mellie.”

“Forget sleep,” she said, fighting back tears. “I’m on my way home.” She promptly left, and in less than forty-five minutes was turning into the driveway.

Mrs. Browning was glad to have her; Mellie was a comfort, too, it appeared. Together they met with the funeral director to plan the local memorial service. Mrs. Browning held up amazingly well, but then she had always exhibited a cheerful spirit in the midst of trying times—one of the reasons Mellie was drawn to her in the very beginning.

After the burial, it took several days to answer all the sympathy cards and letters, thanking various friends and the Browning relatives for flower sprays and other remembrances. Mellie was glad to help with that particular chore, and while she was there, she also cleaned the little house from top to bottom, even rearranging some of the furniture and sorting through Mr. Browning’s clothing and personal effects for donation to a Colorado Springs charity. Folks were generous with their condolences, bringing in home-cooked meals.

Melissa wondered what Mrs. Browning would do now. “Will you be all right here alone?” she asked, preparing to return to Denver the next day.

“I shall be fine. Don’t you worry one lick about me. I have my gardens in spring and my books in winter.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely” came the firm reply. “I have my friends, too, a host of them. They’ll look in on me.” Mrs. Browning nodded her head, though the sheen in her eye gave her away.

Not convinced she should leave her second mother, not now—not this way—Mellie promised to check in, even spend weekends in Palmer Lake. Which she did, nearly every weekend until summer break.

It was the day after graduation from art college. She was busy packing, hauling clothes and books and things out to her car. A middle-aged man approached her, came right up to her apartment steps.

“Are you Melissa Keaton?” He held up his badge briefly. “I’m Agent Galia, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

She nodded. “Yes … I’m Melissa.”

What does the FBI want with me?
At first she was startled, her memory jogged a little. The man seemed familiar, but, no … the more she studied him, the less she was sure. “Mr. Galia?”

“
Agent
Galia. I’d like to talk with you … about your father.”

“My father?” Melissa said, confused, then gestured toward her apartment door. “Let’s go inside.”

He sat in a chair facing her on the couch and began to weave a mind-blowing tale. He told her everything, starting with her father’s true identity. The news struck her like an actual physical blow. He said that her father had been a high level “accountant” for an organized crime group.

Her mind reeled.
So … the rumors were all true. Her beloved father—a criminal
.

“At one point, he turned informant,” Galia continued. “With the help of the FBI, both of you had to be protected, hidden away under the Witness Protection Program.”

“Hidden?” Her vague memory of their quick escape to Palmer Lake.

“You were
both
given new identities.”

My real name isn’t Keaton?

“Your father wanted out, but once a gangster, always a gangster,” the agent said with a sigh. He went on to share information about her background, her life in Laguna Beach, even details about her ailing mother, who was “completely unaware of her husband’s wrongful activity.”

And then the agent got to the point. He studied her, eyes narrowed. “Just before he fled, your father stole eighty million dollars, had it wired to a secret account. He didn’t even tell us—the FBI—about the money. And, unfortunately, after he testified he was found and killed. His death may have been an accident; he may have collapsed under severe questioning concerning the money. There was evidence of torture. Either way, once they found him, his people wouldn’t have let him live.”

Melissa pondered this, speechless. She hugged herself, feeling alone, empty. She simply could not fathom such a horrible death. She was saddened anew.

Galia’s expression was empathetic. “I’m deeply sorry about your father.”

“I always wondered …” She fought the tears. “I never knew how Daddy died.”

He sighed, as if reluctant to continue. “The money was never recovered. Overnight, eighty mil vanished into thin air.”

“Eighty million dollars?” They had lived like anyone else, renting the little house down the street from the Brownings, scraping together enough money to buy rosebushes and occasional ice cream treats. Except for her private school instruction and the fact that her father was often at home, she never thought of them as more than middle-income folk.

“This is news to me,” she managed, her voice sounding far away, even to her own ears. “I have no idea. There
were
some strange things going on several years ago.” She remembered Howard’s dishonesty, the mail incident followed by the trash episode. She told the agent about the day of her driver’s test and the night of her prom—how a man had followed her both times. “He scared the living daylights out of me!”

Galia shook his head with disgust. “The kid was probably paid to snoop around. These are evil people, Melissa. Your father was a part of them, I hate to say. We have reason to believe they are presently on
your
trail. That’s partly why I’m here today. This issue must be settled, once and for all, not only for your safety, but also because, rightfully, that money belongs to the U.S. government. Eighty million would go a long way toward efforts to eliminate organized crime.”

