Wed to the Witness Page 19

  “Just the Luger tucked into his belt.” Rand settled a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to examine the photo. “With the distinctive notch in its grip.” He looked at Jackson. “He and Dad used to hunt together all the time. Mother made a habit of snapping their picture when they were in full hunting garb.”

  Cheyenne rose from the couch, handed Jackson the open album. “I spent hours looking through these albums. I must have seen this photograph a hundred times.”

  “And remembered it,” he said quietly.

  “In my subconscious, yes.”

  Jackson gazed down at the photograph. A much younger Emmett Fallon smiled up at him. The eyes that were now so often bloodshot from alcohol glittered with pride. Then, his shoulders held an aggressive squareness, his chin a proud slant. And there, tucked into his brown leather belt beside his fisted hand, was the Luger, sunlight glinting off its metal surface.

  “I need to take a look at something.” Rand took the album from Jackson, laid it open on the desk. He slid a fingernail beneath the photo and lifted it off the page. “Perfect,” he stated, his mouth curving.

  Cheyenne peered around his shoulder. “What’s perfect?”

  Rand flipped the photo over. “Mother habitually wrote the date on the back of all the pictures she and Dad took. Once, when I was a brilliant teenager, I informed her it was a waste of time for her to do that. She told me some day I would be glad she wasted her time.” Rand’s smile turned into a glowing grin. “Thanks to Cheyenne, that day has come.”

  She placed a hand on Rand’s arm. “Is the photo enough to clear Jackson?”

  “Close.” Rand put a hand over hers, squeezed it, then walked around the desk and pulled open a drawer. “This shows Emmett Fallon in possession of the weapon used in the commission of two attempted murders. It’s more than enough probable cause for the police to bring Emmett in for questioning. With that notch in the grip, he can’t claim the Luger stuck beneath his belt isn’t the same one the police have in evidence. If he were my client, I would advise him to confess and try to work a deal.”

  “Why Emmett?” Jackson asked. “He and Uncle Joe served in the army together.” Leaning, he picked up the brass paperweight shaped like an oil rig off the desk’s blotter. “Emmett gave this to Uncle Joe when the first Colton well hit. That had to have been forty years ago.”

  Rand nodded. “I guess Emmett will have to be the one to explain his motive, among other things.”

  “One being how he got my prints on the Luger,” Jackson said.

  “I’m not looking forward to telling Dad that his oldest friend in the world is who took those shots at him.”

  “Or Blake.” Jackson laid the paperweight back on the desk then turned to Cheyenne. “Your boss lived here for a while when Emmett and his mother got a divorce. Blake worships Uncle Joe. What’s it going to do to him when he finds out what his father did?”

  Cheyenne raised a hand to her throat. “He’ll be hurt. Terribly.”

  “I guess we’ll have to deal with a lot of things.” As he spoke, Rand slid the photograph into an envelope. “The first order of business is to get my client cleared. Jackson, you and I need to visit Detective Law.”

  “Glad to.” Jackson stared down at Cheyenne for a long moment. “I need time with my wife first.”

  “Later.” She shoved her hair behind her shoulders. “I’m so tired, I can’t think. I have to get some rest.” Nothing in her voice, in her face, offered him the slightest opening. She walked to the study door, hesitated, then turned. “Your clearing yourself is the most important thing, Jackson.”

  “Not by a long shot,” he muttered as she hurried out the door.

  “We got a confession out of Fallon,” Thad Law said nearly six hours later when he strode into the small conference room at the Prosperino PD. To Jackson, the cop looked harried with his shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up and tie askew.

  “At first, he denied having anything to do with the attempts on Joe’s life,” Law continued. “Then I showed him the photograph you brought in of him in possession of the Luger. After that, Fallon folded like a cheap tent in a strong wind. Turns out, his grandfather won the Luger in a poker game. That’s why the gun wasn’t registered.”

  “Why?” Jackson nudged aside the foam cup that held the coffee he’d let go cold. “Why the hell did Emmett try to kill Uncle Joe?”

