Rocky Mountain Maneuvers

by Cassie Miles

  “Okay,” she said blithely.

  “That means you can’t jump into someone’s van just because it’s sitting here. Do you understand?”

  “Sir. Yes, sir.” She tossed off a sarcastic salute. “We’ll have to ask Pierce who has keys to his van. Obviously, somebody else used it last night.”

  “We don’t even know if this is the same vehicle,” he said. “Do you have any idea how many white vans there are in the Denver area?”

  “Lots,” she said. “But it has to be this one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there can’t be that many white van owners in Denver who want me dead.”

  “Only because they haven’t met you,” he muttered under his breath as he led the way toward Pierce’s town house.

  He toyed with the cell phone, considering whether or not he should call the police. Last night, he’d been blinded by his sympathy for Molly’s emotional state and might have made a mistake. Throughout his career with CCC, Adam always cooperated one hundred percent with the proper authorities.

  But this case was different. Molly had been threatened. Ted Berringer, the detective in charge of the case, not only seemed disinterested in this investigation but was openly hostile toward Molly.

  Adam would stick with his initial judgment. He and Molly would investigate on their own.

  As they approached the neatly landscaped stucco town house, he glanced at this sometimes infuriating woman who tended toward risky spontaneity. Her unprofessional behavior had to stop immediately.

  She smiled up at him. “This is fun.”

  “It’s dangerous. Your friend, Pierce, was almost murdered.”

  “But he’s going to be okay. The docs said so.” She winked. “And I’m just fine.”

  As they walked up the sidewalk to Pierce’s town house, Adam unholstered his Glock automatic. “I go first. You stay back and keep quiet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t know who might be in the condo,” he said. “Just do what I say.”

  She lightly touched his forearm. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because you’re with me, and you can be a pretty scary dude when you want to be.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “I know you’ll protect me from the bad guys.”

  A totally irrational feeling of pride swelled inside his chest. She trusted him. She believed in him. How had his ethics gotten so twisted that her opinion mattered more than following the proper procedure?

  Gun in hand, Adam unlocked the door. He pushed it wide. Before stepping inside, he paused and listened. There were sounds from within. Someone was here.

  He gestured for Molly to stay back.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Quiet, Molly.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  From inside the condo came a female voice. “Who’s there?”

  Adam shrugged. “So much for the element of surprise.”

  Molly brushed past him and called out, “Is that you, Gloria?”

  “Who is it?” Gloria Vanderly strode into the living room as if she owned the place. “What are you two doing here?”

  Adam subtly slipped his gun back into the holster. “We might ask you the same question, ma’am.”

  “I used to live here,” she snapped.

  “But not anymore.” Adam felt a lot more comfortable confronting Gloria in this masculine town house with leather sofas and football trophies. Yesterday, at her bridal boutique, he’d been strangling in bridal veils. “Why are you here?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Gloria said, “but I dropped by on my way to the hospital so I could pick something up.”

  “What would that be?”

  Her eyes flicked down and to the left as she searched for a lie. “A book of poetry. Pierce wanted me to read to him.”

  “Are you telling me that a former Denver Bronco wants poems?”

  “I can’t find the book anyway.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m late.”

  Adam blocked her path to the exit. “What are you driving this morning, Gloria?”

  She pulled her head back like a turtle going into its shell. “I have a black Mercedes.”

  He carefully observed her reaction as he asked, “Do you ever use Pierce’s white delivery van?”

  “Not unless it’s necessary.” Her dark eyes confronted him in blatant challenge.

  “But you have keys.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Last night,” he said. “Did you use the van?”

  “No.” She called over her shoulder. “Let’s go, Denny.”

  Denny Devlin, the caterer, appeared from the hallway. Sheepishly, he ran his hand through his curly brown hair. His attitude reminded Adam of a lover caught in the act. As he approached Molly, he pulled up a grin.

  She smiled back. “Nice to see you again, Denny. We should talk about the menu for Heidi’s wedding this weekend.”

  He glanced at Gloria, then back at Molly. “Why are you interested in Heidi’s wedding?”

  “I’m surprised Gloria didn’t tell you,” Molly said. “I’m running Pierce’s business while he’s in the hospital.”

  “Is there a problem with the catering?” he asked.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Good. Because this is a very important job for me.”

  “Why?” Molly asked.

  “It’s the Brown Palace.” He spoke the name of the hotel with reverence. “Lots of important people will be there. I want to make an impression.”

  When Denny and Gloria stood side by side, they could have been brother and sister. They were the same height. The same lean build. Either one of them fit the description for the person who attacked Molly.

  “You two are friendly,” Adam said.

  “It’s only natural,” Gloria replied coldly. “We both work in the same field.”

  “And you both feel free to enter Pierce’s home when he isn’t here.”

  “That’s the way it is with friends.” Gloria tucked her leather briefcase under her arm and stalked past him toward the exit. “We have to run.”

  From what? Adam doubted that these two suspects were together for innocent reasons. They had the look of coconspirators. He remembered the scenario he and Molly had created for the attack on Pierce. One person was talking to him. Another stabbed him in the back. Gloria and Denny fit the bill.

