“I’m glad we met, in spite of the strange circumstances.”

“I’m glad, too.” Maybe from the moment he’d first seen her in that video, he’d known he’d seek her out. Something in her called to him.

She tilted her head up and rose on her toes to bring her face closer to his in silent invitation—an invitation he wouldn’t refuse. He’d been wanting to kiss her, hesitant only because of the tenuousness of their relationship. Her lips warmed beneath his, as soft and sensuous as he’d imagined they would be. He deepened the kiss.

A flash of light distracted him, and reluctantly he lifted his head to look around. He saw nothing but the array of news vans and reporters across the street, though he couldn’t shake the sense that something had happened that he should have paid attention to.

Colorado
Crime Scene
Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CINDI MYERS is an author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.

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For Vicki L.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Luke Renfro never forgot a face. The blessing and the curse of this peculiar talent defined his days and haunted his nights. The faces of people he knew well and those he had merely passed on the street crowded his mind.

He sorted through this portrait gallery of strangers and friends as he studied the people who hurried past him on a warm, sunny morning on Denver’s 16th Street Mall, searching for anyone familiar, while at the very back of his mind whispered the question that plagued him most: What if he’d overlooked the one person he most needed to find?

He shoved aside that familiar anxiety and reviewed the details of his assignment today: young Caucasian male, probably early to midtwenties, slight, athletic build, five-eight or five-nine. He’d been clean shaven in the surveillance photos Scotland Yard had forwarded from London, his brown hair cropped very short. But even if he’d grown out his beard or dyed his hair, Luke would recognize him. It was what he did. It was why the FBI had recruited him and others like him, copying an idea implemented by the Brits—to assemble a group of “super-recognizers” to look for known criminals and stop crime before it happened.

Also on the list of people he hoped to spot was a fortysomething man with a swarthy complexion and iron-gray curls, and a stocky Asian man with a shaved head and a scar beside one eye. If he spotted any of these people, he was to bring them into headquarters for questioning.

He crossed the street and strolled past a row of restaurants starting to fill up with the early lunch crowd. A strong breeze made the banners strung overhead pop and snap. Welcome, Racers! declared one. Colorado Cycling Challenge! proclaimed another. The man Luke was searching for wouldn’t miss the race, though Luke hoped to find him before he ever had a chance to attend.

A flash of honey-blond hair in his peripheral vision sent a jolt of recognition through him, a physical shock, like finding something important he hadn’t even realized he’d lost. He whirled around in time to see the woman step onto one of the shuttle buses that ran up and down the length of the pedestrian mall. Heart pounding, he took off down the sidewalk after the bus, ignoring the annoyed looks from the hipster couple he jostled in his haste.

He hadn’t expected to see her here today, though logically he shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d been in some of those Scotland Yard videos also, and the image of her heart-shaped face framed by a stylish short haircut, her wide hazel eyes staring into the camera from beneath a fringe of honey-colored bangs, had stayed with him, standing out from the sea of anonymous faces filed away in his memory.

She stepped off the shuttle four blocks down, in front of a chain drugstore, the breeze blowing her swept-aside bangs into her eyes. She stopped and brushed the stray locks off her face, allowing him time to take in her skinny jeans, athletic shoes, pale green tank top, and a scarf of mingled blue and green knotted at her throat. Then she started walking again, long, confident strides covering ground quickly. Staying back half a block, he followed her as she headed to a boutique hotel and entered the lobby. Luke hurried to catch up, weaving his way through a family unloading luggage at the front door and two men consulting a street map just inside the entrance.

Soft classical music filled the lobby, which was decorated in Victorian red velvet and gold brocade. Luke scanned the crowd of tourists and businessmen, but the woman wasn’t among them. A check of the elevators showed both were stopped on upper floors. Had she opted for the stairs, or passed through to the hotel bar? He hesitated. Did he enter the bar and search for her, or return to the mall and his original quarry?

“Excuse me.”