  Law settled a hand on his waist near his gold badge and holstered automatic. “He claims Joe Colton owes all his success and wealth to his guidance. Because of that, part of Colton Enterprises is rightfully his.”

  Rand leaned forward in the chair beside Jackson’s. “It’s true Dad took some guidance from Emmett. In fact, he contributed a lot to the start-up of Colton Mining. But Dad’s the brains behind Colton Enterprises and all its subsidiaries. Knowing Dad, you can bet he’s compensated Emmett generously over the years for whatever he contributed.”

  Law raised a shoulder. “From what I’ve found out about Fallon’s past, I have to wonder if the guy even knows the meaning of the word stability. He’s been divorced three times. His four kids were shuffled from household to household while they grew up. It doesn’t sound like any of them get along very well with him now. Plus, he has a drinking problem that apparently started early.”

  Jackson thought about how bloodshot Emmett’s eyes had been when they re-roofed the barn at Hopechest Ranch. “I worked with him last week on a couple of jobs at Hopechest to help out Blake. Emmett still has the drinking problem.”

  “Speaking of his son, Blake.” Law pulled out a chair at the table and settled into it. “It sounds like he has a lot of good things to say about Joe Colton.”

  “That’s right,” Rand said. “When Emmett divorced Blake’s mother, Blake came to live with my parents. He’s told me more than once that living at home was hell, and he credits the Colton family with saving his life.”

  Law nodded. “That’s the ironic part. Blake’s the only one of Emmett’s four kids that’ll have much to do with him. Emmett told me he got sick of hearing Blake talk about how he respects and admires Joe Colton. Emmett already carried this burning hatred for Joe over the way he perceived Joe cheated him out of his share of the company. Believing that Joe also stole his son’s affection had the effect of pouring gasoline on that fire.”

  “Why now?” Jackson asked. “Blake’s been singing Uncle Joe’s praises for years. Why did Emmett suddenly decide to shoot him at the birthday party?”

  “Fallon’s drinking problem worsened last year. It got so bad that your uncle had to pressure him to retire. Fallon couldn’t deal with the shame of that. Plus, without a job or a real family, he realized for the first time how alone he is. He filled his time focusing his resentment and unhappiness on Joe. Fallon decided the sixtieth birthday party would be the perfect place to kill him. When that attempt failed, he waited a couple of months, sneaked onto the grounds of Hacienda de Alegria one evening and took the potshot at Joe through his bedroom window.”

  “Which, unlucky for me, occurred just a few minutes before I drove in.” Jackson rested his forearms on the table. “Does Blake know about this yet?”

  “Yeah. I called him, told him what was going down and that he might want to hire a lawyer for his dad.”

  Rand pursed his lips. “We’re not going to let Blake carry this weight on his shoulders alone. Emmett’s sick and he needs help. I’ll meet with Blake and give him the name of a criminal attorney in San Francisco I’ve worked with. He’ll know how to work a deal with the D.A. that will include getting treatment for Emmett.”

  “That’s what Uncle Joe will want,” Jackson agreed, then shifted his gaze back to Law. “Okay, why me?” he asked. “Why the hell did Emmett choose me to set up? And how did he get my prints on that Luger?”

  “That’s the curious thing.” Leaning back in his chair, the detective rubbed a fingertip along the thin scar on his left cheek. “Fallon says he didn’t set you up. He claims someone else did all that. I tend to believe
him.”

  Rand looked at Jackson. “Think about it. Is the Emmett Fallon you know sharp enough to pull all that off?”

  Jackson pressed the heels of his palms to his gritty eyes. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours; his body ached with fatigue and his brain felt numb. “Now that you mention it, no.”

  Law crossed his arms over his chest. “Fallon claims that when he took the second shot at Joe, he was worried about getting stopped by the cops on his way home, so he dashed down the stairs to the beach and supposedly hid the Luger in the alcove that’s carved out of the cliffs. He planned on coming back for the gun but first there were too many cops on the grounds, then Joe hired his own security patrol. Fallon never did retrieve the gun.”

