Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,9
linking a respected legislator and a renowned attorney with Yeoman, a thug and a drug dealer. She says her granddad was certain that Senator Stamps was taking bribes to push for lower tariffs on imports. If I can prove that independently, and find a solid connection between Stamps and Yeoman...”
“Are you saying you’re going after Stamps?”
Harte sighed and ran a hand across his five-o’clock—or midnight—stubble. “I don’t know. I need something more than Dani’s hearsay about what she heard that night.”
“Well, Dawson’s info may help. He called a guy he uses part-time—a former drug addict who’s a C.I. these days,” Lucas said. “Apparently, there’s been talk on the street for a long time about Yeoman’s connections in the legislature. Something else that nobody seems willing to talk about openly.”
“That’s all well and good,” Harte said. “But the fact that nobody will come forward with solid information is what keeps the D.A. up nights. Nobody’s ever been able to prove anything.”
“According to Dawson’s C.I., some folks think that connection is Stamps.”
Harte sat up, feeling his pulse speed up. “Why am I just now hearing this?”
“Because I just got it. The C.I. said to check Stamps’s voting record and his bank accounts.”
Harte rubbed his eyes. “I’m already on the voting records. I’ve got an intern tallying his position on every issue under the sun. But I have no cause to subpoena his bank records.”
“You could ask him nicely,” Lucas said wryly.
“Yeah,” Harte responded. “I could toss a pig off a roof too, but the chances of it flying are better than a Louisiana congressman volunteering private financial information.”
His brother laughed. “I’ve got to go. Big day tomorrow.”
“Me too. I’ll get with Dawson tomorrow. I hope he’s got something more solid than a drug addict’s report of a comment heard on a street corner.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to need it.”
“G’night, kid.”
Harte hung up and looked at the dashboard clock, although he already knew it was after midnight. As he shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position, headlights appeared at the other end of the street. Harte crouched down in front of the headrest and waited to see what the vehicle did. It slowed down, which accelerated his pulse. Then he heard a garage door open. Peering around, he saw the car disappear into a garage three doors down. He watched until the door closed, then breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed as much as he could.
His thigh threatened to cramp again. Thanks to his long, lanky Delancey body, the Jeep wasn’t going to be as comfortable as he’d hoped it would be. Still, he’d appointed himself Dani Canto’s protector. A little discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure her safety.
But damn, it was going to be a long night.
Chapter Three
When Dani woke up the next morning and stretched, she yelped in pain. Every inch of her body was sore, thanks to her crash landing on her porch floor the day before. Her shoulders were tight and painful, her right knee ached and she had a headache.
She pushed herself up out of bed and hobbled to the shower. Under the hot spray, her muscles loosened and the headache eased, although the scrapes on her knees and elbows stung like fire. She blamed the sore muscles, the scrape and the aching knee on the bastard who’d tried to run her down. She blamed the headache on Harte Delancey, although, if she were truthful, he didn’t deserve it.
After he’d left, she’d gotten into her pajamas and climbed into bed, fully intending to drink enough to wipe his ominous words from her brain. But the wine’s taste was bitter on her tongue. She’d tried to read, tried to watch TV, even put on a blues music station, but nothing helped. So she turned out the light and lay in the dark, feeling sorry for herself.
She missed her granddad. Sure, he’d been eighty, but he’d been as healthy as a decades-younger man. In fact, he’d been planning to run for another four years in the legislature. She had been planning to have her grandfather around for another four years and more.
It hurt so much that he was gone. She wanted this trial over and done for so many reasons. It had been over a year since the night he was murdered, but every time she had to talk to the D.A.’s office, the police or a judge, all the wounds opened up again.
Now Harte was putting her into protective custody until