Wed to the Witness (14 page)

Another burst of ungodly noise brought the realization that someone was banging on the front door. Blinking, he decided if the racket was going to stop, it was up to him to see to it.

“Hold on,” he muttered.

Groggy, he sat up, raking a hand over his stubbled jaw. He retrieved his jeans off the floor where he'd piled them last night, pulled them on. On his way down the hall, he tugged on his hopelessly wrinkled white shirt.

“I'm coming,” he said as the thudding continued. Jackson reached the door and yanked it open. His heart stopped.

“Detective,” he said evenly.

Thad Law, dressed in a blue suit, blue tie and white shirt, stood on the porch, the morning sunlight sparkling clear behind him. “Mind if I come in, Colton?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“Nope.”

Jackson stepped back, pulling the door open wider. Law followed him in, his gaze flicking toward the dim kitchen, then across Jackson's shoulder toward the hallway. “Where's Miss James?”

“In the shower,” Jackson said, although he no longer
heard the water running. “Are you here to see me, or her?”

“Both. I'll get my business with you taken care of first.” As he spoke, Law shoved back one flap of his suit coat and pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt. “Jackson Colton, you're under arrest for two counts of attempted murder.”

Jackson's stomach knotted. “If you're basing this arrest on the evidence you presented me a week ago, you don't have a case. You and I both know that.”

“New evidence has come to our attention.”

“What new evidence?”

“We'll get to that. Downtown. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

The knots in Jackson's stomach turned to pure acid. He knew he had no choice but to do what Law said. The cop patted him down for weapons. When the cold steel bands snapped around Jackson's wrists, his body gave a compulsive jerk.

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“I'm an attorney. I know my rights. I don't need to hear them—”

“Jackson!”

With her hair wrapped in a towel and a white terry robe belted at her waist, Cheyenne darted from the hall. Eyes wide, her face pale, she looked at Law. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why else?” Law asked. “I've got evidence that points to Colton's guilt.”

“Of what?”

“I figure you have a pretty good idea, Miss James. Just in case you need it spelled out, the charge is the attempted murder of Joe Colton. Two counts.”

She took a step forward. “I don't care what evidence you think you have. Jackson is innocent.”

“Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing.”

“Jackson.” She turned to him, her already pale face bloodless now. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Call my Uncle Joe.” Jackson gritted his teeth. It was all he could do not to jerk away when Law clamped his fingers around his upper arm. “Tell Uncle Joe I've been arrested, and the charge. Have him contact my cousin, Rand—he's a criminal attorney in D.C.”

“All right.”

“I've got business with you, too, Miss James,” Law said. “I need a formal statement from you. After you make that call, get dressed and drive to the station.”

Jackson saw something dark come and go in Cheyenne's gaze. “After I talk to Joe Colton, I'm calling my attorney. He'll be in contact with you, Detective Law.”

“By all means, consult counsel. Bring him to the station with you. Just make sure you show up.”

“Like I said, my lawyer will be in touch.”

Jackson felt Law's fingers tighten on his arm. “You don't want to get on my bad side, Miss James. Trust me on that.”

Frustration began to rise in Jackson, and with it anger. Cheyenne was playing with fire, trying to protect him. This was
his
problem, he needed to make her understand that.

He met Law's stony gaze. “Let me talk to her before we leave.” He dipped his head toward one corner of the living room. “Over there.”

Law narrowed his eyes. “You're an attorney, Colton, you know what I can do if she refuses to cooperate. You going to clue her in?”

“That's exactly what I intend to do.”

A muscle working in his jaw, Law aimed a hitchhiker-like thumb in the direction of the living room's far corner. “Five minutes.”

As he moved, Jackson tried to block out the cold, desperate feel of the cuffs that secured his wrists behind his back. He couldn't dwell on that. Nor could he lose himself in the rush of useless emotions—anger, outrage, a hated sense of vulnerability—that bubbled in his blood. He had only a short time to make Cheyenne see that she couldn't protect him. That he didn't
want
her protection.

When they reached the end of the couch, she turned to face him. “Jackson—”

“We don't have much time,” he began in a low voice. “I need you to listen to me. First, do you even have an attorney?”

Her gaze flicked past his shoulder to Law. “No. There's one who handles legal matters for the residents of the reservation. I'll call him.”

“Don't bother, chances are he doesn't know much about criminal law. When you talk to Uncle Joe, tell him you have to make a formal statement, that you need one of his attorneys to go with you to police headquarters.”

“I don't want to make a formal statement.”

“Cheyenne—”

“I can place you in almost the exact spot where the shooter stood at your uncle's birthday party. That can only hurt you. I don't
want
to make a formal statement.”