“Are you saying that you think
I
know where the money is?” she asked.

Galia nodded. “Your father was a smart man. There’s no question in our minds—he would have made provision for the money to be salvaged in the event of his demise.”

Her father may have been smart but apparently not enough to protect his own life. She was aware only of monies that had been earmarked for her schooling, though a far cry from eighty million dollars. And she told him so.

“Think hard about it, Melissa. As long as the money is missing, your life is in danger.” He put his note pad away and took out his business card. “I’ll visit you again tomorrow. Meanwhile, here’s my number. Call me if something comes up. The slightest clue may be helpful.”

Just as the agent started for the door, something occurred to her. “How do you know the mob hasn’t already recovered the money?”

Agent Galia smiled. “Good question. I’m afraid I can’t answer that directly. But we know for sure they have not. That’s all I can say for now.”

Rattled, she accepted his card, twisting it in her fingers. When he left, she stood at the window, watching.
How can any of this be true?
she wondered.
My father … a criminal?

Agent Galia strode down the sidewalk toward his car. She stood, still as a stone.

Eighty million dollars …

By late morning Melissa
had
thought of something. Not the location of the money but about Mrs. Browning’s safety. She didn’t want anyone, not even special agents, harassing her dear friend. In her hurry to pack, however, and in the midst of the shocking revelation, Melissa had misplaced the agent’s card.

Looking in the phone book under the government pages, she located the FBI’s Denver office. Quickly, she dialed the number.

“FBI,” a male voice answered.

“May I speak to Agent Galia, please?”

“One moment.” A pause. “I’m sorry, but no one by that name works in our office.”

“But he was just
here
.”

“When was that, miss?”

“Just this morning. He came to my apartment.”

“I’ll check on Colorado listings.” He was gone for less than a minute. “We have no record of any Agent Galia working for the FBI in this state, or anywhere in the country, for that matter.”

Shaken, she pondered the strange information. “I don’t understand.”

“Has someone talked to you, claiming to be an FBI agent?”

“Yes.” She gave her name and the gist of her conversation with the man claiming to be Agent Galia.

“I’ll send someone out immediately.”

Melissa was boxing up her dishes when the agent arrived. Her mind was in a frenzy of worry.
How can I trust anyone?

She heard the bell ring and answered it. Another serious-looking gentleman, wearing a black pinstripe suit, stood before her, similar in appearance to the previous man in both demeanor and attire. When he had displayed his badge with the name “Agent Walsh” in plain view, she invited him inside, where he questioned her about “Agent Galia.”

This is like a sitcom
, she thought.
Only too ridiculous
.

The agent pulled out a photo and showed it to her. “Is that the man?”

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling a pang of alarm. “That’s Galia.”

“His real name is Ivanov,” Walsh replied. “He’s been arrested before and brought to trial, but nothing sticks. It appears you may be in grave danger, Miss Keaton. I’ve been given authorization to reveal the complete story regarding your father. Typically, we would never confirm the existence of an informant … even to his own family.”

When Agent Walsh described her father’s involvement with the mob, all the details were the same—everything except for the money. He said nothing at all about the eighty million dollars.

When she revealed this information, Walsh was astonished. “Your father
was
a shrewd man,” he acknowledged. “What we’d call a slick operator. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at all.”

This character assessment was far from comforting.

“The Witness Protection Program was necessary for you and your father—for your survival,” Walsh explained. “Your father had testified in court to no avail. The fear-ridden jury refused to convict, resulting in a hung jury. The Justice Department case against the organized crime group collapsed, and there were no additional witnesses to provide the evidence needed. Further investigation conducted through the years has been fruitless.”

She listened, amazed at the information. “So without an ‘informant’ there was no case?”

Walsh nodded. “That’s how Ivanov operates. Those he can’t bribe, he terrorizes. Those he can’t frighten, he eliminates. After your father’s death, the FBI dropped out of the picture. Mistakenly, we assumed you were safe. But your father never told us about any money. In fact, that would have been a clear violation of our agreement.” The agent paused. “But now we have something—impersonating an FBI agent is a crime. We need to pursue this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ivanov was going to return tomorrow, right?”

She nodded, fear gripping her in fresh waves.

“The next visit likely would not be a friendly one. In all probability, he would drop all pretense, resorting to more cruel means of obtaining information.” His eyes softened. “It’s a good thing you called us.”