Vulnerable.
And damn, he hated vulnerable.
“Look at me, Cole.”
He raised his eyes.
“You need to be honest with me. You need tell me if you feel any nausea at all. None of that male I-can-handle-it crap, understand?” She said, holding his gaze.
He broke her gaze. It was too intimate. She was seeing too much of his vulnerability. This woman had a way of getting under his skin, into his head. He focused instead on the carpet pattern around the cops’ boots. Wrong move. Because all he saw now was Cpl. Lance Russell’s dusty, bloodied boots—legs without a body attached.
Yeah, he felt as if he was going to throw up, all right. He’d felt like this for months, sick to his stomach every time the wretched images stole into his brain. This was why he’d kept moving. Drifting like a tumbleweed. Trying to escape the memories and flashbacks he was now convinced would never leave him.
Jagger curled his hands tightly around the edge of the cot, fighting the urge to launch to his feet right now, and just go. Hit the road. Never look back.
But he forced himself to hang on to the cot.
One step at a time. Get this story—focus on that. And you might find justice for Cole, a small boy abandoned, stolen.
“Cole.” Her voice was soft. “Look at me, Cole.”
Jagger lifted his eyes again, slowly. “I got it, Nurse.” He forced a wry smile.
“Good,” she said quietly, her features serious. She released his pulse, then stood erect and faced Drucker. “Let’s start again, shall we, Chief? Clearly our patient doesn’t remember meeting you.” She turned to Jagger. “This man with the wonderful manners here is Dead River P.D. Chief Hank Drucker. And this is Officer Pierce Deluca.” She turned back to face the cops. “I found our patient lying unconscious in a ditch in the burned-out field beyond the employee gate at around eight this morning.”
Deluca got out his notebook, flipped a page and started scribbling down notes.
“I was going for a ride, going fishing. It was my day off. When I saw him lying in the field I dismounted immediately and found he was bleeding from a head wound.” She cleared her throat. “I called Dr. Colton on the radio for help and continued to administer first aid while waiting. I noticed lots of fresh hoof marks around his body, scuffed-up dirt and flattened grass. It looked to me as though he might’ve been thrown from a horse, and that a hoof had sliced across his temple. But then I noticed no belongings nearby—just his hat. I searched his pockets for ID, a phone, anything that might tell me who to call.”
“And you found a piece of blanket?” There was accusation in the chief’s tone. Deluca looked up from his notebook expectantly.
“Yes,” she said, voice cool. “I found a scrap of blue flannel embroidered with the name ‘Cole.’ Along with a photo of Brittany Colton holding her baby wrapped in a blue blanket with similar embroidery.”
Deluca flipped a page, continued scribbling.
“And you didn’t put the blanket in his pocket?”
“What?”
“It’s my job to entertain all possibilities, and to keep all avenues of investigation open. You do understand.”
Her mouth closed in a tight line.
“And you didn’t remove anything from his pockets?”
“I didn’t steal anything, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” She was angry now.
“Well, he wasn’t thrown from a horse,” Drucker said. “I personally witnessed our John Doe here leaving Dead River on foot around 7:30 p.m. yesterday, carrying a duffel bag.”
Deluca was frantically scribbling down notes, flipping pages.
“But there were fresh hoof marks all around him,” Mia countered. “If it wasn’t his horse, it was someone else’s.”
“What happened to your kit bag, sir?” Drucker said, directing the question to Jagger.
“I didn’t know I had one,” Jagger said, wondering why the chief had failed to mention his fake Montana driver’s license with the name Ray Cartwright on it. What game was Drucker playing here—keeping his possible identity from him?
“Those are his clothes on the chair.” Mia pointed. “And his holster—his weapon is missing.”
Another hot hard look from the chief. “You were carrying concealed?”
“That’s within his rights,” Mia snapped. “This is Wyoming. Half of the ranchers out here carry concealed.”
Jagger felt a smile teasing his lips now. Mia Sanders was this close to punching Chief Drucker in his squat face, and he loved her for it. For the distraction.
“Would you like to step outside while we finish this, Miss Sanders?”
“No,” she said quietly, folding her arms across her stomach. “And it’s Mizz.”
Jagger was liking Ms. Sanders more with each passing second. And it suddenly mattered to him that she was single, no ring. Which unsettled him. His ex, after all, had left him because he was unable to commit to marriage. He cursed inwardly. Everything about this woman was messing with his head. He wondered, also, why Drucker was underscoring Mia’s relationship status, and why it so visibly rattled her.
“You can’t recall any of this, sir?” The question was again directed at Jagger.
“No, I don’t.”
“And you don’t know your name?”
“I told you, I don’t remember anything prior to waking up on this cot in this infirmary.”
“You have zero recollection of coming into the Dead River Diner yesterday evening?”
Jagger closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “None.”
“You don’t remember talking to a waitress named Grace, or to me?”
“No! Like I said, I don’t recall anything.”
Silence.
Jagger waited for the cop to say that he’d seen the Montana driver’s license, the name Ray Cartwright. He waited for the cop to say he’d seen the photo of Brittany and Cole Colton fluttering to the diner table.
