Lawman Protection

by Cindi Myers

  “Why now more than any other time?” he asked. Give the man credit; he wanted to know all the facts before he made a decision.

  “The lawsuit is one reason, but I’d also like to know what you have to say about Bobby Pace’s death. I know he flew for you sometimes.”

  “Pace hadn’t made a flight for me for some time.” The chill had definitely returned to his voice.

  “Then you need to let people know that, because I’ve even heard rumors some people think you might have had something to do with his murder.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  As if she would ever reveal a source. “Oh, you know how pilots are—they sit around between flights drinking coffee and spinning wild theories.”

  He fell silent and she let him stew, fingers crossed that his desire to defend himself in the press would outweigh the advice of his lawyers to keep quiet. “All right, I can give you an hour or so,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Be here at ten. I’ll leave your name with the guards.”

  “Thank you so much. You won’t regret this, I’m sure.”

  She dressed carefully for her meeting with the billionaire the next morning, pulling out all the stops, with new sexy red heels and a formfitting red-and-gray dress in the retro bombshell style she favored. She looked professional and sexy, a combination she was sure appealed to a man like Prentice. With Graham occupied at Ranger headquarters, she was able to make a quick getaway, driving the rental car her insurance company had provided, since her vehicle had been destroyed in the fire that consumed her house and garage.

  “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Wade.” The guard at the ranch gate greeted her with a grin. During her many visits to the ranch while she was writing her profile of Prentice, she’d gotten to know all of the guards.

  “How are you, Jack?” She gave him her brightest smile. “It’s good to see you again, too.”

  “Mr. Prentice said to bring you on up.”

  She followed Jack to the front of the house where another bodyguard—a new guy whose name she didn’t know—showed her into the library where Prentice liked to greet visitors.

  He kept her waiting ten minutes, about what she’d expected. He liked to drive home the point that he was a busy man who was doing his visitors a great favor by making time for them. She was happy to play along, and greeted him warmly. “Mr. Prentice, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to speak with me,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

  He took both her hands in his and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Only for you, Emma.” He motioned to twin armchairs before the unlit fireplace. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  He picked up a phone and ordered the coffee, then they settled into the chairs. If he’d been under any kind of additional strain these past few weeks, she couldn’t see it in his face, which, if anything, was more relaxed than she remembered. Had he had plastic surgery? “You look happy,” she said.

  “I do? I suppose I am happy.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “Do I need a reason? I mean, why wouldn’t I be happy with all of this?” He spread his arms to indicate the wealth and luxury that surrounded them.

  “I don’t know. Forgive me for being forward, but you almost look like a man in love.”

  He laughed—not a mocking sound, but one of genuine contentment. “You’re very perceptive,” he said. “But I’m not prepared to talk about my private life today.”

  “Not even a hint?”

  “You can say that I’m happy. That should be enough.”

  The coffee arrived and she waited while Richard poured and added cream and sugar to her cup—just the way she liked it. She decided to broach the subject of real interest to her. “You certainly don’t look like a man who had anything to do with a murder,” she said.

  His expression sobered. “I was shocked to learn of Bobby’s death, but as I told you on the phone, he hasn’t worked for me for several weeks.”

  “Why is that? I assume you still need a pilot.”

  “Bobby was very stressed by some personal issues—his son’s illness, the aftermath of his divorce. Unfortunately, that led to some behaviors that made me less willing to trust him as my pilot.”

  “What kind of behaviors?”

  “He drank more than he should. Understandable, but drinking and flying definitely don’t mix.”

  She’d never seen Bobby indulge in more than a couple of beers, but she couldn’t claim to have known him really well. And he was under the kind of stress that drove a lot of people to self-medicate with drugs or alcohol. “Do you have any idea who he was working for when he died?” she asked.

  “None. We hadn’t been in contact since I told him I’d have to let him go.”

  “I know you’re a man who has his finger on the pulse of many things. I was hoping you’d heard a rumor or gossip, maybe about someone who was looking for a pilot who would be willing to do a job that wasn’t necessarily legal.”

  “Why do you think I would know about illegal activities?” he asked.

  She smiled her most disarming smile. “Some of the people who admire you the most do so because they see you as a rebel protesting against unjust laws. Though you might not break the law yourself, some of them do, and they might tell you things, or even try to pull you into their illegal schemes, perhaps as a way of gaining cachet for their activities.”

  “You overestimate any contact I have with those types of ‘fans’,” he said. “I abhor extremism in any form.”

  “So you hadn’t heard any rumors about Bobby.”

  “Everyone knew he was desperate for money. That’s probably all anyone who was looking for a pilot needed to know. But I hadn’t heard of anyone in particular who needed such a pilot.”

  “How did Bobby take the news that you wouldn’t be using him anymore?” she asked.

  “He was upset, but he understood. I wished him well.”

  “Poor Bobby. I never knew anybody with such hard luck.”

  “You knew him?” Prentice’s eyebrow twitched—a nervous tic she’d noted before.

