by Bonnie Vanak
Better than bridal supplies in this town. West made a few notes. “What did you see?”
Nestor prattled on the same thing he’d told detectives.
“Black smoke after the explosion?” West asked.
The man shook his head. “White smoke. I was so afraid, I almost wet my pants. Oh, Dios mío, I was damn lucky, I was right in front when it blew. I’ve been all over the country, never seen anything like this. What kind of place is Red Ridge, anyway, with terrorists bombing buildings?”
West took a long, thorough look at the man. Puffy cheeks, thick, dark brows, and a bulbous nose.
Drinker, as well as smoker.
White shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. Black hair slicked back with too much gel. Slight paunch oozing over his cheap leather belt. No tie. Black trousers, cotton, a bit casual for a salesman, but it was August in South Dakota and warm. His gaze scanned the trousers. Rumpled, maybe from driving a long distance.
“Longtime smoker?” West pointed to the cigarette.
Nestor shrugged, tossed the butt and ground it out with his leather shoe heel. “Si. Road trips get long. My ex tried to get me to quit. No luck. Did get me to give up the Cubans. I love a good Cuban. You smoke?”
West shook his head. “Where is your next client?” he asked.
The salesman flicked a hand toward the west. “I don’t have an appointment until next week in Cheyenne. I was checking out the town for prospects. Going to stay a couple of days. You know any places in town that are good?”
You mean ones that don’t blow up? West shook his head.
After taking the man’s cell phone and home address, plus the name of his company, West closed his notebook. Santo Nestor returned to his car, tossed the cigarette butt out the window and drove off.
Litterbug. He loathed civilians contaminating the area anywhere near his crime scene.
Glancing with disgust at the cigarette, he bagged it and put it in his pocket as evidence just in case.
Then West returned to the rubble, again, picking his way through it carefully. White smoke suggested black powder, as in TATP, not TNT or C-4.
Don’t jump to conclusions. But his instincts tingled. TATP was a low-heat bomb and it took more than five hundred grams to do this kind of destruction.
The distinctive bleach-like odor told him his gut was right. TATP didn’t contain nitrogen and made the explosives easier to avoid detection by scanners.
When they found it, the packaging containing the bomb might reveal hard evidence. Tape or wires could also contain scraps of skin cells, sweat or even hairs. If they were lucky, the unsub left some kind of DNA on the fragments.
Was the unsub Demi Colton?
Who did this? Does it have anything to do with the Groom Killer? Upcoming wedding site? Maybe the killer wants to blow up wedding party members in the future?
As he continued to gather evidence, his thoughts flashed back to his family, the ruins of their home, the ruins of his former life. West deliberately thought of Quinn, her sweet smile, saucy attitude. It soothed him as he worked.
Relationships were all about power. He knew this even with Quinn. In bed, he dominated, but out of it, she ran the show. She held his heart and, man, he enjoyed every single moment of it.
Even though they were private about their relationship for now, he preferred to keep it that way. The less interference from her family, the better.
But he couldn’t help but wonder if her half sister was behind this explosion, as preparation for something more deadly to come.
* * *
Working a crime scene was an arduous, grueling task. Shortly before one o’clock, the chief ordered takeout for everyone.
Takeout from Good Eats.
His heart raced as he glanced up and saw Quinn’s white delivery van pull up in front of the tent. She jumped out and opened the back door. Someone hastened to set up another long folding table for the food. As she picked out the aluminum containers, her brother Brayden ran to help.
ATF agent Cal tracked her moves and whistled, making the outline of an hourglass with his hands. “Nice dish.”
West wanted to smack him. Hands off. She’s mine. He only grunted, and at the low sound, Rex growled.
Cal glanced down at the canine. “Easy, boy. I’m not going to take your chow.”
But I’ll take your head if you even try to touch her. West gripped Rex’s leash harder. Hell, it was tough enough concealing the fact he was secretly investigating the RRPD’s efforts to find the Groom Killer. Hiding his relationship with Quinn was agonizing. His instincts were to draw her away from the admiring glances, put an arm around her waist to signal that she was taken. Exclusively. By him.
And he didn’t even dare do more than nod at her when he helped carry a warm container of something that smelled like roasted lamb. Their fingers touched as she handed it to him, and familiar sparks jumped between them. West sucked in a low breath.
Damn, he could smell her amid the chemicals and the dust and the delicious odor of grilled meat. Real meat, too, not that tofu she also served.
His fiancée smelled like apples and spice, everything delicious.
Quinn finished setting up the containers and unpacked the paper plates and plastic silverware.
“All set, Chief,” she told her cousin. “There’s grilled lamb and rice, salad and butternut squash linguine with fried sage.” Quinn tossed West a saucy, knowing look. “For those who prefer froufrou food.”
Damn if it took every inch of his control not to laugh. Not to toss aside his plate of grilled lamb and stride over to her, pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Letting everyone know she was his and they belonged to each other. He didn’t need healthy food for fortification. He needed only Quinn, and her vivacious spirit and wholesome smile.
Cal drifted over and thanked her. The ATF agent jerked a thumb at West.
