by Cindi Myers
“She didn’t show up for work.”
“At a job where she was rumored to be on her way out.”
The sharp look he sent her told her he knew she’d underestimated him. “I guess you’ve been doing your homework,” she said.
“I have. And everyone on the team has been on the lookout for any sign of Ms. Starling. Despite what you may think, we are taking this very seriously.”
“That’s good to know,” she said. “And thank you for telling me. I know you didn’t have to.”
He nodded. “Back to the problem of whoever threatened you. Maybe there’s something in your notes that you don’t realize is important, but whoever took them does. Maybe something you noticed about Richard Prentice that he doesn’t want someone to find out.”
“Do you really think Richard Prentice is behind this, or is it just that the man has made himself such a thorn in your side?” she asked.
He stabbed at the last bite of egg on his plate. “I already told you, I don’t have any proof that he’s done anything wrong. I just have a feeling in my gut that he’s up to something.”
“Raul Meredes was operating near Prentice’s estate, wasn’t he?” The criminal with ties to a Mexican drug cartel had been killed while attempting to take a college student who was conducting research in the area hostage, but law enforcement officers at the scene swore they hadn’t fired the shot that had ended his life. He’d been done in by a sniper, who fled as soon as Meredes was dead. The task force had linked Meredes to the deaths of several illegal immigrants in the park, who they suspected were part of a marijuana-growing operation and human-trafficking ring operating on public lands. If he’d lived to testify, he might have identified the person in charge of the operation.
“He would have had to cross Prentice’s land to get to his operations,” Graham said. “I don’t believe for a minute that Prentice didn’t know what was going on. The man has guards and cameras all over that place.”
“Maybe he thought it wasn’t his responsibility to report it,” she said. “He’d say he shouldn’t have to do law enforcement’s job for them.”
“He would say that, wouldn’t he?” Graham’s face twisted in an expression of disgust.
“Even if you’re right and he’s responsible for the crimes you’re trying to control, why target me?” she asked. “I was with him for hours at a time for two weeks and he never showed the slightest hostility. And that was months ago. Why suddenly decide I’m a threat?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the pilot who died.”
“Bobby?” A dull pain centered in her chest at the memory of Bobby’s lifeless body slumped in the seat of his plane. “We were just friends. We’d get together to talk, mainly. It wasn’t anything serious.”
“Maybe Prentice doesn’t know that. He might have heard you two were dating and feared Bobby told you something he shouldn’t have. Like what that plane was carrying, and who the cargo was intended for.”
“What was the cargo?”
His expression grew wary. “We’re still looking into that.” He drank the last of his coffee. “If you’re done with breakfast, we’d better go. I need to get to work.”
“So do I.” She carried her plate and cup to the sink. “I can wash up.”
“Leave it. I have a woman who cleans for me. She’ll take care of them. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, though.”
“No, I’ll head back to my place. I’m sure the police have finished there by now.”
He turned toward her, his big body filling the doorway, effectively blocking her in the kitchen. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go there alone,” he said. “Whoever attacked before could be waiting for you.”
“He already took my notes and warned me off. He’s not going to waste any more time with me.” But she sounded more confident than she felt.
“Let me send someone with you. One of my men—”
“No! I do not need a babysitter.” She told herself he was merely concerned, not being deliberately overbearing, and she softened her voice, trying to appear less angry at his suggestion. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine,” she said. “I promise I’ll be careful.”
“I don’t like it.”
“This isn’t about what you like and don’t like. I’m not your responsibility.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue this point, too, but thought better of it. “Call me when you get to your place,” he said. “Let me know you’re okay.” He hesitated, then added, “Please.”
She wondered how much effort it took for him to add that last word. “I’ll call you,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He stepped aside to let her pass and she retrieved her bag from the guest room. He helped her load it and the cat supplies into her Jeep. “Thanks for taking me in last night,” she said. “I think I would have been a lot more upset if I’d been alone when I got that call.” Though she resisted his overprotectiveness, she had to admit his strong, calm presence last night had made her feel safe. She hadn’t worried about anyone getting past him to get to her.
“I hope I’ll see you again under better circumstances.” He put a hand on her arm, his gaze focused on her mouth, as if debating the wisdom of another kiss.
She made the decision for him, leaning in to kiss him. The contact was brief, but intense, heat and awareness spreading through her. His grip tightened on her arm, but he didn’t resist when she pulled away. “I’d better go,” she said.
“Call me,” he reminded.
“I will.” And in the meantime, she’d try to figure out exactly what she felt for Captain Graham Ellison, and what she wanted to do about those feelings.
* * *
“SO THIS CRATE definitely contained a Hellfire missile?” Graham studied the debris they’d collected from the crash site, each piece tagged and cataloged, lined up on folding tables or set against the wall in a room in the trailer that had formerly been used to store supplies. The charred bits of wood and twisted scraps of metal told a story, though it was up to the task force to put that story together in the right order.
