Colorado Crime Scene

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Colorado Crime Scene Page 14

by Cindi Myers


  Luke blew out a breath and looked around the campsite again. The chairs were lined up precisely beside the tent, which was zipped up tight. Neatly split logs formed a pyramid beside the fire ring. “Were there any signs of a struggle here—other than the smashed phone?”

  “A couple of bullet casings, some scuffs in the dirt—that’s about it. Whoever was here, they were the meticulous type. We haven’t even found any food wrappers or apple cores or other garbage.”

  “Maybe he took it with him when he left, afraid we’d search it for DNA evidence. Can you tell if one person or two was living here?”

  “There’s only one sleeping bag in the tent, but maybe our shooter took the other one with him. There are two chairs, and enough supplies for half a dozen people.”

  A trio of men in bombproof suits filed down the path to the clearing. “What are they doing here?” Luke asked.

  “The dog indicated explosives in that footlocker, so we thought we’d better bring in some experts before we tried to move it.” He pointed to the tent and this time Luke noticed the black footlocker in its shadow.

  “Come on.” Blessing nudged his arm. “We’ll leave them to it.” He walked away and Luke followed, all the way down the path to the dirt lot where they’d left their cars. Blessing leaned back against his black Camry with the government plates and faced Luke, arms folded across his burly chest, an expression on his face that reminded Luke of the look his father had given him when he confronted him about a detention in school. “I heard you had an interesting night,” the commander said.

  The Denver police must have shared the information about the incident on the 16th Street Mall. “You heard about the car that tried to run me down,” he said.

  “I also heard who you were with.”

  Luke stiffened but said nothing. Blessing was sure to quash any defense he made.

  “Your personal life is none of my business,” Blessing said. “Except when it might jeopardize a case. What were you doing with Morgan Westfield last night?”

  An image of a naked Morgan, beneath him in bed, flashed into his head. The scent of her still clung to him. The memory of her touch was still imprinted on him. But he wasn’t about to share that with his boss. “We didn’t discuss the case,” he said.

  “Agent Renfro, I shouldn’t have to tell you that you cannot be involved with the sister of a suspect in this case.” He held up a hand to cut off Luke’s objection. “We don’t know Scott Westfield’s role in all this, but he’s clearly up to his neck in something.”

  “Danny was chasing him,” Luke said. “He may have fired shots at him. That doesn’t sound like they were on the same side.”

  “Maybe they were partners and they got into an argument,” Blessing said.

  Luke looked at the ground. He couldn’t argue with his boss’s logic, but he resisted the idea that Morgan was a danger to him or to this case.

  “Has Ms. Westfield heard from her brother since he left the hospital?” Blessing asked.

  “He called her yesterday afternoon, before she talked to me. He told her she was in danger and that it wasn’t safe for him to see her.”

  “So she called you and told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He told her to stick close to her cop friend—to me.” The memory of this detail strengthened his confidence in her, and in Scott. He wouldn’t have told her to stick close to the cops if he was working against them.

  “Did he say that because you’d keep her safe, or because he wanted her to keep an eye on you?” Blessing’s gaze was shrewd, assessing.

  Luke stifled a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear the conversation. I only know what she told me.” And what he believed in his gut.

  “We’ll have someone watch her to see if she contacts him, but you have to stay away,” Blessing said. “If you don’t, I’ll send you back to Washington so fast you’ll get a nosebleed.”

  Luke squared his shoulders and looked the commander in the eye. “Yes, sir.” No matter how much it would hurt to break the news to Morgan, he’d sworn an oath that, if necessary, he would forfeit his life in service to his country. Right now, that meant forfeiting the desires of his heart, as well.

  * * *

  THE FIFTH DAY of the Colorado Cycling Challenge took the riders from the small community of Woodland Park, outside of Colorado Springs, to the popular ski town of Breckenridge. Morgan sat on the end of the bed in her hotel room and watched French rider Gabrielle Martiniere claim the yellow jersey for that day’s stage, as crowds of onlookers pressed around him, waving French flags and shouting in a cacophony of languages.

  She switched off the television and stared at her laptop screen, where she managed to write a halfhearted summary of that day’s action for the blog. The race had been an exciting one, and Martiniere’s surge in the last few miles to take the lead had been a surprising development, the kind of thing that was sure to have race fans talking into the night.

  But she felt none of that excitement now, and worried her lack of enthusiasm would come through to her readers. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t distract her mind from worrying about Scott and Luke.

  She hadn’t heard anything from Scott since their cryptic conversation yesterday afternoon. Her calls to his phone had gone straight to voice mail. Luke hadn’t contacted her or answered her calls, either. Of course, he was busy. When the man you loved was occupied with saving the world you didn’t expect him to call you every hour to whisper sweet nothings. But Luke’s attitude when he left her last night had been so odd. She could practically see him erecting an emotional wall between them.