But he didn’t.
Slowly Jagger opened his eyes. The cop was still watching him. Intently.
“We’ve taken the blanket and photo into evidence,” Drucker said.
“You can’t do that. It’s all he has,” said Mia. “Showing him that blanket again, letting him feel it, might help jog his memory.”
“If it is a piece of Cole Colton’s baby blanket,” Drucker said coolly, “it’s evidence in a thirty-year-old kidnapping case. Mr. Colton has already confirmed that he recognizes the unique embroidery on the flannel. And how this man came to be in possession of that blanket is now also under investigation.”
Mia glowered at Drucker. “He might be in possession of it because it’s his.”
“A DNA test will be done in due course. Now, if you don’t mind, sir, we’ll take your prints.” Drucker motioned to Officer Deluca who quickly folded his notebook and reached for the fingerprint case he’d placed on the counter.
“Prints?” Mia said, watching as Deluca brought forward the bag and set it on the small table near the bed.
“We’ll check them against missing persons reports,” Drucker said. “And we’ll do a criminal records check.”
Mia’s gaze swung to Jagger’s, a frown suddenly creasing her brow. Drucker had succeeded in sowing doubt in her mind. Score one to the chief.
“We’ll take photos of your tattoos, too, if you don’t mind, sir.” This time Officer Deluca spoke. “Dr. Colton mentioned that you had distinctive ink on your chest as well as on your arm.”
“And if he does mind?” Mia said, looking uncertain now.
“You do want to find out who you are, don’t you, sir? Because this will help,” Deluca said.
“It’s fine, go ahead,” Jagger said. Fighting it would raise suspicions. But nevertheless, tension twisted through him.
Deluca opened his kit, removing an ink pad and print cards.
“What about the DNA test?” Jagger said, watching him.
“We’ll use a technician from our police lab to conduct the DNA test,” Drucker interjected. “Mr. Colton has agreed to leave any DNA testing in the hands of law enforcement technicians and the police lab in order to maintain a clear and clean chain of evidence in the event this goes to trial. It could make the difference in securing a conviction. The fewer holes we leave for defense lawyers to poke into, the better.”
“Sir, your right hand please?” Office Deluca held out the ink pad and looked a little embarrassed.
“And when will your tech come and do the test, then?” Mia asked.
“He’s away testifying at a trial in Cheyenne. It could be a week, or more, then we’ll need to wait on results.”
“But what if Cole wants separate DNA results sooner—through a private lab? I mean, his priority is finding out who he is—”
Drucker turned sharply to face Mia. “The D.A.’s office has advised us to keep a clean chain of evidence. Mr. Colton has agreed to comply. I expect you will, too.”
“Clean chain of evidence?” Mia glowered at the cop. “You make it sound like he’s guilty or something.”
“No one on this ranch is beyond suspicion after the recent spate of crimes, Miss Sanders. There’s still a killer out there, and I’m just doing my job.”
Whatever the reasons for delaying a DNA test, it suited Jagger just fine. He allowed Deluca to take his hand and press his thumb into the damp inked padding, rolling it left to right before transferring it to a white print card.
While Deluca finished up with the prints the chief bagged the pile of clothes on the chair, along with the empty holster.
“Did you fire your weapon, sir?” Drucker said
“I didn’t know I had a weapon.”
“We found two spent 9 mm casings.”
So they’d been out there already—before even talking to him or Mia. Jagger shrugged. “Means nothing to me, I’m sorry.”
“Jenny Burke was shot and killed in the pantry with a 9 mm caliber bullet.”
“You can’t think that he had anything to do with Jenny’s murder, surely?”
“Who’s Jenny?” said Jagger.
“Look, I want you to leave now, Chief Drucker. My patient needs rest.”
“I’m sure he does,” said the chief, looking at Jagger. “We’re done. For now.”
Deluca handed Jagger a towelette to wipe the ink from his fingers. “Would you be so kind to remove your shirt, sir, so I can quickly grab a shot of those tattoos?”
Jagger removed his shirt, wincing again in pain. The cop took several photographs. He had kind, hazel eyes and Jagger wondered how many years would it take for Drucker to rub the compassion out of his young rookie.
As the cops finally made for the door, Mia called after them, “How long will it take before you get results on the prints?”
Drucker gave a soft snort as he opened the door. “If we find anything, you can rest assured, Miss Sanders, we’ll be back.”
The door closed behind them. Mia stared at the door then swore bitterly under her breath before spinning around. “It’s like he’s purposely delaying a DNA test—why would he do that?”
“Who knows what the D.A. told him, or how my amnesia might impact a trial? He’s just being a cop, Mia. They’re trained to keep their distance.”
“I suppose. He... I just don’t like him.”
Jagger studied her for a moment, then lowered his gaze to her ring finger. She saw where he was looking and her eyes narrowed defensively.
Jagger stood and went up to her. He took her hand and gently thumbed her ring finger where she’d been worrying it.
“You okay, Mia?”
She swallowed and her lids flickered, a sexual energy suddenly surging thick between them.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice husky.