“Don’t mind Grumpy, Miss Colton. West doesn’t like healthy food,” Cal jested. “He’s a red meat man.”
“Takes all types,” Quinn’s brother Brayden remarked.
Ignoring them, West took his plate and a bottle of water to his car and sat on the hood of his truck to eat. He watched Quinn talk with Brayden at the table where most of the others ate. West noted that Finn Colton and Brayden worked closely with the Gages on the squad, despite the famous feud between the Colton and Gage families.
Did Quinn know where her sister was? What if she was hiding Demi? When he’d asked her about how close they’d been, Quinn had only shrugged and said she loved her sister, but they weren’t close and barely knew each other. Demi concentrated on her job as a bounty hunter and Quinn was invested in establishing Good Eats and trying to make a good rep for herself in town.
His radar went on full alert as a sleek, expensive car pulled up to the perimeter. Out from the driver’s seat climbed Devlin Harrington. West looked down at the excellent meal Quinn had prepared. It turned to cardboard in his stomach.
Harrington was a wealthy, entitled lawyer who worked in his father’s energy firm. The man oozed money. Probably used one-hundred-dollar bills as kindling in his fireplace each winter.
His father, billionaire Hamlin Harrington, was equally money hungry. He offered to save Colton Energy from bankruptcy, but only if Layla Colton, a bigwig at Colton Energy and the owner’s daughter, married him. Layla’s father, Fenwick, desperately needed the cash.
And the Red Ridge Police Department needed Fenwick to continue funding the large K-9 unit and training center. But Hamlin had called off the wedding to Layla until the Groom Killer was caught. Fenwick, who doubled as mayor of Red Ridge, was beside himself and breathed down the chief’s neck on a daily basis to solve the case. It didn’t matter that Fenwick was related to Chief Finn Colton. Fenwick needed money.
West understood Hamlin being nervous, canceling the wedding and calling off the engage
ment to Layla Colton. With a killer out to slay grooms, who would dare host a public wedding in town?
What he didn’t get was marrying for money, not love. He didn’t understand it. His own mother and father had been happily married for more than twenty-four years before a killer snuffed out their lives. He and Quinn wanted to marry because they loved each other, crazy as it seemed after barely meeting a month ago. But he knew Quinn was the right woman for him. She was intelligent and witty and caring, and he’d do anything for her.
Layla, Quinn’s cousin, seemed like a smart, kind woman, concerned about her family and savvy about business when he’d interviewed her about Demi Colton. Was she that dedicated to her family and saving her father’s company that she’d sacrifice her own personal happiness?
Life was short. He’d learned that at seventeen when his world blew apart. And marriage lasted a long time, or at least, it should.
West’s scarred hand felt tight today, as it did each time he worked a crime scene, reminding him of the night his family died in the bomb blast. He flexed it as he watched Harrington approach Chief Colton, wondering what the man wanted.
Wealthy lawyers usually didn’t visit crime scenes. Not unless they were ambulance chasers. He’d bet a case of hundred-year-old brandy that Devlin Harrington had never chased an ambulance in his life. Not with that cash cow of a rich daddy, who probably paid him a salary that made West’s modest income look laughable.
Wearing an expensive gray silk business suit, with a red power tie and starched shirt, and expensive leather footwear, Harrington looked out of place with the cops in their bunny suits, tactical vests and grubby, scuffed shoes.
The lawyer stood by the table where Finn Colton ate. He scrutinized the scene, shook his head. “Chief, this is most upsetting. Now we have a bomber in Red Ridge? I’m sure this is related to the groom killings. If there is anything I can do, any help I can offer, please let me know. I want to help. If you need assistance, I’m here.”
To his credit, Finn didn’t take the bait. “It’s too early in the investigation to tell anything. We’re doing all we can. Every man on this force is dedicated to catching the killer.”
“But you must admit this is terribly suspicious timing.” Harrington swept a hand over the crime scene tape. “If the killer is graduating to bombings, she must be caught. I wanted to let you know I’m offering a $100,000 reward for the capture of Demi Colton.”
West nearly choked on his forkful of rice.
Finn didn’t even blink. “Oh?”
“She must be found and brought in for questioning. If she’s innocent, she’s innocent. But if she’s guilty...” Again with the hand gesture. “Then the killings, and this kind of violence will end.”
Was the guy running for office? West snorted as a newspaper photographer snapped Harrington’s photo. He could envision the headline now: Billionaire Lawyer Offers Six Figures of Own Money for Capture of Suspect Demi Colton.
He hated it when civilians messed with an official investigation. Offering that much money for Demi’s capture would send everyone eager for the reward out searching, giving the department more headaches and more false leads to chase.
And make a desperate Demi harder to catch. Hell, half the town would be searching for her now, eager to claim even a share of the reward.
West knew he had to question Quinn further on her sister. If Quinn even had a remote inkling of where Demi was, he had to know immediately.
“I’d like to see the official ad you’re running in the newspaper,” Finn told him, giving him a level look. “For the record.”
“I’m very busy this afternoon.” Harrington took out his cell phone, texted something. “But I’ll send an Uber to drop off the notice at the station.”
Sending an Uber to deliver a damn paper? Typical Harrington. You can’t take five minutes to stop by on your way? No, that’s too much trouble.