“According to the investigator the army sent over from Fort Carson, it did.” Marco consulted a notepad. “They even know the serial number, a partial of which was stenciled on the box. If we find the missile, the numbers on the tail fin should match.”
“Where did the missile come from?” Michael Dance, a tall, dark-haired lieutenant with the Border Patrol, asked. The newest member of the task force, he was also recently engaged to the woman who’d been instrumental in helping them find and target Raul Meredes. Abby was finishing up her masters in botany from the University of Colorado.
“Originally, from a shipment of Hellfires destined for Afghanistan,” Marco said. “But a number of them disappeared along the way, probably to the black market in the Middle East and Africa.”
“So, how did it end up here?” Carmen Redhorse, the sole female member of the task force, with the Colorado Bureau of Investigations, asked.
“Anyone with enough money can buy anything,” Lance said.
“How much do you think one of these would sell for?” Michael nodded toward the busted crate.
Marco shrugged. “Half a mil? Maybe not that much, if you knew the right people.”
Lance leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. “So who do we know around here with that kind of smack?” he asked.
“Being able to afford a missile doesn’t mean Richard Prentice bought one,” Carmen said.
“But the fact that the missile was on a plane flown by a man who was known to work for Prentice gives us reason to question him,” Graham said. He turned to Lance. “What did you find out about Bobby Pace?”
Lance uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. “He keeps his plane in a hangar at
Montrose Regional Airport. The Fixed Base Operations manager saw him there three days ago, checking out his plane, but Bobby said he didn’t have a flight scheduled. I asked if he seemed nervous or anything, but the man I talked to—” he checked his notebook “—Eddie Silvada, said Bobby always seemed nervous lately. Jumpy. Silvada thought it was just because he’d been having financial problems. His kid has cancer and even with insurance, the treatments are expensive.”
Graham nodded. This fit with what Emma had told him.
“Does he have other family in the area?” Carmen asked. “A wife?”
“Ex-wife,” Lance said. “Susan Pace. They’ve been divorced a year and she says they don’t talk much—just about the kid. She doesn’t know what he was up to.”
“A guy in that situation might be willing to fly an illegal cargo for a big payoff,” Carmen said.
“When was the last time he filed a flight plan?” Graham asked.
“Last week,” Lance said. “He flew an oil company photographer over a drilling site so he could get some aerial photos.”
“When was the last time he flew for Prentice?” Michael asked.
“June 10. Almost two weeks ago. Before that he was flying him at least once a week, sometimes twice—to Denver and Salt Lake and other places where Prentice has business interests.”
“Was Prentice using another pilot?” Carmen asked. “Did he and Pace have a falling out?”
“Or were they planning for Pace to pick up this missile and Prentice wanted to put some separation between them and provide himself with an alibi?” Graham asked.
“Do we know where Prentice was when Bobby was shot?” Lance asked.
“When was he shot?” Michael asked.
“The coroner thinks it was early Monday morning,” Graham said. “Five or six hours before we found him.”
“So what was Pace up to between Thursday and Monday?” Marco asked.
“And who was in that cockpit with him?” Michael asked. “Who shot him?”
“Someone could have met the plane at the crash site and shot him there,” Carmen said. “The angle of the gunshot wound doesn’t preclude that.”
“We’ve got a couple of unidentified prints in the cockpit,” Lance said. “Maybe a passenger.”
Marco consulted his notes. “He was shot with a .38 caliber. A handgun, at close range.”
“So someone was in the cockpit with him,” Michael said. “They either flew in with him, or met him at the site and climbed in and shot him.”
“The plane crashed on landing,” Marco said. “The FAA and NTSB investigators are still sifting through the evidence, but something definitely went wrong in the air.”
“Someone could have been following the plane on the ground,” Lance said.
“Tough to do at night, with no roads,” Michael said.
“Tough, but not impossible.” Marco closed his notebook and stuffed it back into his pocket. “What next, boss?”
“I want you and Michael to go back to the airport,” Graham said. “Talk to everyone at Fixed Base Operations—airport personnel, other pilots, anyone who might have seen Pace or talked to him. Find out if his plane was there on Friday or Saturday. Check the surrounding airports, too. Maybe he went to one of them to lay low for a few days.”
“We’ll get right on it.” Michael said.
“Lance, you dig in to Pace’s background. Look at his bank accounts, talk to his neighbors and his ex-wife, any friends.”
“What do you want me to do?” Carmen asked.
“You’re coming with me,” Graham said. “It’s time we paid another visit to Richard Prentice.”
Chapter Five
Before she went home, Emma stopped at an office supply superstore and purchased a laptop to replace the one that had been stolen. She intended to get right to work, restoring her files and reconstructing as much of the missing notes as possible. But when she unlocked the front door and saw the state of her apartment, she formulated a plan B. She needed order and peace before she could focus on work.
