by Cindi Myers
“I don’t mind waiting for Graham to return.” She took a seat in one of the gray metal folding chairs arranged around an equally utilitarian folding table and crossed her legs, her skirt riding up—just a little—on her thigh. Along with the gray pencil skirt she wore a scoop-necked knit blouse and four-inch red high heels. She might be here on serious business, but she wanted to make sure she held Graham’s attention. Sergeant Carpenter looked even more nervous.
“He might not be back for a while,” he said.
“I’ve got time.” She smiled at him, the picture of the calm, collected journalist prepared to wait all night, if necessary. Though really, she felt ready to jump out of her skin. She needed to talk to Graham—in person. The things she’d learned from Susan Pace could change his whole investigation. Graham thought Bobby’s murder wasn’t connected to Lauren’s disappearance, but now she was sure they were related. Maybe this was the break they needed to find the missing woman. Maybe it wasn’t too late to save her.
“I guess that’s all right, if it’s what you want,” Carpenter said, though he looked doubtful. He probably realized he didn’t have a choice but to accept her presence. He’d have a tough time dragging her out of there by himself. He took up a position across the room, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on her.
“I don’t mean to keep you, Sergeant,” she said. She took out her phone and pretended to read something on the screen. “You can return to whatever you were doing. I’ll entertain myself.”
“I don’t think the captain would like it if I left you here alone,” he said.
Which she translated to mean he wasn’t about to give her the opportunity to snoop around. That did sound like Graham. He might open his home to a woman in distress, but he wasn’t going to trust a reporter.
For the next twenty minutes, she scrolled through messages on her phone while Sergeant Carpenter held up the wall and scowled at her. She debated telephoning Graham and telling him she was waiting for him, but she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to put her off. If she was sitting here in his office when he returned, he’d have to listen to her.
The pop of gravel beneath the tires of a vehicle made her sit up straighter. Carpenter peered between the blinds on the window beside him. “He’s here,” he announced.
Emma was on her feet and halfway to the door when Graham strode in. She caught her breath at the sight of him. How had she forgotten how impressive he was? He exuded strength and command...and sex appeal. The speech she’d rehearsed went right out of her head as she remembered the kiss they’d shared last night.
“Emma! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?” He closed the gap between them in two strides and grasped her shoulders. “Has something else happened? Another threat?”
His obvious concern for her made her a little weak in the knees, but she rallied and shook her head. “Nothing like that. I’m fine.” Gently, she stepped out of his grasp. “But I’ve learned something important. Something about Bobby.”
“Come into my office.” One hand at her back, he guided her into a small room to the side and closed the door behind them. He motioned her to another folding chair, and took a seat behind his desk. “What is it? Did you remember something about Pace?”
“I talked with his ex-wife this afternoon. Susan.”
A deep V formed between his eyebrows. “We’ve already interviewed her.”
“I’m sure you did, but sometimes another woman—someone who isn’t in law enforcement—can learn things you can’t.”
“What did you learn?”
“She talked to Bobby a few days before he died. He mentioned a woman—a celebrity—he was seeing, and that he’d have the money soon to pay off his son’s medical bills. I think he was talking about Lauren Starling. I think she hired Bobby to fly for her.”
“Susan Pace said that Bobby was working for Lauren Starling?”
“She didn’t say the name—only that he talked about a woman he’d met, that she was famous and he’d try to get Susan an autograph.”
She expected him to be excited about this breakthrough, or to at least show some interest. Instead, he blew out a breath, impatient. “Emma, he was probably talking about you,” he said. “You two were dating, and you’re a well-known journalist.”
Under less serious circumstances, she would have laughed. “Graham, I’m not famous!” she said. “Bobby certainly didn’t think of me that way.”
“Your byline is in the paper all the time. People know you.”
“That’s not celebrity. Not like Lauren Starling, whose gorgeous face was on television every night.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line, as if he was trying not to say everything he thought. “Susan Pace never mentioned any of this to my team when they interviewed her,” he said. “She said she had no idea who Bobby was working for or what he was doing.”
“And that’s true.” Emma sat on the edge of the chair and leaned toward him. “She didn’t think this woman was important. But when I pressed her, she remembered her.”
“I still think he was talking about you.”
“And I’m sure he wasn’t.” It was her turn to be impatient with him. “Journalists aren’t celebrities. No one wants our autograph. Besides, Susan told me Bobby didn’t brag about the women he dated. So this wasn’t a date—it was a client. It had to be Lauren. There’s a connection you need to check out.”
“Nothing we’ve found indicates any link between Bobby Pace and Lauren Starling,” he said. “No one we’ve talked to has reported seeing them together. None of the evidence from the crash points to her.”