  When the door closed behind them, he flipped the dead bolt and fastened the chain. “Those two are up to something.”

  He went toward the hallway where Denny had been lurking. There were two bedrooms and a den with a desk, bookcases and a television set.

  Molly slipped behind the desk and sat in the chair. She pulled open the bottom drawer and rifled through the files with efficient expertise. “This seems to be mostly personal financial stuff. Why would Gloria be looking in here?”

  “Didn’t you tell me that Pierce and Gloria had given a substantial loan to Denny Devlin?”

  “Right,” Molly said. She flipped her fingernails across the colored tabs on the hanging file folders. “Something’s missing. There’s a file missing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t you remember? Pierce and I met at a class on how to organize your business. We both use an identical filing and coding system.”

  From the front of the drawer, she pulled out a ledger and scanned the pages with a lightning speed that never failed to amaze Adam. Though Molly was capable of flaky behavior, she was a total ace when it came to administrative work.

  Leaning back in the desk chair, she clucked her tongue and frowned. “The missing file folder pertains to a loft that Pierce owns in downtown Denver. It’s a real classy place. I went there once for a party.”

  “And why would Gloria take that file?”

  She drew the obvious conclusion. “There’s something at that loft she doesn’t want us to see.”

  MOLLY’S MIND RACED as they
drove to their midday appointment with Ronald Atchison. What could Gloria be hiding at Pierce’s loft? Possibly the missing items from the magpie thefts. But that didn’t make sense; none of the stolen objects were especially valuable. Why bother hiding them?

  “Maybe Gloria is a fence,” she said. “Selling stolen goods.”

  “She makes plenty of dough at her boutique,” Adam said. “I think we should be looking at Denny Devlin.”

  “What could he be hiding?”

  “Not sure. Think about his business.”

  She visualized Denny’s shop with the kitchen where he did his cooking. A lot of that equipment was expensive, but she really didn’t think he’d be stashing bread mixers and pizza ovens in Pierce’s downtown loft.

  It had to be something easily transported—something simple. A lightbulb went on inside her head. “Oh my God! I think I’ve got it. He’s hiding people. Illegal immigrants.”

  “Possible,” Adam said.

  Denny’s catering business relied on low-wage workers—cooks, servers and delivery people. He might have nefarious connections through his employees. “But everybody who works for him is bonded.”

  “That wasn’t always the case. He was careless enough in his hiring to take on an employee with hepatitis.”

  A people-smuggling business? She frowned. Something about her idea didn’t ring true. Pierce’s loft was in a fancy, high-rent building. Surely, the other residents would notice if mobs of aliens came shuffling through.

  Maybe there weren’t mobs. Maybe it was only one or two important immigrants. People who needed to slip into town under the radar. “Terrorists,” she concluded enthusiastically. “Denny Devlin is running an undercover terrorist operation.”

  Adam gave her one of those looks—a sidelong glance that measured her sanity and found her a few cups short of a gallon. “He’s a chef, Molly. His expertise is hot cookies and cheese puffs.”

  “Which is why it’s a perfect cover,” she said. “Nobody would suspect a wedding caterer of international espionage. That’s just about as likely as me being engaged to a wealthy Australian kangaroo farmer.”

  “Which you’re not,” Adam pointed out.

  “But I could be.”

  She might not have all the loose ends tied together, but her conclusion was right on target. The loft was being used to hide people—important people who needed to come and go without leaving a trace. If they weren’t terrorists, who were they? And how were they connected to the wedding business?

  Adam said, “When you were attacked last night, you said that you injured your assailant.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you notice if Denny or Gloria were limping?”

  “They weren’t.” That was the first thing she looked for. “But Denny gave me a weird look. As if we shared some kind of secret.”

  Adam parked on the street in front of a quaint adobe-style church where she had arranged to meet Ronald Atchison.

  “We’re here,” he said. “What’s our interest in Ronald?”

  “He was at all the weddings where there were thefts.”

  “He took photos?” Adam asked.

  She nodded. “I asked him to bring some along. Also, he’s the only suspect who has a criminal record.”

  “For what?”

  “Fraud. And he’s been charged with other white-collar crimes. When I talked to him on the phone, he suggested that Pierce was attacked because of the money, honey.”

  “He calls you honey?”

  “I’ve met him once or twice,” she said. “He likes the way I dress.”

  They entered the church through a heavy wooden door. The pale adobe walls contrasted with an arched ceiling and wooden beams. Light filtered gently through several stained glass windows, creating a serene golden glow.

  Molly felt herself smiling. Though she wasn’t a particularly religious person, she always found peace within the walls of a sanctuary. A church was a haven—a place she could think, a place she could go when all other doors were closed.

  Ronald strode up the center aisle between the pews. “Your timing is excellent. I’ve just completed this shoot and packed up my equipment.”

  He gave Molly a hug, then admired her engagement ring. After shaking hands with Adam, Ronald got right down to business. “First thing,” he said. “You need an engagement photo for the newspapers. You’ll want to bring your sweetie along.”