He turned and stared into the angry eyes of the woman he’d been following. Hazel eyes of mingled green and gold, fringed with gold lashes. Eyes that had disturbed his dreams, though in those fantasies, they’d been considerably friendlier than they were right now. “Who are you, and why are you following me?” she demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bluffing was as important a skill for an agent as it was for a poker player.

“I’m not stupid. I saw you following me.” She folded her arms under her breasts; he wondered if she was aware how that emphasized her cleavage. If he pointed this out, she’d no doubt add “sexist pig” to whatever other unflattering descriptions she’d ascribed to him. “I want to know why.”

She was calling his bluff. Time to fold. But that would mean leaving and walking away, and he hadn’t gone to all this trouble to do that. Maybe a better answer was to show her his cards—or at least some of them. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the folder with his credentials. “Special Agent Luke Renfro. FBI.”

Her eyes widened, and some of the color left her cheeks. “What is this about?” The words came out as a whisper, and all her bravado vanished. In fact, she looked ready to faint, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

Her reaction—more fear and guilt than an innocent citizen ought to exhibit—had all his instincts sounding alarms, his senses on high alert. He touched her arm lightly, though he was prepared to hang on if she made a run for it. “Why don’t we go into the bar and talk?” He nodded toward the hotel bar, which at this time of day was almost deserted.

“All right.” She allowed him to usher her into the bar, to a red leatherette booth. The lighting was subdued, the music almost inaudible. Luke sat across from the blonde, and the waitress, who’d been seated at one end of the bar, hurried over to them. “I’ll have a glass of iced tea,” Luke told her. He looked to the woman across from him. “Would you like something stronger?”

“Just water.” She pushed her hair back out of her eyes and settled her hands flat on the table in front of her. Her nails were short, polished a deep blue. She wore silver earrings that glinted in the bar light when she turned her head to look at him. Her hair, thick and shiny and sexy, curled around her ears and the nape of her neck.

It bothered him that this woman had stuck in his head when so many others didn’t. Maybe that’s why he’d followed her, to see if up close he could identify the reason he’d become so fixated on her. But maybe it wasn’t simple attraction at work here. Maybe his cop instincts recognized some guilt in her he couldn’t yet put into words. He didn’t want to think of her as a suspect, but he had to if he was going to do his job correctly.

“Why is the FBI following me?” she asked, reminding him they were alone again.

“First, tell me your name, since you already know mine.”

She hesitated, then said, “Morgan Westfield.”

The name itself didn’t set off any alarm bells. Though his photographic memory for faces didn’t carry over to names or facts and figures, he’d learned the names of key suspects in his current investigation—at least, the names they knew. A series of terrorist bombings had rocked the cycling world in the past two years, with bombs killing and injuring racers and spectators alike at key races around the world. The Bureau hoped that by sending members of the team they’d code-named Search Team Seven to Denver they could prevent another attack. Was Morgan somehow involved and Luke hadn’t realized it?

“You were following me and you don’t know my name?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

“You were at the Tour de France last month,” he said. “And the Tour of Britain before that.” But not at the Paris-Roubaix the year before. Or maybe she’d managed to stay out of range of the security cameras for that event.

“You’ve been following me all this time?” Her voice rose, and anger returned the color to her cheeks.

He hadn’t been following her, but maybe fate or instinct or blind luck had led him to her. The waitress brought their drinks and glanced at them curiously. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you.” He handed her a ten. “Keep the change.”

She stuffed the bill into her apron and retreated to the bar once more. Morgan leaned over the table toward him. “Why is the FBI following me?” she demanded again, tension straining her face.

“I’m not following you,” he said. “I’m actually looking for someone else. But I remembered you and was curious.”

“You remembered me?” She sat back, frowning. “But we’ve never met.”

“No. But I’ve studied surveillance videos of both races.” And many others. “I remembered seeing your face.”

“That’s crazy,” she said. She didn’t seem as nervous now, but more annoyed, as she had been when she’d first challenged him in the lobby. “There were thousands of people at those races. Hundreds of thousands. Why would you remember me?”

“It’s what I do. It’s my job, actually. I’m paid to remember faces, and to recognize them when I see them again.”

She took a long drink of water, her eyes never leaving his. “I’m not sure that explanation makes sense.”

