Читать книгу Colorado Crime Scene - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 9

Chapter Three

“See anybody familiar?”

“By this time, everyone here is familiar.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then, no. I don’t see anyone we’re looking for.” Luke stood with his friend and fellow Search Team member, Special Agent Travis Steadman, outside the hotel ballroom where the banquet to kick off the Colorado Cycling Challenge was set to begin in fifteen minutes. A crush of well-dressed men and women filled the hall, the slender athletes mingling with more robust race fans, national media and a good number of security personnel, both plainclothes and in uniform.

Scanning the crowd, Luke quickly identified racers, racing fans, hotel personnel and people he’d passed on the street since his arrival in Denver. But the crowd contained none of the suspects the team had identified from surveillance videos. “What about you?” he asked Travis. “Have you seen any of our suspects?”

The tall, laconic Texan frowned. “Not since I spotted Boy Scout in the airport yesterday. I can’t believe I let him slip away.” The team members had nicknamed the suspect Boy Scout for his slight build and clean-cut good looks.

“He’s been either very good or very lucky so far, but he won’t get away this time,” Luke said. “Not with the team here, actively looking for him.”

Travis nodded. “Everything points to him being here. A friend of mine with the Denver Police said they’ve heard a lot of rumblings that something big is going to go down at the race.”

“Then why not stop the race?” Luke asked. “Why risk lives?”

“The UCI won’t do it,” Travis said. “When nothing bad happened at the Tour de France this summer, they persuaded themselves they were in the clear. Never mind the intelligence we’ve received to the contrary.”

“Obviously, the feds are overreacting, as usual.” Luke repeated the complaint they heard too often in the news.

“The UCI are determined to prove they can run a safe race here in the States,” Travis said.

“You can bet it will come back on us if they don’t.” Luke shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and jingled his change, eyes still sweeping over the crowd. “What if we’re wrong and none of our suspects is the bomber?” he asked. “What if it’s one of the racers? Or a racing official?”

“The Bureau has other people looking at them,” Travis said. “We’re focused on the outliers, the people who don’t have a logical reason to be at every race where there’s been a bomb.”

“The people who we were lucky enough to capture on video,” Luke said. “I worry about the ones who slip past, unnoticed.” He’d let down his guard one time and failed to notice the men who might have the answers to what had happened to his brother. If Luke had been more vigilant, maybe Mark would be home right now with his daughter, instead of “missing, feared dead,” as the notation in the police file of his case indicated.

“Our man is here, I know it,” Travis said. “Focus on what we can do, not what we can’t.”

Good advice, though Luke found it hard to implement. He continued to scan the crowd, then stilled as he recognized a familiar blonde head.

“What do you see?” Travis asked. He leaned closer, following Luke’s gaze, then nudged him in the side. “The woman in the blue dress? Definitely a knockout.”

Morgan had traded her jeans and tank top for a formfitting evening gown of a shimmery, iridescent blue silk. She carried a cocktail in one hand, a small silver evening bag in the other and turned her head from side to side, as if searching for someone.

“She looks familiar,” Travis said. “Someone from our videos?”

“She’s a journalist, writes for racing magazines,” Luke said. At that moment, Morgan turned in his direction and their eyes met. The now-familiar jolt of connection went through him, and he started toward her.

“Hey, Luke. I was hoping I’d see you here.” She touched his arm. “What a crush, huh?”

“Yeah, a lot of people.” But he wasn’t looking at any of them anymore, only her.

“See anyone, uh, interesting?” Her eyes filled in the question behind the question—had he seen her brother?

He shook his head, but before he could say more, Travis inserted himself between them. “Since Luke’s not going to introduce me, I’ll have to do it myself,” he said. “I’m Travis Steadman.”

“Hello, Mr. Steadman.” She shook his hand. “Are you with the FBI, too?”

He grinned. “How did you know?”

“You have that look about you.”

“What kind of look?” Luke asked.

“Very official.”

“It’s an unfortunate side effect of our training,” Travis said.

“Are you two headed to Aspen for the first stage of the race tomorrow?” she asked.

Was she making conversation or asking for another reason? Luke hedged his answer. “I’m not sure. What about you? Do you follow the racers around the state?”

She shook her head. “I wish I could, but it’s not in my budget. As the racers get closer, I’ll make a few day trips, maybe get in a few interviews with the top athletes. But most of the time I can stay in Denver and follow the race on television. At the end of the week, I’ll be in a good position to report on the final stage of the race and the results.”

