What Lies Behind. J.T. Ellison

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      He hated to do it, because in his capacity as a security agent he’d done his job—protected his principal—but he had to protect himself, too. The facts were indisputable. He’d killed a man, on American soil, in front of a dozen witnesses, with only James Denon and Chalk’s word for it that it wasn’t a well-planned hit. There was no choice, not anymore, not the way Grant was looking at him, like a bird who’s spied a juicy worm across a dew-wet lawn.

      “I’ll need a lawyer present, and then I’m happy to tell you the whole story.”

      Grant’s expression didn’t change, though he waited for a heartbeat, staring straight into Xander’s eyes. He didn’t say another word, just stood and walked out of the room.

       Fuck.

      Grant had been expecting the demand. They knew if Xander had half a brain he would lawyer up. Grant had come in as a test.

      Ante up.

      Xander thought furiously—who was he going to call? He hadn’t exactly kept in close touch with many people since he’d left the Army, just a few Ranger buddies, and they weren’t lawyers. Were they going to keep him here, or take him somewhere else? He’d need to let Sam know.

      At the thought of her, he felt his resolve start to crumble. Way to go, man. You’re about to get yourself arrested for murder. Now there’s a phone call to sow marital bliss.

      She’d leap into action, he was sure of it. She’d know a good lawyer; she knew everyone, it seemed. And better calling Sam than calling his parents out in Colorado. This wasn’t cow tipping, which was the charge the last time he’d been arrested. Their kindly town sheriff had cuffed him, marched him up the mountain to his parents’ farm and let them mete out the justice, so it wouldn’t go on his record.

      Good old Sheriff Houghton. Dead now, but well remembered in Xander’s hometown of Dillon as a great, fair, equitable lawman. Thanks to him, Xander shoveled goat shit for a month.

      The door opened, and Grant came back in, a curious look on his face.

      “I’m getting my phone call, right?” Xander said.

      “Don’t worry about it. There’s a dude on his way here right now, criminal defense hotshot out of New York. Sean Lawhon. Heard of him?”

      Xander shook his head.

      “Best shark that money can buy. You have a fan in Mr. Denon. He engaged the lawyer’s services on your behalf before you and I ever talked. So. We’ll just sit here and stare at each other until he arrives. Between you and me, I want to stay away from the cameras.”

      Great, the media was here. Xander nodded once, curtly. He still needed to call Sam, more so now, before she saw it on TV.

      “Am I allowed to make a call?”

      “Are you going to talk about the case?”

      “Just want to give someone a heads-up. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”

      “Why don’t we wait for Mr. Lawhon, then you can do whatever you want. I wouldn’t want to trample your rights or anything.” He pulled out his cell phone and began playing a rousing game of solitaire. Judging from the slowness of the clicks, he was losing.

      Xander gritted his teeth at Grant’s sarcasm. He’d dealt with men like him plenty of times—either he’d chill when he saw Xander had only been doing his job, and get all sorts of friendly, or he’d go for the jugular. There weren’t going to be any in-betweens. And they would never be friends; a connection would not be made.

      Which was fine. He didn’t need more friends.

      Xander drank his water, and when he set the empty bottle down, there was a knock at the door. Grant gave his screen one last, doleful glance, then opened the door.

      The lawyer was a kid. Xander was only thirty-six, but Lawhon looked at least a decade younger—tan and blond and thick through the shoulders. He looked like he’d be good for a pickup game at the gym. He did not look like a threat.

      Which was probably why he was successful. Subterfuge and camouflage.

      “Mr. Whitfield? I’m Sean Lawhon. Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. His parents hadn’t sprung for braces; Lawhon was a self-made man. “We’ll get this all straightened out in a jiff. No reason to think we won’t be out of here quickly. Is there, Detective Grant?”

      Grant watched the show, a pointed look on his otherwise homely face. “He killed a man, Mr. Lawhon. Let’s not lose sight of the facts.”

      Lawhon flipped like a switch, the friendliness gone. He looked at Grant like he was an alien. His voice was no longer pleasant, it was grim and angry. “We’re not dealing with a security guard shooting an intruder in a building. This is a trained, and licensed, I might add, professional who stopped an assassination attempt. To even hold him is unconscionable. You should be ashamed of yourself, Detective Grant. This man was doing his duty to his client.”

      Grant yawned, showing a gold molar.

      “Take it up with the judge, Lawhon. Grand jury is already seated for another case. I’m sure we could push this onto the docket by morning.”

      Xander watched the exchange with interest. Grant’s attitude was pissing the kid off. The anger was genuine now, not fabricated for Xander’s benefit.

      “Give me a break. There’s not going to be a grand jury. They’d laugh you out of the room, much less even consider indicting. We all know you’re just being difficult because you can.”

      Grant’s face tightened at that remark. Lawhon continued his assault. “Why are you still here? Planning to listen in while I talk to my client?”

      “Naw,” Grant said. “Just wondering what it is about you city boys and your fancy suits. Enjoy.” He shut the door behind him, and Lawhon took a quick breath, straightened his lapels, turned to Xander and smiled.

      “That guy is a raging dickhead. We’ve never gotten along.” The pal tone was back.

      “I see that. What did he do?”

      “Divorced my sister last year, without a lot of warning. Crushed her. Though he’s always been an ass, that’s nothing new. We’re all just one big happy family.” Lawhon set up on the table, briefcase open, phone out, yellow notepad, Montblanc fountain pen. He saw Xander eyeing the pen. “Gift from my parents when I graduated law school. It was my grandfather’s.”

      “Was he a lawyer, too?”

      “A writer actually. Parents wanted me to go the same route—the pen is mightier than the sword, all that. Lost their minds when I decided to go to law school. They’re just a couple of hippies, have a commune up in Albany. They didn’t want me working for The Man.”

      Xander felt his spirits lift. “As are mine. In Colorado. My folks were rabid when I told them I was going to enlist.”

      “I know. I read your file on the way over. You’ve got a fascinating background.” A glint in the blue eyes. “May I call you Moonbeam?”

      “If СКАЧАТЬ