  Jackson blinked. “Emmett brought Johnny Collins—one of the Hopechest kids—to the house yesterday. We went down on the beach to talk to Cheyenne. At one point, Emmett wandered off. When I looked around for him, he was just walking out of the alcove.”

  “That squares with what he told me,” Law said. “He couldn’t believe it when he heard on the radio that you’d been arrested for the attempts on your uncle’s life, and that we had the Luger with your prints on it. He arranged to drive the kid as an excuse to get onto Colton property without the security people hassling him. He wanted to make sure that someone had taken his Luger out of the alcove.”

  Jackson raised a palm. “So, if Emmett is to be believed, we’re back to square one. We don’t know who the hell set me up.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it square one,” Law commented. “You’re in the clear now. That ought to make you rest easier.”

  “There is that.”

  “We’ve got to track down whoever it is who’s intent on putting you behind bars.” Law leaned forward, his eyes grim. “You have any idea who that might be?”

  Jackson shook his head. “All along, I thought it was the same person who tried to kill Uncle Joe.”

  “It’s not. Anyone have a personal grudge against you? Might make you want to pay for something you did?”

  Jackson’s thoughts skittered back to the conversation he’d had with his aunt the previous month. He had seen resentment spark in Meredith’s eyes when he promised to go to the police if she continued blackmailing Graham over the fact he was Teddy’s father. Would she do it? Jackson wondered. Had the woman who had taken Liza and himself into her home, nurtured them and loved them changed so much over the years that she was now capable of setting him up to take the fall for two attempted murders?

  Jackson slid Rand a look. Meredith was his mother, for God’s sake. At this point, he had no proof that she was behind the setup. Until—and if—he ever did, he couldn’t in good conscience give her name to Law.

  Jackson re-met the cop’s gaze. “If I come up with anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “All right.” Law rose. “In the meantime, watch your back.” The cop relaxed enough to smile. “I’m glad this worked out for you, Colton. Heather isn’t exactly thrilled at my suspecting one of her friends of attempted murder. She’s given me a lot of grief over this.”

  “Good.” Jackson grinned at the thought of his friend defending him. “Give Heather a big kiss for me.”

  “I’ll give her a big kiss, but not for you,” Law murmured as he checked his watch. “I have reports to write. If anything else comes up that either of you need to know, I’ll call.”

  When the detective strode out, Rand nudged a fingertip against the foam cup Jackson had set aside. “The other night, you mentioned you’d quit drinking.”

  “That’s right. I had one drink at Liza’s wedding reception. One. It threw me for a loop. I’ve been off booze ever since.”

  “Did you pass out?”

  “No.” Jackson frowned. “I just got tired. Real tired, real fast. I finally went to bed. Slept like a rock until morning.”

  “Has alcohol ever hit you like that before?”

  “Never.”

  “You slept like a rock,” Rand repeated. “What if there was something more than alcohol in that drink? Instead of sleeping, maybe you were drugged. With you sedated, that would have given someone plenty of time to sneak into your bedroom, press your hand around that Luger, then leave. That would explain why your prints on its surface are so exact.”

  Jackson closed his eyes. He already knew Rand’s next question.

  “Who gave you the drink?”

  Jackson hesitated. “Meredith.”

  “Good old Mom.”

  The derision that settled in Rand’s eyes had Jackson’s spine going stiff. “Look, it’s obvious you and your mother don’t get along the way you used to. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Not right now. Does Meredith have any reason to set you up for two attempted murders?”

  Jackson rubbed at the nerves that shimmered in the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

  “What reason?”

  “Jesus, Rand, we’re talking about your mother.”

  “Don’t let that get in your way.”

  Jackson rose, walked to the room’s lone window and stared unseeingly out at Prosperino’s main street, busy with the usual tourist traffic. “I’m like Blake Fallon—I think your Dad walks on water.” Jackson turned to face his cousin. “If Uncle Joe found out about what I know, it would hurt him. A lot. I love the man, so the last thing I want to do is cause him any pain.” And, Jackson thought, if the truth got out, his half brother, Teddy, would suffer even more than his uncle. The kid deserved better.