Luke liked this answer. Unless his superiors changed their minds, the plan was for him and a few others to stay in Denver all week, as well, while the rest of the team followed the racers. Previously, the bomber had waited until the last day of the races to make his move, when the biggest crowd and the most media coverage were in place. But there was no guarantee he’d stick to that pattern. Meanwhile, maybe Luke and Morgan would have the chance to get to know each other better.

The crowd began to move toward the ballroom doors. “I guess it’s time to go in,” Travis said.

“May I?” Luke offered Morgan his arm. “That is, if you haven’t already arranged to sit with someone else.”

“No, um, that would be nice.” She laid her hand on his arm, a touch as light as a butterfly, yet he felt it all the way up to his chest. He was definitely in trouble, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to get out of it. At least not yet.

By the time they made it inside, most of the tables near the front were already full. Travis steered them toward an empty table at the back, near the kitchen. “Not most people’s idea of choice seating,” he said, “but it works better for our purposes.”

“I get it,” she said, as she took the chair Luke held for her. “It’s a good place to watch the rest of the crowd.”

“She’s a fast learner.” Travis took the chair on one side of her, while Luke sat on the other side. “How did you two meet?” Travis asked.

“Um...” She glanced at Luke.

“I recognized her from the surveillance video and started following her,” Luke admitted. “She caught me and demanded to know what I was doing.”

“She caught you?” Travis grinned. “Didn’t we teach you better than that?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our mayor.” The introduction saved Luke from having to come up with a reply. As they ate their salads, a parade of local dignitaries made speeches praising the athletes, the sponsors, the spectators—pretty much everyone, up to and including the sanitation workers.

“Notice how no one’s mentioning the bombings,” Travis said.

“I’m sure it’s in the back of everyone’s mind,” Morgan said. “No sense putting more of a damper on the evening by bringing it up.”

“Where were you when the bombs went off in London and Paris?” Luke asked.

“You were at those races, too?” Travis was immediately more alert, focused on her. Luke sent him a quelling look.

Morgan didn’t appear to notice the exchange. “I was stuck on a shuttle in Paris,” she said. “Furious because I was missing the arrival of the winners at the finish line. By the time I got there, the ambulances were carrying away the injured. I realized how lucky I’d been.”

“And in London?” Travis asked.

“I was at the finish line, interviewing the leading American racer. We’d moved into the doorway of a building across the street to get out of the sun.” Her eyes met Luke’s, beautiful and troubled. “The explosion was so loud. It stunned us. We stared at each other and for the longest moment we didn’t hear anything else. Then someone screamed, and we knew it had happened again.”

He took her hand under the table and squeezed it. “I’m glad you were okay.”

“I knew the two racers who died that day,” she said. “I had interviewed both of them for an article before the race. They were nice guys, funny and easy to talk to.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why anyone would do something like that. Why resort to violence for the sake of violence?”

“Terrorists act to induce fear, and to draw attention to themselves,” Travis said.

“But why bicycle races?” she asked.

“It’s an international sport,” Luke said. “It’s popular and draws big crowds. Or maybe this person has a grudge against the sport or the athletes.”

“A former racer,” she murmured, and he knew she was thinking of her brother.

“It could be anyone.” He squeezed her hand. “First we find them, then we worry about their motives.”

An army of servers arrived to clear the tables and deliver the entrées—some kind of chicken over rice, in a maroon-colored sauce. Luke leaned over and whispered to Morgan. “Any idea what this is?”

“Not a clue.”

Luke ate without tasting the food, one eye on the crowd, the rest of his attention focused on the woman beside him. She was definitely more relaxed now, though with an underlying sadness he understood. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t involved with the bombings, he reminded himself. But his instincts told him no. She was exactly what she appeared to be: a journalist covering the races, and a sister looking for her missing brother. The two of them had more in common than she knew.

A commotion near the front of the room drew his attention. At the table directly in front of the podium, people were standing. “Someone call an ambulance!” a man shouted.

Luke and Travis rose as one, shoving back their chairs. “What’s going on?” Morgan asked, her fork paused, halfway to her mouth.

“We’re going to find out,” Luke said. He pushed his way toward the front table, Travis on his heels. “Security,” he said, flashing his badge when a man tried to block his way.

“What happened?” Travis asked when they reached the table.

“The president has had some kind of attack.” The thin-faced man spoke with a French accent.

“I fear he is dead,” an older woman in a black evening gown said.

“The ambulance is on its way,” the first man said.