“You know how some people have photographic memories, right?”

“You mean they can read a phone book or encyclopedia and remember everything on the pages? I thought that was just something in movies.”

“No, it’s a real phenomenon. My brother is like that. Once he reads something, it’s committed to memory.” A familiar ache squeezed his chest at the mention of his twin brother. He’d give anything to know where Mark was now. To be assured he was safe.

“But it’s different for you?” Morgan prompted.

He nodded. “With me, it works a little differently. I never forget a face. Not if I’ve spent even a few seconds focusing on it.”

“I thought they had computers that could do that—scan video for familiar faces and stuff.”

“Facial-recognition software can’t compete with the human brain,” he said. “After riots in London in 2011, Scotland Yard’s team of super-recognizers identified 1200 suspects from video surveillance. Computer software identified only one person.”

“So I shouldn’t be flattered that you remembered me—it’s just something you do.”

“Some faces are more pleasant to remember than others.” He smiled, but she continued to regard him with suspicion.

Fine. He needed to be more suspicious of her, as well. “What were you doing at the races?” he asked.

“I’m a writer. I was covering the races for Road Bike Magazine.”

“So you work for the magazine?”

“No, I’m a freelancer. I write for a lot of different publications, though my specialty is bicycle racing.”

“Are you in Denver to cover the Colorado Cycling Challenge?”

“What if I am?”

And what if she was here to do more than write about the races? “I’m here for the race, too,” he said. “We’ll probably see each other again.”

“I never saw you at those other races.”

“I wasn’t there.” Before she could ask the obvious question, he said, “I saw you on surveillance video.”

She closed her eyes. Maybe she was counting to ten before she went off on him. When she opened them again, her voice was calm but chilly. “Why don’t we stop this game of twenty questions right now and you give me some straight answers. What is this about? Why were you looking at surveillance videos of me? Why were you following me just now?”

“You want the truth?”

“Of course I want the truth.”

“I wasn’t looking for you on those videos, but you stuck in my head. I remember a lot of people, but most of them don’t make any strong impression on me. But you did. I wanted to meet you and try to figure out why.” That was the truth in its simplest form. Basic attraction leads to impulsive action. His bosses would not approve.

“Seriously?” She stared at him.

He nodded. “You said you wanted the truth, and that’s it.”

“I can’t decide if that’s the worst pickup line I ever heard, or the best.” Some of the tension went out of her and she sat back, studying him.

“You have to give me points for originality,” he said.

This coaxed the beginnings of a smile from her. She had full lips, highlighted with a pink gloss. He wondered what it would feel like kissing those lips, then he pushed the thought away.

“So how does this memory thing of yours work?” she asked. “Do you just automatically remember everyone you’ve ever seen?”

“I have to focus on them for a few seconds, but yes, after that I’ll recognize them again.” As a small child, he thought everyone related to the world that way. Once he’d learned a face, he never forgot it. He remembered not only that he’d seen a person before, but where and what they’d been doing. Most of the time, it wasn’t a particularly useful talent, not like Mark’s memory for facts and written information. That talent had allowed him to breeze through school. He’d earned his PhD in physics before his twenty-fifth birthday, while Luke had been only an average student.

Then the FBI had come calling and he’d found his niche, the one place where his particular skill could make a difference.

Two men entered the bar, dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, engrossed in conversation. He’d seen the older one earlier on the street, buying coffee from a food cart. The other one was the wrong race for any of his suspects, though he filed the man’s face away for future reference, as was his habit.

“You’re doing it now, aren’t you?” Morgan asked. “Memorizing people.”

“It’s my job,” he repeated.

“Is that why you’re here—to memorize people at the bike race?”

“Let’s just say I’m here for work, and leave it at that.”

But he knew before he said the words that she wasn’t the type to leave it. “You’re looking for someone, aren’t you? Someone else you saw on those surveillance videos.” She went very still; he wondered if she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

“I really can’t talk about my assignment with a civilian. It’s confidential.” Maybe he’d already said too much.