  Rand stood, walked around the table to Jackson’s side. “Certain things are going on that I can’t talk about right now. Things that, if they play out the way I think they will, are going to rock this family to its core. Chances are, whatever it is you know will just add another blast to a series of explosions.”

  “Well, that’s clear as mud.” Jackson expelled a slow breath. “Let’s you and I agree to hold off on telling each other what we know until we see how things play out.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Jackson checked his watch. He had called Cheyenne thirty minutes ago. Inez had answered the phone, advised him Cheyenne had been asleep for hours, was still asleep. He wanted to be there when she woke up.

  “I need to get back to Cheyenne.” All day he’d battled a rippling panic at the thought that she had already slipped through his fingers. “My wife and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”

  “And I need to get with Dad and tell him about Emmett.” Rand settled a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “I hope your business is more pleasant than mine.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  She hadn’t meant to sleep so long, Cheyenne thought as she crammed clothes into the suitcase that lay open on the big bed covered in a thick emerald comforter. She had intended to be up hours ago, packed and gone from Hacienda de Alegria long before the afternoon shadows slanted toward evening.

  Long before Jackson returned from the police station.

  Still wearing the rumpled shorts and T-shirt she’d slept in, she crossed the bedroom, her bare feet sinking into pale ivory carpet so thick it would muffle the sound of a jackhammer. Stepping into the bathroom, she scooped up the few cosmetics she owned, then did a last check of the gleaming tile surfaces to make sure she’d gotten all of her belongings.

  She had.

  She wasn’t running away like a coward, she assured herself as she headed back to the bed. Her relationship with Jackson had simply run its course. Served its purpose. Moments ago, Inez had knocked on the bedroom door to report that Jackson had called earlier and said he was cleared of all charges. The threat of Cheyenne having to testify against him no longer existed, nor did the reason for their marriage.

  He didn’t love her. Didn’t believe in her gift. Her legacy.

  Blinking back tears, she stuffed the cosmetics into her suitcase, her hands trembling with a sense of urgency.

  She loved Jackson, but she would get over that. Hadn’t she also loved Paul, who was now only a
faded memory? So, too, would Jackson be. Someday. All she needed was time to mend her fatigued mind and ragged soul.

  Grief ripped viciously at her heart. Who was she trying to kid? Even now, she knew she would never get over him. Never rid herself of the sense of loss, the bittersweet wish for what might have been. If only he had loved her, believed in her.

  She slammed the lid on the suitcase, the gold band on her left hand shimmering through the haze of her tears as she snapped the locks into place. After she’d woken, she had taken time to call the attorney on the reservation. He had referred her to a divorce attorney who had agreed to prepare papers for her signature. Loss scraped at her as she worked the band off her finger and laid it on the nightstand.

  “You can just slide that ring back on your finger, Mrs. Colton.”

  She jolted at the sound of Jackson’s voice coming from close behind her. She hadn’t sensed when he’d opened the door, hadn’t heard him cross the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she blinked back her tears, then turned to face him.

  His eyes, darkened to the color of tarnished pewter and combined with the heavy black stubble that shadowed his jaw, gave him a cold, dangerous look. His slacks were rumpled, as was his shirt, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

  Leaving the gold band where it lay, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Our marriage was a pretense, Jackson. A necessity. That necessity no longer exists.”

  “It does for me.”

  “I can’t imagine why. And if that’s the truth, it’s your misfortune because I no longer want to be bound to you. I have an appointment tomorrow with an attorney who will take care of the divorce.”

  He grabbed her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Dammit, Cheyenne, you can’t leave me.”

  “I can and I will.” She slapped her palms against his chest, shoved from his grasp. It hurt too much to be touched when her defenses were shattered. “I believed in you, Jackson. You didn’t extend the same to me. As a matter of trust, it comes down to that.”