Shielding His Christmas Witness

A tiny corner of his mouth lifted in what she suspected was his version of a smile. “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I got a little of everything.”

“I love all breakfast foods,” she confessed, nibbling on a slice of toast. “Especially now that I’m not having very much morning sickness.”

Instantly, any hint of a smile vanished. “Listen, I think we need to talk about your ex-boyfriend, Vince Ackerman.”

Her eggs suddenly tasted like papier-mâché. “Why?”

“I don’t remember seeing his name in Detective Barclay’s report.”

She grimaced and sighed. “So what? I don’t see what Vince has to do with anything.”

“Didn’t any of the officers who questioned you ask about him? Do any sort of investigation into his background?”

“Not that I know of.” She was beginning to get annoyed. “They only asked about the robbery details. Then I was only questioned by Detective Barclay and you. No other detectives questioned me. And you were the one who told me that there were almost a dozen bank robberies in a very short time frame. And they all took place after Vince left me. What kind of connection could there be?”

“I’m not sure, but I think we should try to find out.”

She wondered what it was like to go through life being suspicious of every little thing. Not the way she wanted to live, that’s for sure.

“You can do whatever you like. Personally, I wish that idiot hadn’t chosen my window to demand the money. And that the customer hadn’t jumped him, jerking his hoodie aside and revealing the tattoo.”

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Marc said, obviously sensing her irritation. “It’s my job to anticipate the worst-case scenario, every single time.”

“I get that. But I don’t think Vince is involved.”

“What did he do for work?” He finished his eggs and bacon, then started in on the hash browns.

“He was a salesman.”

Marc frowned. “What did he sell?”

“Party supplies, trinkets. You know, the kind of thing you might see in corner drugstores.” She lifted a brow. “Not exactly the bank-robber type.”

“Probably not. But we also don’t know who Terrance Jamison’s accomplices were. I can’t ignore the remote possibility that Vince was one of them.”

“I guess, but I can’t see him doing something like that.” Although simply talking about what Vince was capable of ruined her appetite. She dropped her half-eaten piece of toast back into the container. “What exactly are you suggesting? That Vince used me to case the bank? That he actually went out to every city where his buddies targeted a bank for the sole purpose of getting one of the tellers to fall in love with him? To propose marriage? That doesn’t even make sense.” She huffed out a breath. “I’m telling you, the timing is off. He left me days before the first bank was robbed. And from there it was almost another two weeks before my bank was robbed.”

“True.” Marc took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “How long were the two of you together?”

“Four months,” she murmured. “Don’t even say it. I know that’s not enough time to get to know a person, but we met at a corner café and he seemed nice, normal, courteous...” Her voice trailed off. Saying the words out loud made her feel like a fool. “I honestly never thought he’d up and disappear along with all the money in our joint account.”

“How old is he?”

She grimaced. “Twenty-eight, two years older than me.”

“Where did he grow up?”

What was with the twenty questions? “Here in the area—why does it matter? He’s gone. His phone has been disconnected, so I don’t have a way of contacting him, even if I wanted to.”

Marc eyed her over the rim of his cup. “Would it surprise you to know there isn’t a Vince Ackerman aged twenty-eight who grew up in the Milwaukee area?”

She stared at him in shock. “How do you know?”

“I did a background check. The only Vince Ackerman in the area is forty-one years old.”

That didn’t seem possible. Vince might have lied about his age, but no way was he forty-one.

If he hadn’t lied about his age, then he must have lied about his name. Or his background. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Just when she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. No doubt the man she’d naively trusted had lied about everything. Including his feelings toward her.

“I’m sorry,” Marc said, reaching out to cover her hand with his. “I’m sure this isn’t easy to hear.”

Yeah and wasn’t that the biggest understatement of the year? The gentleness of his hand was reassuring and when he let her go, she missed his warmth. “No, it’s not. But none of this means Vince was involved in the bank robbery. Why take all the money out of our joint account if that was part of his plan?”

“Why not? Easy money,” Marc said with a shrug.

She swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over her belly in an effort to soothe herself as much as her baby. Stress wasn’t good for either of them. Whether Vince was involved in the bank robbery or not didn’t matter. She’d already decided to move on with her life.

Once Terrance Jamison was convicted of robbing her at gunpoint and killing the bystander, he’d probably give up the rest of his cohorts in crime in order to get a lighter sentence.

At least, that was the plan.

So why did she feel as if the threads holding everything together were beginning to unravel?

And that Agent Callahan was the only one with the ability to keep it together?

* * *

Marc watched the myriad of expressions cross Kari’s face, trying to squash a flash of empathy.

He knew, only too well, what if felt like to be betrayed by someone you loved.

Rising to his feet, he stacked their empty breakfast containers and tossed them in the garbage. When he heard the phone ringing from inside his room, he quickly unlocked the connecting door and rushed over to answer it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Miles said. “I’m sitting outside the lobby of the motel. What room number are you in?”

“Eight—it’s connected to number seven. You have the phones?”

“And extra cash,” Miles replied. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

It was actually less than that when he heard a sharp rap on his door. Marc opened the door and stepped back, allowing Miles to come in and giving him a brotherly slap on the back.

Miles handed him the bag containing the phones. Marc opened them up and began the tedious process of activating and charging them. They were decent smartphones, with the usual bells and whistles, for which he was grateful.

“Where’s your witness?” Miles asked, gesturing toward the open doorway between their rooms. “Is she pretty?”

Marc stifled a sigh. “We’re not in high school anymore,” he answered drily. “She’s a witness, not a potential date.”