Union Cycliste Internationale President Alec Demetrie was a familiar figure to Luke, and to anyone in the professional cycling world. But the inert, ashen-faced man slumped in his chair was almost unrecognizable. Luke felt for a pulse but couldn’t find even a flutter. He met Travis’s gaze and shook his head.

“What happened?” Luke asked the woman, who he recalled was the president’s wife.

She took a deep breath, visibly pulling herself together. “He had a few bites of the entrée and complained of it tasting off. I told him he should send it back to the kitchen, but by then he was already unwell. I tried to get the attention of one of the waiters, then Alec slumped in his chair and...and...” She stared at her husband, unable to say more.

“Paramedics, let us through!”

Luke stepped back to allow two uniformed EMTs to reach the president. He motioned for Travis to follow him some distance away from the table and was surprised when Morgan joined them. “Is he dead?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Luke nodded. “What do you think?” he asked Travis.

“Maybe he had a heart attack,” Travis said. “But I think we’d better make sure someone takes that plate as evidence.”

“I overheard what the woman said about the food tasting odd,” Morgan said. “Do you think someone poisoned him?”

“I think I’d like to check out the kitchen,” Luke said.

“I’ll question the waitstaff.” Travis nodded toward the dozen or so black-clad servers who stood along the back wall.

Morgan turned to Luke. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” He didn’t like to involve civilians in his work. And if there really was a poisoner in the kitchen, the situation could be dangerous.

“You can’t stop me,” she said, then slipped her arm in his. “Besides, you’re less likely to arouse suspicion in the culprit if you look like a diner interested in complimenting the chef, instead of an FBI agent snooping around.”

“I never worry about looking suspicious.” But he covered her hand with his own to keep it in place on his arm.

“Right. Because you’re an FBI agent and whatever you do is right.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I think the attitude comes with the badge.”

“You don’t look too upset about it.”

A sly smile curved her lips. “I like a man with a little attitude.”

At the kitchen door, they had to push their way through a crowd of workers who had gathered to view the excitement in the dining room. “What’s going on?” asked a man in a white chef’s toque and apron.

“One of the diners became ill,” Luke said. He scanned the crowd of workers, searching for a familiar face.

Not all the workers had left their duties to gawk at the door. A dishwasher stood with his back to them, rinsing dishes, seemingly oblivious to the commotion. Another worker carried a trash bin to the back door. As he reached the door, the dishwasher moved to open it for him.

Faster than he could articulate the information, Luke’s brain processed the data his eyes transmitted: young male, early to midtwenties, slight, athletic build, five-eight or five-nine, clean shaven, short brown hair. “You there, by the door,” he called.

The man dropped the trash can and reached behind him. Time slowed as Luke drew his weapon from the holster beneath his jacket. Light glinted off the barrel of the gun the suspect they’d dubbed Boy Scout pulled from his waistband. Morgan screamed, then launched herself toward Luke as shots rang out.

They fell together, Luke propelled backward, crashing against a counter, Morgan sagging against him. Adrenaline flooded his system and he struggled to right himself, gripping his weapon in one hand, pulling Morgan up beside him with the other. “Are you all right?” he demanded, forcing himself to look for the wound he was sure was there.

“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. “I had to stop you.”

“Are you all right?” he asked again. No blood stained her gown, but he knew the man at the door had been aiming right at them.

“I’m fine.” She struggled to pull away from him, but he held her firmly. “I couldn’t let you shoot him.”

The shooter had missed. Luke glanced toward the back door. Both the men who had been there were gone, the door standing open, the trash can on its side.

He gently set Morgan aside and raced to the door. The alley outside was empty, with no sign of the two men, and no apparent place for them to hide. He pulled out his phone and called his boss. “We’ve got a shooter on the loose,” he said as soon as Blessing answered. “Two men took off on foot from the kitchen of the hotel.” He gave a brief description of each man. “I’ll be in touch after I’ve finished assessing the situation here.”

He holstered his weapon and returned to the kitchen. Around him, the voices of the others in the room rose, full of questions and protests. He ignored them and found Morgan, standing where he had left her, shoulders hunched, expression stunned. He slipped his arm around her and guided her to a quiet corner. “Who did you think I was shooting at?” he asked.

“The dishwasher. I know you think he’s guilty, but he’s not. He would never...”

“Shh.” He put two fingers to her lips. “I was aiming for the other man. The one by the trash can. Didn’t you see the gun in his hand?”

Confusion clouded her eyes. “A gun? I wasn’t looking at him. I was watching the dishwasher. He was...”

“I know.” He laid her head against his shoulder and smoothed his hand down her back. “I recognized him, too. He was your brother.”