Wed to the Witness

by Karen Hughes

  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.

  Nine

  “Look, 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 remnants 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 decl
ined 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.

  Rand eased onto the edge of the desk and met Jackson’s gaze. “Do you remember ever seeing that Luger?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been at a firing range since the second attempt on Dad’s life? Maybe someone laid the gun down and walked off. Maybe you picked it up, returned it to them? A scenario like that would be enough to get your prints on the gun.”

  Jackson shoved a hand through his dark hair, leaving it appealingly rumpled. “I’ve racked my brain about that Luger since Law pulled it out of that envelope. I don’t remember ever laying eyes on it. I sure as hell never shot it.”

  Joe scowled into his snifter as he swirled his brandy. “There’s got to be some logical explanation for your prints to be on that weapon.”

  Jackson raised his chin. “Uncle Joe, I give you my word, I didn’t—”

  “Boy, don’t you even start!” Joe’s blue eyes sparked when he leaned forward in his chair. “I know it wasn’t you who took those potshots at me. Only a fool would think that. I’m a lot of things, but not a fool.”

  “Thanks. Your belief in me means a lot.”

  Cheyenne’s heart went out to Jackson when she saw the effort it took for him to smile.