Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,2

or a friend’s house until we could arrange something, but she’s about as stubborn as her granddaddy always was. I’ve arranged for a cruiser to drive by hourly through the night.”

“Good. I’ll head over there as soon as I find a judge. The hourly drive-by is great for tonight. But I’m getting an order of protection. I’m not taking any chances with my star witness.”

* * *

THE BOTTLE RATTLED against the glass shelf of the refrigerator as Danielle Canto pulled it out. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her fist around the cold green glass with a disgusted huff. Her hands never shook.

But today was a special occasion, she thought wryly. She’d felt the brush of hot steel and the prickle of splintered wood against the backs of her calves just before she’d managed to leap up onto the front porch of her grandfather’s home. She barely remembered doing it, but it had to be a new high-jump record. The wooden porch was at least four feet off the ground.

She’d hit the porch hard and rolled, bruising her thigh, scraping her knees and elbows and hurting her wrist. She’d rolled up to her haunches immediately, but between her aching muscles and the panic that had hitched her breath, she hadn’t gotten the license plate. By the time she’d taken a deep breath and managed to focus, all she’d been able to see was the car’s back fender as it screamed away in a shower of stones and mud.

She’d grabbed her phone and called 911, and waited without moving until they got there. She hadn’t even considered inspecting the damage to the steps and the four-by-fours that supported the porch. Maybe she should check now, but that would involve getting a flashlight and going around from the back door to the front, not to mention the trauma of seeing how much damage the car had done to the porch. No. She didn’t want to know—not tonight.

After grilling her for twenty minutes to squeeze out every detail she could give him about the incident, Detective Mahoney had guessed that the car had been sent by Ernest Yeoman. She shuddered. Could Yeoman be that stupid, or maybe that arrogant, to think that he could scare her into refusing to testify? A horrible thought occurred to her. What if whoever was driving that car had been sent, not to scare her, but to kill her?

She squared her shoulders. Whatever the reason for the attack, it was time for her to take action. She wasn’t her grandfather’s granddaughter for nothing. Freeman Canto had taught her to take care of herself. She looked at the bottle of Chardonnay still clutched in her fist, then set it carefully on the granite countertop. Right now she needed a means of self-defense more than a drink. She held up her hand. It would not be shaky long.

Stalking to the bedroom closet, she took down the metal box from the top shelf and unlocked it. Inside was the lock-pick kit her granddad had given her for her tenth birthday.

“Never know when you might need to get through a door,” he’d said.

The small leather case felt familiar in her hand and reminded her of the hours she’d spent picking every lock in the house, again and again. She didn’t remember when she’d stopped carrying the small kit. Probably about the same time she started wearing lipstick and noticing boys. Well, she’d be carrying it now.

With a sad little smile, she set the case on the dresser, then carefully lifted out the other object in the box. Her grandfather’s gun, a SIG Sauer. She wrapped her hand around the grip. The cold metal felt good against her palm. She supported her right hand with her left, the way Granddad had taught her, and slid her forefinger over the trigger.

She’d never shot anyone, hopefully never would, but tonight she was thankful that he’d taught her how to take care of herself.

She handled the weapon quickly and expertly, ejecting, checking and reinserting the seventeen-round magazine. Then she grabbed the second loaded magazine from the box. Sighting over the barrel, she nodded slightly. She wouldn’t go anywhere unarmed until the trial was over. Next time somebody tried to run her down, she’d take him out—or his tires at least.

She took the gun, the extra magazine and the lock-pick kit to the foyer and put them in her voluminous purse, then hefted the bag to her shoulder for a quick test of its weight before setting