“But I’m free to make an educated guess. And since you are a federal agent, I’d guess that you’re here because of the terrorist who’s been targeting bike races.”

“Let’s just say that after the bombings in Paris and London, there’s a big law enforcement presence at this race.” But only one small group was there with his assignment—to look for people who had been present when the other bombings occurred and bring them in for questioning. Only a handful of people had shown up at both the races where bombs had detonated, all of them men. Which didn’t mean others weren’t involved. That Morgan wasn’t involved.

“There was serious discussion about canceling this race,” she said. “The organization was just getting back on its feet after the doping scandals of several years ago, and now some nut job is setting off bombs at some of the biggest races.” She leaned toward him again, her voice low. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re looking for the bomber. Do you know who he is?”

Was she asking the question as a journalist or out of idle curiosity—or because she had a more personal interest in the answer? “I can’t say.”

“Of course, you know who he is. You said before you were here searching for someone who wasn’t me. You’re looking for the bomber.” She stared into his eyes, as if she could see into his head and decipher the image of the bomber there. “Why can’t you tell me who it is? I attend a lot of these races. Maybe I can help you find him.”

“Or maybe he’s a friend of yours and you’ll run right to him and tell him the FBI is looking for him.”

She gasped. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you but what you’ve told me.”

She tried to look wounded, but mostly she looked afraid. Because he’d hit too close to the truth? “Why does it matter so much to you?” he asked.

She stood, bumping the table and sending water from her glass sloshing onto the surface. “I have to go,” she said.

“What did I say to upset you?” He stood, but she had already brushed past him, hurrying out of the bar and into the lobby.

He started after her but stopped in the door of the bar. What would he do when he caught up to her? Clearly, she was done talking to him. And he had no reason to keep her, only a gnawing uneasiness that something wasn’t right.

Moving cautiously, keeping objects and other people between himself and Morgan, he followed her across the lobby. She stopped in front of the elevators and pulled out her phone, punching in a number. The anxiety on her face increased as she listened for a few seconds, then ended the call. She hadn’t said anything, and he had the impression whoever she’d been trying to reach hadn’t answered.

Had she been calling the bomber to warn him? His stomach knotted with a mixture of anger and disappointment. He didn’t want her to be guilty, but he couldn’t discard all the evidence that told him something wasn’t right.

The elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside. He moved from behind the pillar that had shielded him and her eyes met his. Beautiful eyes, filled with an aching sadness. The sense of loss hit him like a punch. He recognized that grief because he’d felt it himself. Who had she lost, and what had he done to cause her such fresh pain?

Chapter Two

Morgan choked back a sob as the elevator doors slid closed. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her arms tightly across her body, forcing the emotions back into the box she usually kept so tightly shut. By the time the elevator opened on the twelfth floor she felt more in control. She checked the hallway for signs of Agent Renfro. She wouldn’t have put it past the man to run up twelve flights of stairs to catch her outside her room. But the carpeted hallway, which smelled of old cigarette smoke overlaid with the vanilla potpourri that stood in bowls on tables by the elevators, was empty.

Safely in her room, she pulled out her phone again and hit the button to redial Scott’s number. She pressed the phone to her ear, listening to the mechanical buzz, then the click to his voice mail. His familiar voice, terse but cheerful, said, “Leave a message,” then came the disconnect. The mailbox had been full for months, and he never answered her calls. But she never gave up hope that one day he would pick up. And sometimes she called just to hear his voice. Three cryptic words that helped her believe he was safe and all right, somewhere.

She sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the still life of a bowl of fruit on the opposite wall, the colors blurring as she kept her unblinking eyes fixed on it. If only she could dull her emotions as easily. At first she’d been annoyed—and yes, a little intrigued—that the good-looking guy in the suit was following her. She was sure she’d never seen him before, but, unlike Agent Renfro, she didn’t have a good memory for faces. When he’d flashed his FBI credentials, she’d been afraid she might faint right there.

She’d been terrified he’d approached her because of Scott. He was in some kind of trouble—big trouble, if the feds were involved. She’d almost said as much but had swallowed the words. Why give the agent a name if he didn’t have it? