Mathis was a tall, regal man with expensive tastes. This wasn’t something Conner would have known, had his off-duty cop protector and escort not said to him, “Man, that’s at least a ten-thousand-dollar suit.” And as Conner watched Mathis from the back of the courtroom, the man was very clearly comfortable, confident, very much at ease with these proceedings, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. And he had four attorneys up front, more assistants in the gallery along with his distinguished-looking family and two priests.

On the other side of the courtroom, divvied up like the bride’s side and the groom’s side, sat a couple of cheap-looking young women with men who had a disreputable look about them—Randolph’s associates, perhaps?

At one point Mathis looked straight at Conner and gave him a half smile and nod, almost a welcoming gesture. Welcome to the party, son! It was impossible to picture him in an orange jumpsuit. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he couldn’t imagine him doing what he’d done. It was, in a word, incomprehensible.

And Regis Mathis did not expect to be convicted.

Conner wondered if he’d been too optimistic. If he were a seated jury member it would be hard for him to imagine this stately, polite and reserved man as the kind of cold-blooded killer who could put a bullet in a man’s head, drag his body out of a car and heft it into a Dumpster. Harder still, if a meticulous man such as Regis Mathis, a man who constantly pulled at his crisp white shirt cuffs, wanted someone dead, why didn’t he hire it out? Why get his own hands dirty? He was, after all, richer than God.

Conner didn’t expect him to be convicted, either. While the story was completely true, it was unbelievable. If it had been any other kind of murder, maybe. But this kind? In a dingy alley, bullet to the head, tossed in a Dumpster? A victim with duct tape over his mouth and binding his wrists and ankles? Not this man, this very classy man who endowed charities and endorsed politicians.

He was required to be in court the next day, or at least in the building, available. He had a brief temptation to buy an equally expensive suit, though he knew it wouldn’t look the same on him as it looked on Mathis.

While he paid attention to the testimony of cops, homicide detectives and other officials who had been on the scene, all he could think about was that he couldn’t wait until the day was done and he could call Leslie and Katie. And he was afraid to call them. He wasn’t sure how he could keep from saying, It’s hopeless. I’m going to be in hiding for the rest of my life. And anyone who throws their lot in with me will be hiding, too.

When court was dismissed for the day, Conner exited with his cop and waited in the hallway for the room to empty. Then he doubled back to the courtroom and said, “Give me a second with the D.A.” Then he reentered the courtroom. At the front table, Max was speaking quietly with one of his associates as they both shuffled papers into their briefcases. Conner came up behind them and cleared his throat.

Max turned. “Yes, Conner?”

Conner looked around to be sure they weren’t overheard by any bystanders. Then he looked back at Max. “You’re never going to get him, are you?”

“I am going to,” Max said confidently.

“He doesn’t look like a killer,” Conner said. “If I were a juror—”

“I have a lot of faith in the system,” Max said. “What we’re going to do now is deliver the evidence we’ve prepared, solid evidence, irrefutable evidence, and win the day. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“And you’re counting on me?”

“You’re the only eyewitness to the crime, but you’re not the only thing we’ve got. We have a motive.”

“Care to share?” he asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Your wife wasn’t the only person hanging around that drug-infested shit hole. There was another person of interest there. A person Dickie Randolph took great joy in messing up and filling with drugs and alcohol and probably dirty sex. Mathis’s twenty-one-year-old daughter. The light of his life.”

Conner’s eyes grew large. “Are you going to be able to present that?”

Max lifted his chin. “If it’s not suppressed. It is his daughter....”

Conner looked at him for a long, still moment. He finally understood why a man like Mathis would take it upon himself to deal out revenge rather than outsource the job. But could it be proven? And would the jury ever hear it? If they heard it, would they believe it of this good, classy, God-fearing man?

He gave a nod—what were his choices? And then he said, “We’re f**ked.”

Conner and his cop left the courthouse from the side door and walked around the block to the parking lot because Regis Mathis was playing to the press. Conner didn’t have that kind of savvy, and, while he couldn’t avoid the questions forever, he was bound to come off sounding unsure and vulnerable. Or angry, because as time went by, this whole thing just made him angrier. As they were entering the parking lot, he heard his name, the name that still made him turn.

“Danny?”

Samantha!

Well, she could find a way to get a letter to him, why wouldn’t she be able to find him leaving the courthouse? “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“I had hoped to talk to you,” Samantha said.

He just shook his head and laughed. “I’ve tried to be very clear and very kind at the same time—we don’t have anything to talk about.”

“But, Danny, we do,” she said, taking another step toward him. “I was contacted by some lawyers and they’re thinking of calling me as a witness for the defense. I wanted you to know.”

RoboCop stepped up. “Ma’am, that’s a discussion we can’t be having with you. You’ll have to move along now.”

Conner put his hand on his cop’s arm. “What can you possibly have to say to defend that man?”

“Don’t!” his escort said. “Don’t discuss it!”

Samantha put her hands up, palms toward Conner and his escort. “All right, all right, we won’t discuss it. But can’t we have a short conversation? About what’s happened in the past two years?”

Conner looked at her. In fact, he looked her up and down and shook his head. She was beautiful with her small, buxom but trim frame, dark hair, pale skin and red lips. That was the first thing that had attracted him. The second thing was that she was so focused on him, flirting and entertaining. Sexy, she was very sexy, and she had liked him. Why wouldn’t a man go for that? And she was smart. Manipulative, but very clever—any man would be willing to be manipulated by a dish like Sam. Until they knew, of course.

“Why me?” he finally said.

“Why you?” she repeated. “Because we were married!”

“No, no. Samantha…Sam. I mean, why do you keep bothering me? Look at you. You don’t need me for anything. We were married for a very short time, then divorced. You can have any man you want. In fact, you probably have. All I want now is for you to leave me alone.”

“What if I say you were with me at that club? The one the dead man owned?”

His lips curved in a slight smile. “What? You think that threat will make me want to take you out? Buy you a drink?”

“Ma’am,” the cop said.

“Hey, knock yourself out,” Conner said. “I’m sure my protective friend here will be in touch with the D.A. who will be in touch with the judge who will be sure you get a day off from court. Enjoy. Get your hair done or something.”

And he turned and walked with his escort into the parking lot.

“Danny!”

Please, God, please make her go away! He got in the car and his escort started the engine.

“We’re going to have to report that.”

“Come on,” Conner said. “She just wants to…” What? Get laid? Get back with him? Get what? Control? “Yeah,” he finally said. “You want to call Max or should I?”

“I’ll call him,” the cop said. “When I get you back to the hotel, you can also call him. We’ll get you some room service tonight, and I’m handing you off to another officer. I’m going home to dinner.”

“Wish I was going home to dinner,” Conner mumbled.

“You will be in a couple of days, pal. Um, that lady—I assume by what she said she was your ex-wife? She might have a little jail time and a big fine. What she was doing, for whatever reason, that’s against the law. It’s called witness tampering.”

“Well, if it makes any difference, I’m not looking to punish her for anything. I just want to get on with my life, that’s all.”

“This has to stay in this tight little group,” Brie said, holding on to a longneck beer. “Just between the five of us. Jack?” she asked.

“What?” he returned, insulted.

Her gaze connected with Paul, Leslie, Preacher and finally her brother. “You’re the only one I worry about. You know—you like to talk.”

“Not if I know it’s a secret!” he said.

“Until this trial is over, it’s a secret. Until the trial is completely over, it’s a secret, get that? Because being the only witness is a pretty tenuous position.”

“Got it!” Jack said, not happily.

“So, he’s the only witness. He left town to spend a little time with his family, location confidential, and then to Sacramento to appear. Another week or so, depending on how long the jury takes, it should be behind us. Then, with luck, he’s no longer a threat to the defendant and we can all relax.”

“Have you talked to him?” Leslie asked.

“I haven’t. I’m keeping up with the trial and it seems to be going all right for the prosecution so far. They’ve called police, detectives and the coroner—there were so many on the scene, it took the first days,” Brie said.

“Hold on,” Preacher said, reaching for the remote.

The volume on the TV had been turned way down, and he turned it up as a face appeared. A very confident and distinguished man was speaking into a lot of handheld microphones. “Blood?” he asked. “I don’t know that there was blood in the car. There certainly wasn’t any blood anyone could see. I hear claims that there had been blood at one time, revealed by some old lab test. One of my sons wondered if it could be his—apparently he had a severe bloody nose after a round of golf. I was unaware of that because he was fine and it was cleaned up.”

“The defendant,” Brie said.

“Didn’t the prosecution allege it was the victim’s blood?”

“From some C.S.I. kind of magic lab test?” he returned with a chuckle. “We know those DNA tests are never wrong, don’t we?” he asked facetiously. “That’s why so many wrongly accused felons have been released from prison lately, right?”

“How would you explain the presence of blood in your car?” someone asked.

“No further comment,” another man, presumably his lawyer, interjected.

“Mr. Mathis, it’s been speculated that you invested in Mr. Randolph’s businesses....”

“Look, I have a lot of employees, a few of them responsible for accounting and investments, and I assure you, if it is discovered they invested in shady businesses like those of Mr. Randolph, they’ll be looking for work. We’re investigating that now. But I had never met the man.”

“Wasn’t your car seen at the scene?” a reporter asked.

“Cherry,” he said, smiling, “my family owns fourteen cars.”

“Clever,” Brie said. “He knows the reporters by name....”

“No further comment,” the lawyer said again. “We’ll let this play out in court and I have no doubt, it will have a satisfactory end.”