“He got to you, didn’t he, when he called you Miss? Why does that even worry you?”
A coolness entered her eyes. She extracted her hand from his. “It’s none of your business.” She’d put walls up. Cold and concrete. Just like that. “You ready to go up and see Jethro?”
“Yeah, let’s get this over with.”
She made for the door. “I’ll show you the way.”
“Mia?”
She stopped, her hand resting on the doorknob. “What?” She didn’t look at him.
“Thank you—for having my back, for standing up for me.”
“I don’t know that I should have.”
“Why not?”
She turned slowly. “Because Drucker might be right. Because you could be a felon, a con artist on the make. You could have gotten those tattoos in a prison for all I know. I have no reason to trust you—”
“But you do.”
She swallowed.
“Why, Mia—why do you trust me?” Jagger wanted her fully on his side before any of Drucker’s accusations hit the fan, and to do this he needed to understand exactly what made Mia Sanders tick. Such as why she bothered her ring finger, why her unmarried status was such a sore point.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in Mia for other reasons, too, which conflicted him. Because as Jagger looked into her soft blue eyes he felt the first stirrings of guilt, and he knew he was heading straight into a double bind. The more Mia opened to him, the more she helped him, the more difficult it would be to keep up the lies.
“It’s just a gut feeling,” she said quietly, holding his gaze. “But don’t let that get to your head, John Doe. My mother always said I had wretched judgment when it came to men.”
“As in when you tried to marry one?”
She yanked open the door. “Come. Jethro Colton is waiting,” she said, sidestepping his question. “He won’t take his oxygen until he’s seen you.”
But already she’d told Jagger a lot.
* * *
Chief Drucker and Officer Deluca strode down the gravel driveway that led to the stables. Clouds, fat and puce with rain, lowered the sky, and the wind scattered autumn leaves at their boots. Drucker could scent snow in the air. He had little doubt the surrounding mountains would be white by the time these clouds finally lifted.
He checked his watch. It had been almost a full twenty-four hours since he’d first spotted “Ray Cartwright” in the diner. He’d known right off the bat the guy was trouble—gut instinct after being in law enforcement for over thirty years. Bad winds had blown him into Dead River Ranch, like buzzards to a kill.
“You didn’t tell him you’d seen his Montana license,” Deluca said, matching Drucker’s strides as they neared the stables where Officer Karen Locke was still questioning ranch hands. “You didn’t let on that you knew his name was Ray Cartwright, not Cole Colton.”
“Just because his license says he’s Ray Cartwright doesn’t mean he’s not Cole Colton,” Drucker said gruffly. “Or that he’s Ray Cartwright.
“What do you mean?”
Drucker swore to himself. The guy was a numbskull. This was the tradeoff for budget cuts. He had to scrape the bottom of the employment barrel and surround himself with cheap idiots like Pierce Deluca and Karen Locke.
“Here’s the thing, Deluca—if Cole Colton was kidnapped and raised by his abductor, do you think they’re going to call him Cole Colton?”
“Uh, no. I guess not—they’d secure the kid a false ID—a name like Ray Cartwright.”
Drucker grunted.
“So he really could be Cole Colton.”
“It’s possible.”
“Imagine,” said Deluca. “We could be solving a thirty-year-old cold case that even the feds couldn’t crack years ago.”
Yeah, and the las
t thing Drucker wanted was feds nosing around his turf again. Which was exactly why he was being careful in dotting all his ‘i’s’, crossing his ‘t’s’, ensuring his own lab ran the DNA analysis. This was his gig to control now.
“Too bad he can’t remember who attacked him,” Deluca said as they approached the stables.
Dylan Frick was in the paddock to the left of the stable buildings, working a stallion. He wore a black hat, black jeans. Wind whipped the horse’s tail and ruffled its mane as it trotted in a frisky circle around Frick, spurred by the storm electricity in the air. The image of man and horse was striking against the thunderous clouds mushrooming over the mountains. Drucker wondered how long Frick would push that animal before thunder cracked.
“Maybe he can remember, Deluca,” Drucker said, slowing his pace to watch Frick and the horse.
“Why would he lie about it, then?”
“Because he could be a fake, that’s why.” Bonehead. “If he’s not Cole, he could be after Colton’s fortune.”
Officer Karen Locke exited the barn, gave a wave and jogged toward them, wind blowing her short brown hair. Drucker felt Officer Deluca straightening his shoulders beside him like a goddamn cockerel. He wondered whether Deluca and Karen were already sleeping together. Or if it was just a matter of time.
“I still have a few more interviews,” she said as she neared, pink-cheeked and breathless. A few raindrops bombed to the earth, and Drucker motioned that they should talk while heading to the cruisers parked in the circular driveway.
“Trevor Garth gave me a list of who was working the evening shift and night shifts yesterday, so I started with them. Then I—”
“Keep Garth at arm’s length,” Drucker interjected.
Locke glanced up. “You don’t trust him?”
“He was a good cop in his time from what I hear. But he’s too close to the family now—he has vested interest. I don’t want him to be controlling our investigation or interview process in any way, even on a subliminal level.”
The Missing Colton Page 8