  She’d scoured the papers and internet for any news that might explain Luke’s silence but had come up with nothing. The absence of any news about the search for the bomber struck her as a little creepy. The Union Cycliste Internationale had pointedly refrained from any mention of the terrorist activities that had marred the Paris and London races. From their press kits to television interviews granted by UCI officials, they emphasized that the races were safe and that the United States was taking extraordinary security measures to protect both racers and spectators. Then they quickly changed the subject, preferring to talk about the scenic route, the exciting competition and the integrity of the race rather than the horror that made Morgan more and more uneasy as the race neared its finish.

  The press had, for the most part, gone along with the charade of pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary about this race. The cause of Alec Demetrie’s death had not been released and authorities had allowed speculation that the UCI president had died of natural causes to flourish. If asked about the bombings or any fear they might have for their safety, the racers brushed off or outright ignored the question. Spectators always expressed optimism; perhaps anyone who was afraid stayed home. And certainly the government wasn’t saying anything. Maybe they took the view that the fewer people who knew about their activities, the less the chance that information would get back to the wrong person.

  She checked the clock. Almost five. Was it too much to hope that Luke would call and ask her to dinner? Or that they’d be able to spend another night together? She hated this aspect of new relationships. Should she wait for him and risk being seen as dependent or clingy, or assert her independence and maybe come across as cold and indifferent? She wanted to be the serene, mature woman who didn’t need a man to complete her, but the truth was, she wanted to be with Luke. She wanted to make love to him, but she also simply enjoyed his company, talking with him, working alongside him, simply being in his presence. That didn’t make her weak or dependent. Maybe it only made her in love.

  In love. A crazy idea, considering the short time they’d known each other. But how else to explain the closeness she felt to him? She wasn’t a person who gave her heart easily, but someho
w she’d handed it over to Luke Renfro without question.

  She snatched up her phone and scrolled to his number before she could change her mind. This time, he answered on the third ring. “Morgan. I was just going to call you,” he said.

  Then why didn’t you? she thought, but she refrained from voicing the snarky question. “Are you busy with work?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Really busy.” Silence stretched; she thought she heard traffic noises behind him.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  Instead of answering her question, he said, “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”

  His tone of voice, as if he had to force out every syllable, as much as the words themselves, sent a shock wave through her. She couldn’t breathe. “Scott?” she managed to whisper.

  “As far as I know, he’s fine. This isn’t about him. At least, not directly.”

  “Then what is it? What’s going on?” He didn’t sound like himself, the confident, in-control agent. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I can’t see you anymore. Or at least, not until this investigation is over.”

  At first, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “I can’t talk about it. I’ve said too much already. Just—I’m sorry. I’ve asked the local police to keep an eye on you, just in case. I have to go now. Take care.”

  He hung up. She stared at her phone, wishing more than anything that the technology was available that would allow her to reach right through the screen and shake him. She hit the redial button, but her call went straight to voice mail. “Coward,” she said out loud, though she could think of a dozen less-complimentary names to hurl at him.

  She tossed the phone onto the bed and began to pace, replaying the conversation over and over in her head. One of her journalism professors, a long time ago, had told her that the key to analyzing an interview was to look at what wasn’t said as well as what was said. Luke hadn’t sounded angry or indifferent just now. In fact, he’d spoken like a man who was struggling to keep it together. Not having visual clues didn’t help, but she couldn’t equate the man she’d come to know with a cad who would toss a woman aside after he’d spent the night in her bed.

  No, this had to have something to do with his work. He’d said he couldn’t see her until after the investigation. Maybe his boss had learned he’d spent the night with her and threatened to fire him if he didn’t give her up. As romantic as it might be to picture a man giving up his job for her, that wasn’t a particularly smart or practical thing for a guy to do. And when your job was protecting the country, giving it up for almost any reason might even be seen as a dereliction of duty.

  Great. The man she loved was...maybe...putting the safety of his country before his personal feelings? This didn’t make her feel any better. Why couldn’t she have fallen for a chef or scientist or even a fellow journalist? None of them would be able to get away with canceling a date because they had to save lives instead.

  And what about when the investigation was over? Would this fire between them have cooled to the point where he would have lost interest?

  Or what if she was wrong about all of this and he was really just being a jerk? She kicked the desk, making her computer jump and her toe throb. Men! Why did they have to make her life so difficult?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Scott waited across from the convenience store until the parking lot was empty and he was sure the clerk was alone. The midday sun beat down on the pavement and he could smell the mouthwatering aroma of onions and roasting lamb from the Middle Eastern restaurant next door. He remembered eating shish kebab and flatbread at a similar place with Morgan one of the last times he’d seen her in Austin. He’d teased her about the young waiter, who flirted with her; the memory of her laughter brought a sharp sadness to his chest. Would the two of them ever be so comfortable with each other again?

