by Cindi Myers
A flash of light to his left distracted him, and reluctantly he lifted his head to look around, a sleeper emerging from a wonderful, compelling dream. He saw nothing but the array of news vans and reporters across the street, though he couldn’t shake the sense that something had happened that he should have paid attention to.
“I’d better go. Good night.”
She slipped from his arms and he curled his fingers into his palms to keep from pulling her back. She gave him a shy smile, then turned and walked away, hips swaying in the blue silk as she walked briskly down the sidewalk. He watched until she’d disappeared in a crowd at the corner, then turned toward the hotel to face a long night of unanswered questions.
* * *
THE MEMBERS OF Search Team Seven assembled the next morning in a conference room in the hotel that had hosted the banquet the night before. Luke slid into the seat next to Travis and nodded a silent greeting to the other team members. They all looked as weary and frustrated as he felt. Across from Luke, Gus Mathers stared at his phone, his eyes half-closed behind his black-framed hipster glasses. Next to him, Jack Prescott’s burly frame looked too big for the spindly folding chair. Farther down the table, the youngest members of the team, Wade Harris and Cameron Hsung, cupped hands around the takeout coffee they’d brought in. Even in their regulation suits, they managed to look like the college students they had been until only a few months before.
The door opened and Ted Blessing strode in. He’d flown in on a red-eye and wore the look of a man who wasn’t happy about having his sleep disturbed. In his midforties, with mud-brown skin and closely cropped hair that showed no sign of gray, he favored tailored suits and had the ramrod-straight spine of the military officer he’d been before joining the Bureau. He laid a tablet computer on the conference table in front of him and studied his team, all of whom were now sitting up straight and at attention.
“How is it that this man keeps getting away, when there are six of you and only one of him?” Blessing asked.
The others cast furtive glances at one another. It wasn’t a question that had a good answer—or any answer. As usual, Jack was the first to speak. “He’s got to have accomplices, helping him get away,” he said. “Someone with a car waiting for him, and a safe place for him to hole up.”
“We’re circulating his picture to all local law enforcement,” Wade said. “They’ll be on the lookout for him.”
“He’ll dye his hair or put on glasses and they won’t recognize him if they trip over him,” Cameron said. Such disguises rarely fooled the recognizers on the team—they memorized facial composition, mannerisms and other details that couldn’t be hidden so easily.
“I don’t want some local cop to nail him,” Gus said. “I want to nail him.”
The others murmured agreement. Blessing sat, hands clasped on the table in front of him. “Let’s go over what we know so far. Agent Steadman?”
Travis referred to the tablet in front of him. “We know our suspect was going by the name Danny in the hotel kitchen, but we’re pretty confident that isn’t his real name. We spoke with the day labor organization that supplies temp workers to the hotel. The supervisor tells me that a Danny Robinson, a sometimes homeless man with a history of alcoholism, was the man who was supposed to report for work in the hotel kitchen that night.”
“His body was found wrapped in a tarp and stuffed in a culvert near Confluence Park, not far from downtown Denver.” Cameron picked up the story. “His throat was cut. We believe our suspect murdered him and took the hotel job in his stead, in order to get close to UCI officials.”
“The chicken that President Demetrie ate tested positive for potassium cyanide,” Jack said. “We should have the autopsy results later this morning, but it looks like that’s what did him in. There was enough potassium cyanide in the dish that only a few bites would result in death within minutes.”
“Did cyanide show up on any of the other plates?” Blessing asked.
Jack shook his head.
“So President Demetrie was definitely the target,” Gus said.
“We don’t think so,” Travis said. “The covered plates with the entrées were stacked on trays and sent out by table. So the poisoner had a reasonably good chance of knowing that this plate would go to one of the tables of dignitaries seated at the front of the room, nearest the dais. But without the cooperation of the server, there was no way to be certain who would get that particular plate.”
“So maybe the server helped him out,” Blessing said.
“I spoke to the man who served that table,” Travis said. “He’s a longtime employee at the hotel. He says he never met our suspect, and witnesses back up his story. We’re still investigating, but if our suspect had help, I don’t think it was the server.”
“What about the other guy in the kitchen—the dishwasher?” Cameron asked. “He and the suspect left together, right?”
Luke shifted and all eyes turned to him. “The dishwasher’s name is Scott Westfield,” he said. “He’s a former pro cyclist who had to retire due to a medical condition. Since then, he’s traveled around, taking a series of odd jobs. He sometimes photographs races.”
“What kind of medical condition?” Blessing asked.
“He was diagnosed with schizophrenia.”
“So, we’ve got a former racer, possibly upset at being made to retire, who’s mentally unstable.” Jack ticked the facts off on his fingers. “Sounds like the kind of guy who’d be happy to help our suspect. Maybe he’s even the one behind the bombings and our suspect is secondary.”