“But Susan—”
“Doesn’t know the name of this woman and can’t even say whether her husband was talking about a client or a date.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Emma, but at this point, it doesn’t help.”
“So you don’t believe there’s any connection between Lauren and Bobby?”
“It’s not about what I believe. What matters is what I can prove. Investigations aren’t built on hunches, they’re based on evidence.”
“So you’re not going to look into this further?”
“There’s nothing to look into.” The edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut flesh.
She stood, swallowing hard to keep from telling him exactly what she thought of him and his disregard for what she saw as vital information. “If you were willing to unbend enough to at least consider the possibility that Lauren is involved in this case, you might find your precious evidence.”
He sighed, a long-suffering, patronizing sigh that made her want to scratch his eyes out. “Emma,” he began.
“Don’t say it,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Don’t say what?”
“Whatever patronizing, dismissive thing you were going to say. I already get the message. I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Emma! Wait!” He rose, but she turned and headed toward the door. She had to get out of there before he tried to talk her into staying. She couldn’t let her physical attraction to the man overcome her loathing for someone who wouldn’t listen to her.
Chapter Seven
Graham stared after Emma, seething. Of all the unreasonable, pigheaded, unjustified shortsighted...
Lance tapped on the door frame. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“Fine.” Graham bit off the word.
“Ms. Wade didn’t look too happy,” Lance said.
Graham grunted.
“Looks like she has a temper to match her hair.” Lance lowered himself into the chair Emma had just vacated. “What did she want?”
“She wanted me to investigate the connection between Bobby Pace and Lauren Starling. Except there is no connection—no evidence that points to one except Emma’s obsession with this Starling wom
an.”
“She thinks the two of them know each other?”
“She’s leaping to conclusions.” Graham began opening and shutting desk drawers. If he still smoked, this would be the time for a cigarette, but he’d given up the habit five years ago. “Pace’s ex said he mentioned seeing a woman who was a celebrity. On the basis of that, Emma has developed a whole theory that Starling hired Pace to fly her somewhere.”
“It does sound a little thin. Want me to check it out?”
“There’s nothing to check. We already interviewed everyone connected with Pace, and no one mentioned a woman—celebrity or otherwise.”
“So we talk to them again. Sometimes people remember things better when you ask a second time.”
“No. Don’t waste your time. I’m more concerned with Pace’s connection to Richard Prentice. Any luck there?”
“I’ve got copies of the flight plans he filed with the local airport. Lots of trips with Prentice, once a week or so for about four months, then nothing. I can’t find where Prentice was flying with anyone else at that time, but he may have been using another airport.”
Graham massaged the bridge of his nose, grimacing.
“Headache?” Lance asked.
“This day’s been nothing but one big headache.” He shoved up from his desk. “I’m calling it a day. It’s after five, anyway, and I’m not getting anything accomplished.”
“See you tomorrow,” Lance said. “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
“Maybe.”
Graham drove home in a dark mood. When he walked in the door, the first thing he smelled was Emma’s perfume. Maybe he was imagining it—after all, the cleaning lady had been in that day. The place ought to smell like the lemon-scented stuff she used on the counters and floors. Instead, the soft aroma of roses surrounded him.
He walked to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. When he opened the trash can to drop in the bottle cap, he spied the cat food can where he’d fed her cat, Janey. Maybe he should get another cat. It would beat coming home to an empty house.
Restless, he wandered the house. He should change into workout gear and go for a run. That would clear his head. But on the way to his bedroom, he stopped outside the open door to the guest room. The cleaner had stripped the sheets, but he could imagine Emma standing before the mirror on the dresser, brushing out those red-gold locks.
With a groan, he turned away.
Five miles later he was sweating and tired, sure that a shower and a good night’s sleep would set him right. But sleep eluded him. He spent the dark hours replaying their conversation, wondering what he could have said or done to make things come out differently.
He rose early the next morning and, after strong coffee and a bagel, headed for the airport. The Montrose Regional Airport was a small airfield that served a mix of commercial and private planes. Fixed Base Operations, headquartered in a low square building among the private hangars, was a buzz of activity in the early morning. Graham found a trio of pilots gathered in the lounge, drinking coffee, consulting charts, waiting for their turn to take off. When he walked in, several took in his uniform and soon they all fell silent, watching him.
“Did any of you know Bobby Pace?” he asked.
They exchanged glances. One of them, a younger man with sunglasses pushed to the top of his head and a red-and-blue plaid shirt open over a stained white T-shirt, said. “A lot of us knew Bobby. Shame about what happened to him.”
“I’m trying to find whoever shot him,” Graham said. “But I’m running into a wall. No one seems to know who he was flying for when he was killed.”
