LITMIR.BIZ

      A special thanks goes to my former colleagues in the Crime Analysis Unit of the Oklahoma City Police Department.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Epilogue

      One

      Jackson Colton knew all about how cops operated. Although he practiced corporate law, he’d spent two summers during college interning in the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. He knew that, when fishing for suspects or talking to witnesses who might be less than truthful, the boys in blue preferred to conduct interviews on their own turf. Doing so tended to intimidate people and make them feel like they were a captive audience, whether they legally were or not.

      By summoning him to the Prosperino Police Department, Jackson theorized that Detective Thaddeus Law had embarked on a world-class fishing expedition. Which was why he now sat across the scarred table from the sharp-eyed detective in a small interview room that smelled of cigarettes and sweat. The only thing Jackson hadn’t yet sorted out was why he was the fish Law had chosen to reel in.

      Granted, he’d been at his Uncle Joe’s sixtieth birthday party nearly a year ago when someone took a shot at the Colton family patriarch. Nevertheless, hundreds of people had gathered in the courtyard of Hacienda de Alegria, where white doves soared, champagne flowed and exotic flowers floated in the bubbling fountain. Jackson knew that just his presence that night shouldn’t have put him in a suspicious light. Nor did Law have reason to view him as the guilty party simply because he’d again been at the Colton ranch four months ago when a second shot barely missed his uncle. Yet, for reasons unclear to Jackson, the detective had turned a suspicious eye his way.

      “So,” Law said, leaning back in his chair. “Not one family member, staff person or guest at your uncle’s birthday party can verify your whereabouts at the time the shot was fired.”

      Jackson regarded the cop. He had a small scar on his left cheek, a bump on his nose from where it had been broken and the bear-size build to knock anything out of his path without breaking stride. A formidable man, Jackson thought. One who obviously believed he had something on him or they wouldn’t now be sparring in the stale-smelling room with stark fluorescent lighting and a single pane of one-way glass.

      Since Jackson knew he hadn’t tried to kill Joe Colton, Detective Law was headed for disappointment.

      “I didn’t know at the time I would need someone to swear to my whereabouts every minute of the evening.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “So, I didn’t bother interrogating the hundreds of people at my uncle’s party. That was your job.”

      “True. I’ve talked to a lot of those people lately. No one remembers seeing you at the exact moment the shot was fired.”

      Jackson narrowed his eyes. “That was almost a year ago. Why are you suddenly asking people my whereabouts?”

      “It’s my job to get a clear picture of the events that occurred,” Law said blandly, then glanced at the notepad on the table in front of him. “You say you’d cut across the courtyard, then took a shortcut through the service hallway to get to the bar. From the angle the slug hit the column behind your uncle, our ballistics expert figures that the shooter was standing a few feet from that hallway. Kind of a coincidence you were right there, too.”

      “If you believe in coincidence, you’re the first cop I know who does.”

      Law’s mouth curved. “I don’t. Do you remember seeing anyone on your way to the bar?”

      “I saw a lot of people. The courtyard was packed.”

      “What about after you reached the hallway?” Law persisted. “See anyone coming or going?”

      Jackson slid a look at the tape recorder sitting beside Law’s notepad. During those summers he’d worked at the D.A.’s office he’d learned never to underestimate cops. Now that he knew where the shooter had stood, he realized Law’s seemingly harmless questions were designed to get his taped admission that he was in nearly the same location as the person who made the attempt on his uncle’s life.

      Which he had been. And, Jackson reminded himself, a certain gorgeous, sexy woman could place him in that exact location until he’d dropped out of sight.

      His

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