What Lies Behind

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“Arlen Grant. New Jersey State Police. Seems you’ve had yourself an interesting day.” Grant was tall and lanky, a solid jaw, just this side of forty, hair about to thin but not there yet, with a sleek gray suit and a chunky stainless-steel watch, a Fitbit trainer on the opposite wrist. He had the hungry look of a man who’d lost weight recently, and would do most anything to sink his teeth into a thick steak and fries instead of salad and veggies.

“You could say that.”

“Why don’t you tell me the story, top to bottom, then we’ll talk about your next steps.”

Xander assessed Grant openly. He seemed friendly enough. Almost too friendly. All of Xander’s warning bells went off.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I want to hear the story in your own words, man-to-man. That’s all.”

Xander wasn’t stupid. He saw where this was headed, heard something in Grant’s voice that made him go on alert. He didn’t trust the man.

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 you want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, sure thing.”

Lawhon smiled again, lips closed this time. “Alexander, then.”

“Xander’s fine. What’s their plan? Are they going to charge me?”

Lawhon became all business. “They’re considering it. You stalling Grant made them nervous. There’s a bevy of cops out there. Half of them want to shake your hand, half want to see you strung up.”

“Grant made me uncomfortable. I had a sergeant way back who used to buddy up to us grunts, then use what we told him to make our lives hell. I got the sense Grant would do the same.”

“You’re a shrewd judge of character. Despite my own personal drama, Grant does have a reputation. He isn’t one to be messed with. He’s a true believer. There’s no gray in his world. You’d already be in a cell if you’d talked to him. Now, tell me about the shooting. Whatever possessed you to pull the trigger?”

“Dude was about to take out my principal. I didn’t have a choice.”

Saying it aloud made him feel better. He’d done right. He’d done his job.

“The principal being James Denon, head of Denon Industries, one of the world leaders in oil and gas, mining and the like.”

“Correct. He had business in the city, hired our firm to do his protection. He wanted to be subtle—he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been to the States.”

“So he chose a small, untried firm out of Washington, D.C.?”

“Small, yes. Untried? Hardly. We’ve got more experience in these matters than most.”

“New, then. A new firm.”

“All right. Yes. New.”

“Any idea why he chose you?”

“We were recommended to Mr. Denon by a friend.”

Lawhon tipped his head. “What friend?”

“My partner booked the job. You’ll have to ask him for a name.”

“I’ll do that. The man you shot hasn’t been identified. He had a sniper rifle and enough ammunition to kill every person on that tarmac. Why were you so sure he was going after Denon?”

Xander shifted in his seat. It was a good question, and he needed to be sure of his answer. “Logic. It was a setup. Had to be. Whoever took out the contract on Denon knew we were his people on the ground, and knew our procedures. Once Denon was on the plane and in the air, he ceased to be our responsibility. We were leaving when we got the call the plane was coming back. It was a well-orchestrated plan to get us out of the way.”

Lawhon sat back in the chair. “Pretty elaborate.”

“Yes. Whoever wants him dead hired someone who knows close-protection protocols.” And was using a United States Army–issue enhanced sniper rifle, one Xander himself had used many a time. He didn’t mention that tidbit.

“How did you know for sure the guy was after Denon?”

“Once the plane taxied back and the passengers disembarked, he had multiple opportunities to shoot whomever he wanted. The tarmac was full of people. He was waiting. We’d told Denon to make sure he was last off the plane. I did not engage until it was clear the principal was in mortal danger.”

At that, Xander leaned forward, caution forgotten.

“I didn’t shoot until I saw his finger go for the trigger, Mr. Lawhon. I wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood for the fun of it. That’s not how I roll.”

Lawhon watched him for a moment. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t believe you would. So here’s the deal. We’re going in with a justifiable homicide claim. You were protecting your boss, whose life was in danger, who hired you to look after him. I think that will fly, no problem. If not, we’ll take it up with the judge. He’ll see reason.”

“Jesus, this isn’t going to go further than this, is it?”

“You mean to arraignment and a trial? I hope not. It’s going to be up to Grant how far he wants it pursued.”

“Then let’s get him in here and I’ll give a statement. I’m ready to talk, to explain my side of things. I can’t sit here anymore, pretending all is well with the world.”

“First, we need to talk about a media strategy.”

“What?”

“Regardless of how this goes down, Xander, you’re going to be the lead at the top of the hour on every news channel in the country. Your name and image will be put out there. Like the cops sitting outside this door, half the people will want to congratulate you, half will want you prosecuted. Unfortunately, it’s the latter half who are the most vocal. So we need to be prepared. I want you safe, out of harm’s way and out of a jail cell.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“Good.” Lawhon smiled again. “Now, tell me everything.”

Chapter 16 (#ulink_1244e813-8ff3-50e1-9c70-1d5bff8b502d)

Georgetown University Medical School

THE MOMENT THEY were given the go-ahead, Fletcher and Sam got into his car and made the short drive to the Georgetown University campus. The dean of the medical school, Dr. Nate Simpson, and Sam’s immediate boss, Dr. Hilary Stag, were waiting for them in the dean’s office.

Hilary looked genuinely upset; the smile lines around her usually merry eyes were set and grim. The dean looked no better—a happy, rotund man with a white goatee and wire-rim glasses, Sam had always thought he looked a bit like Santa Claus, minus the red suit, but this morning he was frowning and dour.

What, exactly, had Tommy Cattafi done?

After the introductions were made, Dean Simpson settled down to business. “No sense beating around the bush. If Cattafi survives, and I do hope he does, despite all of this, you can ask him yourself what he was up to.”

Hilary crossed her long legs. She was wearing sheer hose that made a shurring noise each time she moved. “He was found in the gross anatomy lab, Samantha. In a state of undress. One of the corpses had been...interfered with.”