“You can't
not
make one,” Jackson countered through his teeth. “You don't have the right to refuse to talk to the police. You only have the right not to incriminate yourself when you do talk to them.” He paused, took a deep breath. “You're trying to protect me, I understand that. There's a part of me that even appreciates it. But in doing so, you're putting yourself in jeopardy. That's not how we're going to do this, Cheyenne.”

“Law intends to use me to make you look guilty.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “You're not.”

“You're right, I'm not. But my guilt or innocence isn't the point here. The point is what he can do to
you
if you try to put him off for long.”

She lifted her chin. “I doubt he can do a lot.”

“That's where you're wrong. Law might let you drag your feet for a day or two, but the bottom line is, he has to make his case so he can present it to the D.A. Your statement is part of his case. If you refuse to cooperate, Law can arrest you on a charge of material witness to an attempted homicide. If he feels like it, he can also add withholding evidence and impeding an investigation charges. He can go before a judge, say that you're an unwilling witness—which you are—and because of that you might be a flight risk.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Law doesn't know that, and neither will the judge. So, if Law asks the judge to hold you without bond, chances are the judge will grant the request. For a while anyway, you'll be stuck in jail with no way out.”

Color flooded her cheeks. “That's blackmail.”

“It's also law enforcement.” Jackson leaned in. “No way in hell are you getting locked up because of me, Cheyenne. Do you understand that?”

“A vision sent me to
help
you.” She placed an unsteady palm against his cheek. “I need to help you, Jackson. I don't know how I'm supposed to do that.”

“Start by calling Uncle Joe.” The tears swimming in her eyes almost brought him to his knees. “Have him call Rand. Tell him to get you a lawyer. Come in and give a statement to Law.” Jackson turned his head,
placed a soft kiss against her palm. He wanted to hold her, touch her. All he could do was savor the taste of her.

“L
ook, Law, I've told you the truth,” Jackson said two hours later. “Repeatedly. There's nothing else I can tell you. I don't know who tried to kill my uncle. All I know is, it wasn't me.”

He and the detective were in the same small room, sitting in the exact spots at the scarred table where their initial interview had taken place a week ago. Burns still tattooed the tabletop; the air carried the same stale odor of cigarettes and sweat. As it had a week ago, Law's small recorder sat beside the notepad that the cop had placed in front of him.

The difference was that Jackson was now under arrest. The cops had fingerprinted him. Photographed him. Placed him in a bleak, sterile holding cell. The thought of going back to a cell, just the thought of it, had his blood icing.

He clenched his hands, still smudged with the rem
nants of fingerprint ink, and met Law's steely gaze. “I wish to hell I hadn't been alone in that service hallway when someone took a shot at Uncle Joe during his birthday party. And if I had known four months ago what I do now, I wouldn't have driven in from San Diego and arrived at the house just minutes after the second attempt on my uncle's life. I would have waited until the following day and flown to Prosperino with my father. But I didn't. I drove. And I arrived at Hacienda de Alegria right
after
the shooting. Those are the facts. The truth.”

When Law pursed his lips, the small, paper-thin scar on his left cheek turned even whiter. “No, Colton, I don't believe you've told me the truth.”

“What you believe doesn't matter.” Jackson leaned forward. “It's what you can
prove.
So far, all we've done is rehash what we went over a week ago. Yes, I was the attorney of record on Amalgamated Industries vs. Jones. I helped my former college roommate take control of his family's business away from his father, who was addicted to alcohol, drugs and gambling. That doesn't
prove
I planned to kill my uncle and take control of Colton Enterprises from my father. And I don't know who the hell it was who walked into that L.A. insurance company and bought a policy on Uncle Joe's life that names me as beneficiary. My guess is it was some starving actor who'd do most anything for the right money. All I know for sure is that man wasn't me.”

“You're correct, Colton, all we've done so far is rehash. It's time we made some progress.” Law pushed back his chair and stood. Sometime after their arrival at the station, the detective had shed his jacket. Now his white shirt looked almost as rumpled as Jackson's. The cop had opened his collar, loosened his blue tie. Rays from the room's stark fluorescent lighting glinted dully
off the gold badge clipped on his belt beside a holstered automatic.

“Let's talk new evidence.” Law moved to a small table beside the door, retrieved the manila envelope lying there. “I'm looking forward to hearing your explanation for this.”

He strolled back to the center of the room. Easing a hip onto the table, Law opened the envelope and pulled out a large plastic bag. Inside the bag was a blue-steel automatic.

“Tell me about this,” Law said, holding the top of the bag between a fingertip and thumb.

Wariness tightened Jackson's chest. “I can't tell you about it. I've never seen that gun in my life.”