“I don’t think so.” Luke hadn’t meant to speak up in Scott’s defense. After all, the evidence pointing to his involvement in the bombings was pretty damning. But Morgan’s faith in her brother had swayed him. “I can’t find any connection between Westfield and our suspect. Westfield had been working in the hotel kitchen a couple of days before our suspect hired on, and the rest of the staff didn’t notice any particular friendship between them.”
“That kind of thing is easy enough to hide,” Wade said. “Westfield gets the job first to scope the place out, then our suspect joins him. The fact that they left together tells me they were working as a team.”
“Maybe,” Luke conceded. “We need to find Westfield and question him.”
“Oh, we’ll have plenty of questions for him,” Blessing said. He leaned forward. “But let’s not lose sight of the bigger picture here. We’ve got some intel pointing to a possible terrorist cell, possibly based here in Colorado.”
“What kind of intel?” Luke asked, relieved that the focus had shifted away from Morgan’s brother, at least for the moment.
“Some intercepted phone conversations that seem to point to a plan to sabotage transportation hubs in the region, and a report of suspicious activity at a private airport near Denver that was called in by a concerned citizen.” Blessing’s expression grew more grim. “Nothing concrete, but it’s worth paying attention to. We’ve got people working to follow these leads. For now, your job is to focus on finding our suspect and Scott Westfield. Don’t let them get away this time.” He stood, signaling the meeting was at an end, and the others rose, also. “Someone bring me the local papers. I want to see what the press is saying about all this.”
As Luke turned toward the door, Blessing stopped him. “Agent Renfro, stay and talk to me for a minute.”
Travis gave him a sympathetic look as he filed out with the others, leaving Luke alone with his commander. “Sit down.” Blessing indicated the chair to his right.
Luke sat. He could guess what this was about. Discharging his weapon in public was serious enough to warrant a private briefing if not disciplinary action. Filing a report about the incident was at the top of his to-do list today.
Blessing fixed him with a steady, calm gaze. “I know what others say happened in the kitche
n last night, but I want to hear it from you. I expect your written report later, but tell me now, in your own words.”
Luke shifted, as if there was any way to get comfortable on the receiving end of a grilling from his boss. “After the president’s death, I went to the kitchen to question the staff,” he said.
“You weren’t alone.”
“No, sir.”
“Witnesses say you were with a woman. Who was that?”
“Her name is Morgan. Morgan Westfield. She’s a magazine writer.”
He could sense Blessing grow more alert, like a hound on the scent of a quarry. “Any relation to the dishwasher?”
“He’s her brother. Though I didn’t know that when I went into the kitchen.”
“How do you know Ms. Westfield?”
“We met in the lobby of her hotel the day before yesterday. I recognized her from some of the surveillance videos from the races and decided to follow her.”
“Do you think she’s involved in the bombings somehow? Perhaps she and her brother are part of this cell we’re looking for.”
Luke shook his head. “I followed her because I wasn’t sure of anything at that point. I just wanted to check her out.” Not the entire truth but close enough. “But now I’m convinced she was at the races for her job and nothing else.”
“And you know this how?”
“Everything she told me checked out. She’s at the races on assignment for Road Bike Magazine, and she’s blogging for a website, CyclingPro.com.” Though he hadn’t contacted anyone at the magazine to verify that. Was he letting his attraction to Morgan—his desire for her to be innocent—get in the way of doing his job?
“What was she doing with you last night?”
“We sat together at dinner. She followed me into the kitchen.”
Blessing’s face betrayed no emotion, but Luke could sense his skepticism. “Go on.”
“I recognized the man who was carrying out the garbage as one of our suspects. I spoke to him and he pulled a gun. I pulled my weapon and returned his fire. He fled out the door.”
“Is that all?”
“No, sir.” The truth was bound to come out sooner or later, if it hadn’t already. Half a dozen people had been working in the kitchen last night and team members had interviewed all of them. “As I pulled my weapon, Ms. Westfield shoved me out of the way. We both fell to the floor, which gave the suspect time to flee.”
“Why did she push you?”
“She didn’t understand why I was shooting. She saw my gun and panicked.”
“Or she knew exactly what you were doing and acted to stop you.”
“Yes, sir. That is a possibility.” One he couldn’t idly set aside. He was trained to be skeptical and suspicious. He couldn’t set that training aside because of his attraction to Morgan.
“You realize what you’ve done, Renfro?” Blessing’s voice held a sharp edge; Luke felt the cut. He said nothing but forced himself to look his boss in the eye.
“At worst, you’ve become involved with the very person you’re supposed to bring to justice. At best, you’ve endangered a civilian and jeopardized this investigation.”
“Yes, sir.” Luke held himself rigid.
“I expect better of you. You’re not some randy teenager controlled by your hormones. If this woman is guilty, she’s playing you for a fool and possibly using you to help her commit acts of terrorism. If she’s innocent, she’s interfering with a critical investigation. You’re here to work, Renfro, not enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
A knock on the conference room door preempted anything else Blessing was about to say. “Come in,” he barked.