  Though Molly had no intention of posing, she played along. “What kind of picture would you suggest?”

  He eyeballed her up and down, reaching over to adjust the line of her sweater. “You don’t need the standard glamor photo makeup, Miss Molly. I could get creative with you.”

  “How so?”

  “We could do something outdoorsy with the wind in your hair.”

  As he studied her intently, his eyes became dark and penetrating. “Step back,” he said. “Put down the purse and hold your arms out.”

  She did as he asked.

  “Turn,” he said. “Slowly.”

  When she completed a three-sixty, he gave her a hug, a smile and a wink. Ronald was gorgeous—tall, dark and handsome. His features were perfect, and Molly envied his silky skin tone, which was, no doubt, the result of careful, constant moisturizing. Gay guys really knew how to take care of themselves.

  “I have a crazy idea,” he said. “Your hubby-to-be might go for some suggestive poses.”

  “For the newspaper?” Adam said gruffly.

  “Of course not,” Ronald said. “But Molly’s fiancé might want special pictures for his private use.”

  Adam’s upper lip curled in a snarl. “Are you talking about porn?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a knot,” Ronald said. “I’m always tasteful. But most of the brides who come to me aren’t very inspiring. Molly’s different. I mean, look at her! She’s got the bod of Miss September without the airbrushing.”

  Though Adam didn’t like this guy with all his touching and over-the-top enthusiasm, he had to agree with his appreciation of Molly. She was a beautiful woman.

  “It might help,” she said, “if I could take a look at some other photos. Did you bring along the samples I asked for?”

  “The Deitrich wedding,” he said. “I have the pictures outside in my van.”

  Before they even left the church, Adam knew what they’d find parked outside on the street. Another plain white van with a sliding panel door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Adam stared at the white delivery van, and he recalled his earlier conversation with Molly. How many people who owned white vans wanted to kill her?

  Apparently, there was a whole damned fleet of them.

  Until now, he’d considered Ronald Atchison to be a marginal suspect, but the van made a difference. Also, Ronald was the same tall, lean body type as Gloria and Denny—the same type as the person who attacked Molly.

  Ronald yanked open the side panel door. Adam noted that the interior of the van was crammed with lighting equipment and cameras. Though Molly hadn’t mentioned seeing anything inside the van, he was learning not to put much stock in what she’d said. Molly was efficient and quick-thinking, but she was possibly the world’s most unreliable witness.

  Adam would have to probe for other incriminating evidence to validate his suspicion of Ronald. It was hard to get an accurate reading on this touchy-feely guy who couldn’t keep his hands off Molly when he talked.

  What were the facts? Ronald, the wedding photographer, lived beyond his means. He’d been in prison for fraud. He was slick and good-looking. Wore a Cartier wristwatch and a gold chain around his neck.

  With him, Adam assumed that money was the prime motivator. He asked, “Does Pierce send a lot of business your way?”

  “Not as much as he could,” Ronald said.

  “What about Gloria?”

  “Don’t get me started on Gloria, the Wicked Witch of the West. She always wants full-length photos to show off her gowns.”

  “What’s wron
g with that?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, please.” He flapped his hands and teasingly patted her shoulder. “Imagine a hefty bride. Swaddled in glaring white. Trust me, sweetie. It’s not a pretty picture.”

  “All brides are beautiful,” Molly said staunchly.

  “In their dreams,” he said.

  “That’s right.” She appeared to be getting angry. “Every bride has a special aura that makes them fantastic. It’s magical.”

  “You’re quite the romantic,” Ronald said. “Actually, I agree. When I’m working with a bride who’s never going to be a cover girl, that’s what I go for. The dreamy look. Maybe a tight focus on the eyes. Or her hand with the wedding ring.” He reached over and took Molly’s hand. “My point is, Gloria’s gowns aren’t always the most important thing.”

  Adam said, “You and Gloria don’t get along.”

  “But of course we do.” He seemed to take offense. “We’re professionals. I need her, and she needs me. We’ve known each other for ages.”

  “As long as you’ve known Pierce?”

  “At least.”

  Molly spoke up, “Do you remember that loft Pierce has downtown? We met at a party there?”

  “Well, sure.” He released Molly’s hand. “But don’t ask for details. If I could remember every party I went to, there wouldn’t be room in my head for anything else.”

  Was he covering up? Adam couldn’t tell. Ronald was glib; he put on a good show with his constant chatter. Now, it was time for Adam to throw down the gauntlet and see what this guy responded to. “You’re an intense person, Ronald.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “Emotional,” Adam said. “Passionate. Maybe even temperamental.”

  “Dear me, yes. I’m an artist.”

  “When your temper gets out of control,” Adam said, “somebody might get hurt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crime of passion.”

  For a moment, Ronald’s la-di-da attitude was eclipsed by a flash of hostility. His shoulders tensed. The gleam in his eyes flattened to a cold opaque darkness. He was wary, and Adam knew he’d struck a chord. “Tell me about your relationship with Pierce.”