  “We went out a few times.” She shrugged. “It was just as you said—he had a lot of personal problems, the kind of thing that leads people to drink too much. But he was a great guy. I was really wishing he’d catch a break.”

  “I felt the same way.” He set aside his still-full coffee cup. “I’ve set up a fund for his boy. At least the child and his mother won’t have to worry anymore about those medical bills Bobby was always struggling to pay.”

  “You did that for him?” She was touched, though she didn’t want to show it.

  He nodded. “It was the least I could do. After all, he did work for me at one time, and I make it a point to take care of my own.”

  “I’ll be sure our readers know that.” She set aside her own cup and picked up her notebook. Even though she’d set her digital recorder on the table between them, she liked to have written backup in case the electronics failed her. “So, on to this lawsuit. What have the Rangers been doing that you feel is harassment?”

  “It would be easier to ask what they haven’t been doing. They’ve come to my house several times, questioning me. Every time a crime occurs within the park, they seem to consider me as their number one suspect. They drive by my gates at all hours and fly over my property. I’m sure they have me under surveillance. Tell me, would you want to live that way?”

  “No one would. Of course, that is a public road in front of your ranch gate—one that leads to the Ranger headquarters. And can you be sure the planes that fly over are theirs?”

  He scowled. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  “Not at all. But it’s important for me to preserve my position as an unbiased reporter. I have to as
k the tough questions and play devil’s advocate, even when I don’t want to.” Most of the time, truth be told, she relished the role, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He relaxed a little. “I think it’s enough to say that I have sufficient proof of harassment to justify my lawsuit.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, about his business interests and his long-held views against restrictions on public land and government interference in private property rights. All things she’d heard before, but she let him ramble, looking for any indication that he’d become more radical or unstable. But he seemed the same rational, if arrogant and stubborn, man she’d profiled months before.

  After fifty minutes, he made a show of checking his watch. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to wrap this up,” he said. “I have another appointment.”

  “Of course. I just have a few more questions. Do you know Lauren Starling?”

  He studied her, his gaze intent. “Who?”

  But she was sure he’d heard her clearly. “Lauren Starling. She’s the prime-time news anchor for Channel 9 in Denver. I thought you might have met her at a charity or political function. She’s blonde, blue eyes—very beautiful.”

  “I’ve seen her on television. I might have met her once or twice. It’s hard to keep up. But why are you asking me about her?”

  “She’s missing. Her car was found several weeks ago, abandoned in Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. I was hoping you might have seen or heard something about her.”

  “I haven’t heard anything. There’s been nothing in the papers.”

  “Only a couple of smaller articles I’ve written.” Had he really missed the front page article in which she’d theorized a connection between Lauren and Bobby? Or was he lying? “The police aren’t taking her disappearance seriously. They think she might have decided to lay low for a while, or run away with a lover or something.”

  He smiled, though what about this news he found amusing, she couldn’t imagine. “Maybe she has. The press spends too much time trying to manufacture news where there is none, and like the government, too much time prying into people’s private lives.” He stood. “And on that note, I really must go.”

  She closed her notebook and shut off her tape recorder, refusing to be baited by his rudeness. “That’s all the questions I have. I think it’s going to be a great article.”

  “Then I’ll see you out.”

  “If you don’t mind, could I use your ladies’ room? It’s a long way back to town.”

  “Of course. Down the hall and to your left.”

  More than a standard powder room, this bathroom featured double sinks, a steam shower and a soaking tub. A second door, which was locked, apparently led to a ground-floor guest room. Convenient if you had a guest who couldn’t handle stairs, she supposed. Or maybe the locked room was a home gym and Prentice didn’t like having to go all the way upstairs to shower after his workout.

  She used the facilities then, telling herself it was her duty as a reporter to snoop, she checked behind the cabinet doors. She found towels, cleaning supplies and extra toilet paper in three of the cabinets, but the fourth was locked.

  She stared at the lock for a long moment, then reached over and turned the water on full blast, to cover any noise she might make, and pulled a penknife from her purse. A few seconds later, she’d popped the lock and was staring at an impressive array of hairstyling products, perfume bottles and women’s cosmetics, everything neatly organized in matching quilted travel bags. A carton to one side held feminine hygiene products. Emma knelt and was reaching into the cabinet to pull out one of the bags when Prentice knocked on the door. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I just, uh, spilled liquid soap on my skirt and was washing it off.” She pulled out her phone, snapped a picture of the contents of the cabinet, then shut the door, turned off the water and walked out to meet him.

  “Sorry about that,” she said.

  He looked down at her skirt. “Your skirt’s dry.”

  “I know.” She smoothed her hand down her thigh. “This fabric is amazing.”

  He took her arm and escorted her to the door. “Goodbye, Emma.” No kiss this time, only intense scrutiny, as if he was looking for some flaw in her face.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Prentice. I’m sure we’ll talk soon.”

