Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,51
Marshals haven’t.”
Guilt flickered in her eyes, and he knew that he was right.
“Goddamn it, Morgan. Are they just going to stand by and let her get whacked? What the fuck’s wrong with you people? She trusted you guys.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She stuck her neck out and—”
“She never trusted us. She never trusted anyone, from what I’ve heard. Yeah, she testified, but that was it.”
“What do you mean?”
“That was it. She disappeared. Dropped off the radar. Tabitha Walker was never in WITSEC.”
“Was she killed?”
“No.”
“How do you know that?”
Morgan sighed. She walked around the bar and pulled open his fridge. He knew she wouldn’t like the contents, but she stared anyway for a full ten seconds.
“I don’t know why I’m talking to you about any of this,” she said.
“I do.”
She looked at him, and in the light of the refrigerator he saw that she looked tired. The stress of her job was taking its toll on her and had been for a long time. She closed the fridge and leaned back against the counter.
“She testified, as planned,” Morgan said. “Then she disappeared. Evidently, she withdrew money from her bank account in advance and packed, so we know she planned to leave.”
“Or someone wanted it to look like she did.”
“I can’t confirm that one way or another. But I can tell you she’s not under federal protection. We don’t know where the hell she is. So if anyone’s going to warn her it’s not going to be us.”
Her tired gaze settled on Jacob, and he felt a deep uneasiness in his gut. But it wasn’t new. He’d felt it since he first ducked under that crime scene tape and crouched in the mud beside a young jogger with a knife wound in her back. He’d known instantly this wasn’t a typical homicide. He hadn’t realized just how strange and complex it would turn out to be.
But it didn’t matter. It had happened in his backyard. Someone had come into his jurisdiction and carried out a cold-blooded killing, and Jacob planned to figure out who it was and hold him accountable. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that. Jacob wasn’t wired for diplomacy or office politics or interagency chess games. He was a cop. He’d taken an oath to protect and serve, and that was what mattered to him.
Morgan knew it, too, which was why she’d contacted him in the first place and why she continued to drop these nuggets of information on him. She believed in him. And she knew Mullins would be all too happy for this whole case to just disappear, solved or not.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“Same thing I was doing before. Investigate. Track down a murderer. Hopefully, before he tracks down anyone else.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
TABITHA INSERTED THE keycard and let herself into the bungalow. The air was still and silent, and she knew right away that she was alone.
She moved quickly, positioning her cleaning cart in front of the door so she’d have advance warning in case someone came in. The guests were out for the morning, but Frank was a wild card, always lurking around the property and popping up unexpectedly.
She went straight to the bedroom. The dresser was a prime spot for jewelry and cash, but today there was nothing, not even a pile of loose change. Same for the bathroom. She checked the safe in the closet, on the off chance someone had left it open, but it was empty, too.
“Damn it,” she whispered. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.”
Tears stung her eyes as she stared at the dresser. She wasn’t a thief. Or she hadn’t been. For months, she’d cleaned these rooms from top to bottom without even thinking of stealing anything, no matter how much cash people left lying around. But now that she really, really needed the money, as a matter of survival, every last guest was suddenly being careful with their stuff.
A bitter lump of disappointment lodged in her throat. But Tabitha ignored it and got to work stripping the sheets off the king-size bed. Next she stripped the pillows—all six of them, different sizes, because reviews ruled the world, and God forbid someone might post a complaint about pillow thickness.
After wrapping the linens in a bundle, she went to the bathroom and doused every surface with disinfecting foam. Then she started scrubbing, working high to low, the way she’d been doing since she was eight years old. The work calmed her ragged nerves, and she imagined her mother looking down at her.