West knew some attorneys back East, hardworking, congenial men and women who dedicated themselves to the law and society. Harrington was not one. He did it for the money.
Harrington flashed those pearly whites at everyone and glad-handed the officers sitting at the table.
“Thank you for all you are doing to catch the Groom Killer. If you need anything, anything at all, my office is at your disposal. We all want Demi Colton caught so life can return to normal. My father will be most grateful when Demi is found and arrested and weddings can resume in Red Ridge. He’s most eager to marry Layla.”
He spotted West sitting by his lonesome, walked over and stuck out a palm. “Agent Brand, so glad to see the FBI is working with our fine force. We certainly can use your services.”
Giving him a cool glance, West nodded and ignored the hand. He picked up his fork and continued eating. Harrington’s smile only got wider.
“Have a good day,” the lawyer told him.
He strode off toward his car. West caught Quinn’s worried gaze. If she was concerned about her sister before, she must be worried sick now. West made a small gesture at Harrington’s car speeding off, then did an eye roll. She flashed a brief smile.
West ate quickly, tossed away the plate and plastic silverware, and then returned to the crime scene. The sooner he finished, the faster they could find who did this, and clues to where the bomber would strike next.
Whether or not it was Demi Colton.
* * *
Two hours later, Quinn unloaded all the catering dishes and brought them inside to her store, placing them on the counter near the sink. With a rueful smile, she noticed her hands were trembling.
West did that to her. Even being within one hundred feet of him set off her female parts. They tingled with anticipation, and her nerves jumped as if the annual Fourth of July fireworks exploded inside her.
Her smile fled as she recalled the extensive damage to the building, and the sneers of her father as he swigged back a bottle of beer and watched the cops work the scene.
Rusty had a habit of making the worst things worse. He liked his beer and criticizing other people and bragged about both.
Like her brothers and Demi, Quinn worked hard to overcome the reputation of being offspring of the town’s notorious bar owner and womanizer. It was why she elected to serve wholesome food at Good Eats, to differentiate from the greasy bar food her father dished out.
She picked up the mail the carrier had dropped through the slot in her front door. As she walked to the counter, Quinn sorted through the stack. Bills. More bills. And a white card-size envelope that resembled an invitation. The envelope had a cute red heart stamped on it.
A wedding invitation?
Maybe an engagement announcement? Who would be crazy enough for that?
Taking the mail into the kitchen, she found a knife and went to open it. Hesitated. It looked innocent. Pretty stationery. What if it wasn’t?
There was no return address. Quinn felt the envelope. She had never been the suspicious type, but dating West turned on all her precaution sensors. No return address could mean something dangerous inside, intended to harm.
Quinn studied the postmark. Red Ridge. From here in town. What if the Groom Killer had decided to reach out to new targets?
What if it was Demi, and she was sending a secret message?
Thoughts tumbled through her head. The possibilities were endless. So was the worry. She set the envelope down. Maybe it was better to wait for West. He had experience, perhaps there was some fancy instrument in his bag of tools he could use to scan the contents.
West had been working too hard lately on this Groom Killer case. Late nights, early mornings. A couple of days off in the mountains sounded perfect.
She went into the tiny cubicle kept as an office and opened the desk drawer to find the key Tia had given her. As a favor for delivering her meals on time every day, Tia Linwicki gave her the code to unlock the front gate and a ke
y to one of the cabins in Pine Paradise, a property she owned. As long as no one rented the cabin, it was Quinn’s to use.
She’d told West about her privileges with the cabin and how Tia entrusted her with the key. It would make a terrific weekend retreat with West. Quinn hunted for the key, but couldn’t find it. Maybe she’d left it upstairs in her apartment. With all the confusion lately, the scrambling to find clients, she felt slightly scatterbrained.
She left the office and went into the store’s front just as her brother Shane entered.
Smiling, she gestured to the counter. “Need an afternoon pick-me-up?”
His nose wrinkled. “Kale shakes and fruit smoothies? No thanks.”
“I can make you a late lunch.” Quinn’s smile widened. “Something that will put hair on your chest. Make you attractive to the ladies.”
He laughed. As if he needed that. With his sandy-blond hair, blue eyes and tall, muscular body, Shane was drop-dead gorgeous. For a while Quinn had envied him. Surely he didn’t get those good looks from their father.
No, Shane had inherited their father’s tough streak, though.
And besides, Shane was hot and heavy with someone, a dog trainer at the K-9 center. It was easy to forget because Shane, like everyone in town, kept their relationships on the down-low.
“Came to see how you are. And maybe if you baked some of those blueberry muffins.”
Food costs had soared, but for her brother, she’d bake another dozen. “Go outside and sit. I’ll get everything ready.”
Humming as she buzzed around the kitchen, Quinn realized how much she enjoyed her job. Working for someone else might pay the bills, but she loved being her own boss. Books rested on a shelf above the stainless steel table where she did food prep. One was only a notebook with her handwriting. Those recipes she’d invented on her own, adding this and mixing that.
She’d hate to have to follow orders from an employer. Red Ridge was a good place to live...well, until lately.