  She climbed into her car, a little surprised that Jack or one of the other guards wasn’t waiting to escort her back to the gate. But maybe Prentice figured she’d been here so many times she knew the way, and he trusted her not to stray.

  She started driving, her mind a whirl. She couldn’t wait to hear what Graham made of all the feminine accessories stashed in Prentice’s guest bathroom. Did they belong to the mysterious new love he didn’t want to talk about? That seemed the most likely explanation—and she couldn’t blame the man for wanting to keep his private life private.

  Still, the reporter in her wished for something a little juicier. Maybe Prentice was a secret cross-dresser—though the feminine hygiene products didn’t fit with that scenario. Maybe he had a secret mad wife in the attic—or in this case, stashed in the guest bedroom?

  She shook her head, and laughed at her own wild imagination. No, the stuff probably belonged to his girlfriend, whoever she was.

  She rounded a bend in the road, the house out of sight now, and pulled out her phone. She’d promised Graham she’d call to let him know she was okay. It was sweet, really, how he worried about her, though there was no need. Sure, a lot of strange things had happened in the past few days, but she was sure Richard Prentice wasn’t behind them. The man had too many other things on his mind to waste his time with her.

  She slowed and punched the button for Graham’s number, then a hand reached around and grabbed the phone. Another hand clamped over her mouth, and then the world went black.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Emma? Emma!”

  Graham hadn’t realized he’d been shouting until Randall and Marco rushed into his office. “Something wrong, Captain?” Randall asked, amusement dancing in his hazel eyes. Ever since Carmen had reported on Graham’s and Emma’s nearly naked state in the middle of the afternoon—and her joke gift of a large box of condoms—Ranger headquarters had echoed with good-natured gibes at Graham’s expense. “I don’t think Ms. Wade is here,” Randall added.

  “Something’s gone wrong,” Graham said. “Something’s happened to Emma.” One minute he’d picked up the phone, elated and relieved to see her number on the screen. The next, he’d heard her low, anguished moan and a sound like screeching brakes. Then—nothing. He sank into his desk chair. He’d never admit it to his men, but his legs shook too much to hold him. If anything happened to Emma...

  No. He wouldn’t even think it. He had to pull himself together and help her. “She had an appointment with Richard Prentice this morning,” he said, his voice steadier. “She’d agreed to call me when the interview was over. That was the call, but all I heard was a moan, then the phone went dead.”

  “Maybe it was just a bad connection,” Randall said. “Have you tried calling her back?”

  Graham snatched the phone from where he’d let it drop on his desk. He punched in Emma’s number and waited for the ring. “I’m sorry, the person you are trying to reach is not available, or out of area. If you wish to leave a voice mail...”

  He shoved the phone in his pocket and moved out from behind the desk. “I’m going out there,” he said.

  Marco grabbed him, the DEA agent’s grip like an iron vise. “Not a good idea,” he said.

  “He already thinks we’re harassing him,” Randall said. “If you show up out there and Emma’s all right, you’ll only be adding fuel to his lawsuit.”

  “And if she’s not all right, you won’t be doing her any favors barging in on him.” Marco’s exp
ression was grim.

  Much as he wanted to run to Emma’s rescue, he recognized the sense in his men’s advice. The first rule of a hostage situation was to step back and make an assessment. Charging the scene was a recipe for disaster, especially if you weren’t sure where the hostage was or what had happened. He didn’t know if Emma was a hostage or not, but he wouldn’t help her by rushing to her rescue without a plan.

  “Is Carmen here?” he asked.

  “I’m here.” She must have been listening right outside the door. She joined the three men in Graham’s office. “What can I do to help?”

  “Call Richard Prentice and ask to speak to Emma. Tell anyone who answers that you’re a girlfriend and the two of you were supposed to meet for lunch, but now you can’t reach her by phone. You knew she had the interview scheduled and you need to get a message to her that you’re running late.”

  “You want me to use my phone or yours?” she asked.

  “Use one of those throwaways we keep around.”

  “Roger.” She left the room and returned a moment later with one of the disposable pay-as-you-go phones they used when they didn’t want to be easily tracked. Lotte, Randall’s Belgian Malinois, followed her into the room and went to sit beside Randall, ears alert.

  “She knows something’s up,” Randall said, smoothing his hand along the dog’s side.

  Carmen made the call, adding a bubbly, upbeat note to her voice that Graham hadn’t heard before. In different circumstances, he would have been amused at this image of Carmen as the carefree coed, only interested in lunch and shopping. But the half of the conversation he could hear left him anything but amused.

  “She’s not? Are you sure? Because she definitely said she had an interview with Mr. Prentice. She was really excited about it...So her car’s not there or anything...All right. Thank you. I can’t imagine where she’s gotten to.”

  She disconnected the call and met the others’ worried gazes. “The guy on the phone—I think he must have been one of the bodyguards—says Emma never showed up for the interview. Mr. Prentice is very upset that she wasted his time this way.”