She spent her first hour home cleaning up after the crime scene investigators. A lemon-scented spray vanquished fingerprint powder and smudges. If only it could wipe away this sense she had of being violated. Satisfied that order was restored, she made a cup of tea and set up the new laptop on the kitchen table. Though she had a home office, she preferred this bright, sunny room, with the teakettle close by and Janey stationed in her favorite perch on the windowsill overlooking the side yard, with its flower beds and bird feeder.
Thanks to online backup, she was able to restore most of her files within minutes. The articles she was working on, as well as those she’d written in the past, were available once more. Though she’d lost the handwritten notes she hadn’t bothered to transcribe and some secondary sources, such as brochures and copies of reports, she had most of the stolen material here on her computer. If she read through it all, would she be able to figure out what the thief had been after?
She finished up the story of the press conference for the Post, along with information about Bobby and his death that the editor would incorporate into a story another reporter was already working on. Then she turned her attention to her notes on the missing woman, Lauren Starling.
Despite her best efforts, she didn’t have much to go on in the case. The police in Denver had provided polite but unrevealing answers to her questions. The television station where Lauren worked had downplayed her disappearance, at first saying they weren’t concerned then, when Emma had pressed, saying Miss Starling had a history of “health problems” that had forced her once before to take an extended leave of absence.
More digging had uncovered a three-week period the year before when Lauren had been absent from her job as one of the evening news anchors for Channel 9, but that hadn’t turned up any further information, either. The woman wasn’t married or in a serious relationship, and her only relative seemed to be a sister in Wisconsin, who hadn’t returned Emma’s calls.
“I don’t see anything here that would lead anyone to warn me off,” she said out loud to the cat. Talking out loud helped her organize her thoughts, and Janey pricked up her ears and tilted her head as if everything Emma said was fascinating. “So if it’s not the story about Lauren Starling, what is it that’s got this guy so riled?”
She ran her cursor over the lists of stories in her files and stopped when she came to her profile of Richard Prentice. She couldn’t mesh the image of the intelligent, polite and sometimes charming host she’d written about with the criminal overlord Graham suspected him of being. Yes, Prentice held a grudge against the government, though she’d never been able to determine its source. He’d made a name for himself by fighting government regulation, government intervention and government restrictions, a stance that had made him a hero to many.
He was a ruthless businessman, someone who went after what he wanted with a single-mindedness few could match. But while some might justifiably charge that Prentice sometimes acted unethically, ethics weren’t legislated in this country. What some people called immoral was simply good business tactics to others.
If he thought a story Emma was working on would get in his way, would Richard Prentice hire someone to threaten her, in order to make her stop? Maybe.
Would he hire a gunman to take a shot at her? She shook her head. Prentice was driven, but he wasn’t insane.
But Graham didn’t strike her as a man who jumped to conclusions. He’d been in law enforcement a long time. He’d seen crime in all its manifestations. If he suspected someone of wrongdoing, she had to seriously consider the suggestion.
Which meant that if Graham was right, and Prentice had been Raul Meredes’s boss—and thus responsible for the death of half a dozen illegal immigrants—then he was a man who wouldn’t blink at ordering someone to shoot at a
woman he wanted out of the way. Breaking into her apartment and taking a computer and some files paled in comparison to the crimes he’d already committed—or rather, had people commit at his behest. Prentice had the kind of money that insured he never had to get his hands dirty.
She read through the profile she’d written. Richard Prentice had been the middle child in a family with three children. He had an older brother and a younger sister, whom he saw rarely. He had an undistinguished educational career and had married young, only to divorce two years later, with no children. He started out in real estate, buying up old apartment buildings, renovating them and raising the rent.
From there, he’d expanded to other investments—everything from small factories to office parks and even amusement parks. He had a Midas touch when it came to making money in real estate and soon his millions multiplied to billions.
The public knew him best for the transactions that pitted him against the federal government. He had a genius for discovering private property near or surrounded by federal lands. He’d threaten to build an eyesore on the property, to destroy historical artifacts or to construct a noxious business such as a paper mill or a commercial pig farm. He used the press to his advantage, willing to paint himself as the blackest villain in order to stir up public sentiment. Before long, the government would be agreeing to a trade—his precious tract for even more acreage elsewhere, or a large sum of money most grumbled was well over the actual market value of the property.
He’d used the same methods three times successfully. But when he purchased the large tract adjacent to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, he’d met a group of government officials who’d had enough. They refused to pay the price he demanded for the land, and quickly enacted enough restrictions to prevent any plans he had to exploit the property.
Emma suspected this was the source of much of his animosity toward local officials and The Ranger Brigade Task Force. He made a lot of speeches about the sanctity of private property rights and the oppression of parks that charged fees and were supported by taxpayer money. But Emma sensed the true cause of the undercurrent of rage he directed toward the Rangers was rooted in his frustration with being thwarted.