Wade entered the room. As he passed, he gave Luke a sympathetic look. “You asked to see the local papers,” he said to Blessing.
“Sir, may I get back to work now?” Luke asked, seeing his chance for escape.
“Yes, go,” Blessing said. He unfolded the first newspaper on the stack. “But remember your focus here. Don’t let yourself get distracted again.”
“Yes, sir.” Luke started toward the door. He had his hand on the knob when Blessing barked his name again.
“Renfro!”
Luke turned, heart pounding. “Yes, sir?”
“How do you explain this?” Blessing turned the paper to face Luke, who stared at the picture at the bottom of the page, of him and Morgan standing in the bus shelter, wrapped in a passionate kiss. Love Amidst the Chaos, read the caption.
Chapter Five
Morgan logged out of Skype after the UCI press conference. Interim President Pierre Marceau had delivered an impassioned address about the importance of continuing to uphold the honorable tradition of their sport in the wake of tragedy. He would not disrespect the athletes who had worked so hard to get here or disappoint the fans who had rallied around them. The death of President Demetrie might not even be connected to the previous bombings. It would be a mistake to overreact to what might only be an unfortunate accident. But even if the president’s tragic demise was the work of those who had set out to destroy racing, the UCI would not give in to the threats of terrorists. The cycling community was stronger than the faceless cowards who had targeted past races. With heightened security and eternal vigilance they would all emerge victorious from this race.
The crowds gathered in Aspen for the start of the race had cheered wildly at the end of the speech, and the racers had set off on the first of what would be seven stages covering almost eleven hundred kilometers through some of Colorado’s most scenic and challenging terrain. They would arrive back in Denver on Sunday for the final stage to determine the winner. Morgan had agreed to write a short article for a bicycling website about the death of UCI President Demetrie, and another piece about this morning’s press conference, but she wasn’t anxious to get started on that work. She couldn’t sit still in front of a computer, knowing that Scott was so close—almost within her reach.
And she needed to find him before Luke or one of his fellow FBI agents arrested him for something he hadn’t done. No way was Scott a terrorist. No matter what schizophrenia had done to his brain, she refused to believe her brother would ever harm anyone else.
At the hotel where the banquet had been held, she bypassed the front entrance and made her way to the alley and the door into the kitchen. The scents of cooking onion, garlic and peppers engulfed her as she stepped inside, making her mouth water. The chaos of the previous evening had been replaced by a different kind of busyness. Sometime in the night, workers had cleared away all evidence of the police presence and restored order to the kitchen. The chef, Gary, presided over an army of men and women who chopped, sautéed, plated and cleared dishes for late-breakfast or early-lunch diners and room service orders.
But Scott was nowhere among the crowds of workers. A young woman with spiked hair had assumed his place in front of the commercial dishwasher. Trying to hide her disappointment, Morgan made her way into the kitchen. When Gary saw her, a grin split his face. “Hey, girl,” he said. “What brings you back here this morning? You looking for a job?”
She managed a smile and shook her head. “I was hoping to see Scott,” she said.
“He hasn’t come in yet, and we could really use the help. We got behind, what with dealing with the cops and all.” His sunny expression clouded. “I can’t believe those clowns. They practically accused me of poisoning that man. As if I would do something like that.”
“So he was poisoned?” She moved to join him in front of the massive commercial range, where he sautéed mounds of chopped vegetables in a large skillet.
“Cyanide.” Gary’s eyes widened. “Can you believe? Nasty stuff.”
“That is bad.” And it explained why Monsieur Demetrie had perished so quickly. “Say, Gary, do you know how I can get in touch with Scott?
Where he lives or a phone number or anything?”
“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t.” He added the contents of a measuring cup to the skillet and clouds of fragrant steam momentarily obscured his face. “I don’t ask too many questions about the people who work for me,” he said. “It’s usually better that way.”
That was probably why Scott had been drawn to kitchen work, she thought. He’d always been a very private person, and more so since his diagnosis.
“You have good timing,” Gary said, looking over her shoulder. “Look who just walked in.”
She turned in time to see Scott tying on a big white apron. He didn’t glance in her direction—or at anyone else, for that matter, but moved to the sink and began rinsing the pile of dishes there.
She hurried to his side. “Hi, Scott,” she said softly, afraid of frightening him away.
He cut his eyes in her direction and quickly looked away.
“It’s good to see you,” she said. He looked the same as he always had—thin and wiry, a bicyclist’s body even two years after he’d stopped competing. “How have you been?”
“Okay.” She waited for him to ask about her or their father and stepmother, but he didn’t.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “Dad and Nicole miss you, too. I’d love it if you’d come home with me for a visit.”
He jerked his head back and forth, almost violently. “No. Won’t go back.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she said. “But why wouldn’t you want to come home, just for a visit? To let Dad and Nicole know you’re okay.”
“I’m not supposed to go home. The demons tell me not to.”