“Can’t help you there,” the young man said. “Last time I saw Bobby was maybe a week ago. He wasn’t flying that day, just hanging around, shooting the breeze, hoping somebody might walk in and want his services.”
“He was always looking for work.” Another man, thin and hunched with lines carving a face like a walnut, spoke up. “We knew he had a sick kid, so we tried to help him.”
“Do people wander in here looking for a pilot that often?” Graham asked.
“Now and then,” the old guy said. “Tourists, or folks in a hurry to get somewhere. If they got the money and it ain’t illegal, I’ll fly ’em.”
“Do people sometimes want illegal things?” Graham asked.
The old man made a snorting sound. “I stay away from any of that.”
“What about Bobby? Did he stay away from the illegal stuff?”
Again, they traded glances. “Bobby was desperate,” the young man said. “He might look the other way if the money was right.”
“What kinds of things did he do?” Graham asked.
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.” The young guy looked nervous.
“Nothing big.” The older guy took up the conversation. “Maybe he’d file a flight plan for a certain route and deviate from the route a little to drop off a passenger who didn’t want everybody to know where he was going. Little things like that.”
“We haven’t been able to find the flight plan he filed for the day he was killed,” Graham said.
“He probably didn’t file one,” the old man said.
“I don’t think he flew from here that day,” the younger man said.
“Why do you say that?” Graham said.
“I don’t remember seeing his plane for a few days before that. I thought he was out of town.”
“Where did he keep his plane?” Graham asked.
“He parked it out past the northwest runway. I keep my plane out there, too.”
“Not in a hangar?”
“Hangar space is more expensive,” the old man said.
“Did any of you ever see him out here with a woman?” Graham asked. “Did he have any women clients?”
“He had a female student for a while.” The third man, short, balding and middle-aged, spoke for the first time. “Sheila or Sherry or something like that. She was a student over at Western State. But that was a while ago. Maybe six months back.”
“What happened to her?” Graham asked.
“She moved, I think,” the young guy said. “Anyway, she stopped coming around.”
“No other women clients you know about?” Graham asked.
All three shook their heads.
“What about girlfriends? Did he ever bring them out here?”
“I never saw him with anybody,” the old guy said.
“I got the impression he didn’t date much,” the young guy said. “I think he still carried a torch for his wife.”
“He might have had a woman over by his plane a few days ago,” the middle-aged guy said. “But I don’t know if it was a girlfriend or a client. He and whoever this was were in his plane, and they were arguing about something. I thought the other person’s voice was kind of high-pitched, but I couldn’t see who it was. All I heard was raised voices, so I steered clear.”
“When was this?”
The man squinted, as if examining an imaginary calendar. “Monday a week ago, I think.”
“Did either of you hear or see anything?” Graham asked the other two.
They shook their heads. “Sorry we can’t help you,” the younger man said. “I hope you find who killed him. That’s kind of scary, you know?”
They began to move away. Graham thought about pressing, but he thought it unlikely he’d get any more information out of them. He spent the rest of the morning talking to the FBO manager, a secretary and a mechanic who looked after the planes. All of them were sorry Bobby was gone, but they didn’t know who he was working for, and none of them had seen him with a woman.
So, was Emma right? Had Bobby had a mysterious—famous—female client in the week before he died? Or was Graham right and the woman was Emma herself? She’d said she
and Bobby were just good friends, but did the relationship go deeper? Was she hiding something from him? Had they argued and she was reluctant to admit it, either because it implicated her somehow, or simply because she didn’t want to speak ill of the dead?
By the time he arrived at Ranger headquarters in the park, he had decided he’d have to speak to Emma again, to question her more about her relationship with Bobby Pace. He wasn’t looking forward to what he was sure would be a tense conversation, but it had to be done, and he wasn’t going to put it off on another member of the team. He wanted to hear the truth himself from Emma’s lips. She was already angry with him, so what did it matter if he upset her more? Though the thought twisted his stomach into knots.
Carmen met him at the door to the office, her normally serene face a mask of worry. “We’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” she said.
“I had my phone off.” He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted while he was at the airport, then in his turmoil over Emma, he’d forgotten to turn it back on. He switched it on now, and in a few moments, message alerts began scrolling across the screen. “What’s up?” he asked.
“In your office. There’re some papers there you need to see.”
“I’m not going to like whatever it is, am I?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Sorry. No.”
The thick, legal-size stack of papers in the center of the blotter on his desk didn’t hold the promise of anything good. Carmen and Randall Knightbridge followed him into the office and watched as he picked up the sheaf of documents and scanned them.
“Richard Prentice is suing us?” The words came out as a roar. He felt like punching something, but of course, that wasn’t how a commander behaved, so he settled for dropping the papers back onto the desk and began to pace. “He says we’re harassing him—am I reading that right?”