  Sure that the coast was clear, he crossed the street slowly, just a dude strolling over to get a soda and a bag of chips. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched to hide his face, aware of the camera aimed at the door.

  Inside the store, a plump older woman with a blue streak in her hennaed hair looked up at him. “Hello,” she said, regarding him warily. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. You sell phones?”

  She pointed to a display of pay-as-you-go phones on a rack by the register. He scanned the display, skipping over the more expensive smartphones and settling for one that would allow him to text and call, for fifteen dollars. He laid it on the counter. “I’ll take this one.”

  “You need to buy minutes to activate it,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah.” He knew that. He chose the cheapest air-time card—an hour for twenty dollars. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and checked his cash. This wasn’t going to leave him much for food or anything else until he could work again.

  The woman scanned the phone and the card. “You know how these work?” she asked, not as if she thought he was an idiot, but because she had that motherly attitude he’d seen in a lot of older women.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” he said, then added, “Thanks.”

  “That’ll be thirty-seven dollars and fifty-two cents,” she said.

  He handed over his last two twenties and waited while she made change, his foot bouncing.

  “You okay?” she asked. “You look kinda pale.”

  “Yeah. I’m just in a hurry.”

  “All right.” She studied him. Maybe she was trying to memorize his face. Or maybe she was remembering seeing his face on the news—if the police had put it out there. He hadn’t seen a television since he’d left the hospital, so he didn’t know. He grabbed the phone and card and his change and ran out of the building. When he looked back, the clerk had picked up her phone and was holding it to her ear, staring after him.

  He made himself walk along the sidewalk until he was out of sight of the store, then he raced into an alley between a dentist’s office and a women’s resale boutique. With shaking hands, he tore the phone from the package. If the clerk had turned him in to the police, he might not have much time. The plastic that encased the phone sliced the side of his hand, drawing blood. He sucked on the wound, which made him think of vampires. He looked around the shadowed alley. If he was a vampire, this would be the kind of place he’d hang out.

  His hands shook so badly he had to try half a dozen times to punch in the right code numbers to activate the phone. The charge showed only 25 percent power, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. It wasn’t as if he had anyplace to plug it in out here. Maybe later he could find a library and hang out there for a while.

  He slipped the phone card into his pocket, in case he needed the numbers again, and felt the punch card of medication he’d brought with him from the hospital. He couldn’t remember when he’d last taken his pills. Without the phone alarm to remind him, he had lost track.

  He wished now he’d gotten a Coke or some juice from the convenience store. Swallowing the pills without any liquid was hard, but he made himself do it. Then he took a deep breath and punched in Morgan’s number.

  One, two, three... By the fifth ring he was ready to hang up when she answered, sounding out of breath. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” he said. Then, in case the one word wasn’t enough for her to recognize him, he added “It’s me. Scott.”

  “Scott!” The way her voice soared, as if she was so happy to hear from him, made his chest tight. No one else ever greeted him that way; he realized how much he’d missed it. “It’s so good to hear from you,” she continued. “I’ve been so worried. Are you okay? Where are you? Can I see you? Do you need anything?” The words rushed out, like air escaping from a punctured balloon. The anxiety in her voice ratcheted up his own nervousness, and he bounced his leg again. He felt
as if he had Ping-Pong balls ricocheting off the inside of his chest and stomach.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Of course I’m going to worry, as long as I don’t know where you are and what you’re doing.” Wind noise filled his ear, or maybe she was shifting the phone around. He heard the murmur of voices, as if she was in some public place. “Scott, please be honest with me,” she said. “Are you in trouble? If you are, I promise to help you, but you have to level with me.”

  “I’m not in trouble.” At least, he didn’t think he was. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d left the hospital before he was supposed to, but that was because Danny was after him.

  “Have you seen Danny?” Morgan asked.

  He hesitated. How much should be tell her?

  “Scott, have you seen Danny?” she repeated.

  “I heard you.” He chewed the inside of his mouth, struggling with how much to tell her. But that’s why he had called, wasn’t it? “We had a fight. I went to his camp to talk to him—to tell him to leave you alone. He tried to shoot me.”

  “Scott!” Her voice rose, too loud in his ear.

  He held the phone away. “Don’t yell at me.”

  “I wasn’t yelling at you, I just... Are you hurt?”

  “No. He missed.” He stood up straighter. He felt good about that. He’d been too fast. Too clever. Or maybe Danny was just a lousy shot. “I ran away.”

  “Where are you calling me from? This isn’t your number.”

  “He smashed my phone. I had to get a new one. Listen, I don’t want to talk about my phone.” He needed to conserve his minutes. “I called to tell you to be careful. Danny is really bad. I didn’t realize how bad. He’s got a gun and...and I think he might want to hurt racers. He acts like a fan, but I don’t think he really is.”

  “Scott, do you know anything about the bombs that went off at the races in London and Paris? Was Danny involved in that?”

 

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