“Nine-millimeter German Luger. Ballistic tests confirm this is the gun used in both attempts on your uncle's life.” Law's mouth curved into a feral smile. “Ring any bells?”

“No.”

“So, you're telling me you've never seen this gun?” Law extended his arm to give Jackson a better view of the weapon. “Never shot it?”

Jackson stared at the Luger, noting the notch in one of its dark grips. “That's what I'm telling you.”

“How do you suppose your prints got on it?”

Jackson felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. “No way in hell are my prints on that gun.”

“They are.” Law shrugged. “I don't know, Colton, maybe the evidence fairy put them there.”

Jackson took a breath, braced himself. “Look, I told you last week someone has gone to a lot of trouble to set me up. The Luger is another piece in that setup.”

“Yeah, I remember your theory. Trouble is, you're
the only person swimming in the suspect pool. I've tried, but I can't eliminate you.”

“That's because when someone gets set up, they look guilty.” Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Where did you find the Luger?”

“In a Dumpster, a couple of blocks from the PD.”

“You just happened to look in the Dumpster and got lucky?”

“Dispatch got an anonymous call yesterday, telling us where to look. We dusted the Luger for prints, then ran them through the system. You're in there because you were fingerprinted when you joined the California bar.” Law leaned in. “If I were you, I'd confess and get everything over with.”

“Don't hold your breath.”

The cop sighed. “I figured you'd say that.”

A knock sounded at the door. “Company.” Law slid the bag holding the Luger back into the manila envelope. He rose, walked to the door, opened it and stuck his head out. Seconds later, he looked back at Jackson. “Your lawyer's here, says he wants to confer with you.”

Jackson blinked. He didn't know what time it was—he'd left his watch on Cheyenne's nightstand. But he was sure his cousin Rand hadn't had nearly enough time to make the trip from Washington, D.C. to Prosperino.

“I'll talk to my client in private.”

Jackson leaned back in his chair, surprised to see his father stride through the door. Graham Colton was dressed for business in a pristine needle-thin pinstripe suit, perfectly tailored to fit his lean, wiry build. Thatches of gray edged the temples of his thick, blond hair.

Jackson rubbed a hand over his face. He remembered now his uncle saying that his parents had planned on
arriving last night at Hacienda de Alegria. Great, this was all he needed.

Graham waited to acknowledge Jackson until Law stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

“Quite a mess you've gotten yourself in, son.”

“I didn't get myself into it.”
Unlike you when you slept with Aunt Meredith and fathered Teddy.
“Someone shoved me into this mess when I wasn't looking.”

“Hmm.” Graham pulled out the chair Law had occupied. He sat, steepling his long fingers that sported a pair of gold rings. Jackson noted there was no concern in his father's eyes, just speculation.

“Before we get into things,” Graham began, “I'll tell you what's going on from my end. Your current fling— I forget her name—called the house this morning.”

“Cheyenne,” Jackson said through his teeth. “Her name is Cheyenne James, and she's not a fling.”

Graham's brows arched over cool blue eyes. “I see. Anyway, when
Cheyenne
called, I answered the phone. She wanted to speak to Joe. Since he was out riding and hadn't taken his cell phone, she had to settle for me.”

Jackson propped his elbows on the table and rubbed at the headache that snarled in both temples. “Did you get her a lawyer? Has she come in yet to give Law a formal statement?”

“No, on both counts.”

Jackson smashed a fist onto the table. “Dammit, she needs a lawyer! I want her to make a statement. No way in hell is she going to jail on my account.”

“Calm down,” Graham said mildly. “After Cheyenne told me everything, I had her drive to the house. Joe was back by the time she arrived. He thinks you're innocent, by the way, and he's incensed you've been arrested. He
called Rand's office, got hold of his new wife…” Graham raised a hand. “I can't remember her name.”

“Lucy.”

Graham waved the information aside. “She said Rand was in Sacramento attending to some business. Apparently, he had planned on surprising Joe and Meredith with a visit before he flew back to D.C. Anyway, Joe contacted him, then sent the corporate jet to pick him up.” Graham glanced at his watch. “Rand should have arrived by now. Joe's meeting him at the airport. They've got an appointment with Yale Williams to arrange your bond.”

“Good.” Yale Williams was a judge who'd been Joe Colton's friend for years. Jackson felt the tension backing off knowing that chances were good he wouldn't have to spend the night in a cell.

He rubbed his gritty eyes while fatigue pressed down on him like a lead weight. “What about Cheyenne?”

Graham angled his head. “I get the idea you care about this woman.”

“I do. She needs a lawyer to bring her in so she can make a statement.”

“I disagree. She should hold off—”

“I don't give a damn—”

“You're wasting time getting angry. Your Uncle Joe and Rand agree with me. In fact, Rand talked to Cheyenne on the phone while he was on the way to the airport. She told him she can place you at the party, in the vicinity of where the shooter stood when he tried to kill Joe. At almost the exact time of the shooting.”

“That's right, she can.”

“No way does Rand want her giving Law a formal statement. As of their conversation, Rand is also representing Cheyenne. He told her to stay at Hacienda de
Alegria. Once we get you out of here and back to Joe's, we'll put our heads together. Have a strategy session, so to speak.”

Jackson blew out a breath. Except for the two summers he'd interned in the L.A. County D.A.'s office, he'd had little experience with criminal law. On the other hand, Rand was one of the country's top defense attorneys. A master at strategy, he was considered lethal in a courtroom. Jackson trusted him explicitly.

“Okay. Good.” He met his father's dispassionate blue gaze. “I appreciate you handling things.”

“I should mention that your mother is staying at Hacienda de Alegria for a few days. Since she's also an attorney, she considered coming here with me. I told her you only need one lawyer at a time. She agreed.”

Typical, Jackson thought. The woman who'd barely acknowledged his presence while growing up would never consider he might want—or need—a mother's emotional support.

He gave his father a sardonic look. “I doubt an entertainment attorney would do me much good right now.”

“Probably not,” Graham agreed. “Your uncle gave me a rundown on the evidence the police had as of last week. That doesn't sound like much. What did Law base the arrest on?”

Jackson closed his eyes, opened them. “He says they received an anonymous call telling them where they could find the gun—a Luger—used to shoot at Uncle Joe. They looked in a certain Dumpster and found the gun. Ballistic tests match the Luger to the slugs found at both murder attempts.”

“That still doesn't explain why you're under arrest.”

“Law claims my prints are on the Luger.”

Graham sat silent for a moment. “Did you do it?” he asked quietly.

Control kept Jackson in place, made his eyes flat, held his voice even. If he got out of the mess he was in, there was no way he would spend another day working with the father who had so little faith in him.

“Our business is done, Graham. You can leave now. And don't bother making that strategy session tonight.”

 

On long-ago weekends when Cheyenne visited her brother, River, at Hacienda de Alegria, she had spent hours curled up in Joe Colton's paneled study, made warm and vibrant by deep rugs and polished brasses. She'd expended most of her time leafing though the collection of Colton family photo albums that Meredith had meticulously maintained. Young and desperately shy, Cheyenne had turned the heavy pages slowly, mesmerized by the faces that smiled back at her, the locations pictured, both familiar and exotic. And always, always her young girl's heart had sighed over the pictures of Jackson Colton flashing his bold, reckless, irresistible grin.

Tonight there was no humor in Jackson's face.

He had settled in the maroon leather wing chair that was a twin to the one she'd chosen, both angled in front of Joe's massive mahogany desk. The Colton patriarch, along with his attorney-son, Rand, had persuaded the judge—an old family friend—to grant a bond for Jackson's release. The three men had arrived grim-faced at the house in time for Jackson to shower and change before dinner. Now he wore tailored slacks and a black linen shirt that deepened his tan and turned his gray eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea.

With so many people around, Cheyenne had barely
had a chance to talk to him, certainly hadn't had a moment alone. While Jackson was in the shower she had met with the tall, dark-haired attorney. She had once heard that seeing Rand Colton argue a case in court was like watching a wolf circling a potential kill and losing patience. Even so, Rand's eyes were oddly gentle in such a strong-featured face. Cheyenne supposed that was why it had been easier than she thought it would be to propose the strategy she had worried over for most of the day.

She doubted Jackson would react with equal calm.

“The Luger with your prints on it is our major concern.” Rand spoke as he walked to the wet bar built into a small alcove between towering bookcases. He poured a snifter of brandy, then glanced over his shoulder. “Does anyone other than Dad want a drink?”

“I'm off alcohol,” Jackson said while Cheyenne declined the offer with a shake of her head.

Rand arched a dark brow. “Since when?”

“Since the one drink I had at Liza's wedding reception knocked me for a loop.”

“It's best to keep a clear head now anyway while we figure out how to deal with the Luger.” Mouth pursed, Rand carried the snifter to his father who was leaning back at his desk, glancing occasionally at the bank of security monitors built into the nearby wall.

Cheyenne sat in silence, breathing in the scent of leather and beeswax. She wondered whether Graham and Cynthia Colton, both attorneys, had opted not to join them for this brainstorming session or hadn't been invited. All she knew for sure was that Jackson's parents had both been quiet and subdued at dinner. As had Meredith. Even the usually rambunctious Joe, Jr. and Teddy had eaten their meal in almost total silence. They'd
slipped away the first chance they got and dashed into the kitchen where Inez had their favorite dessert waiting.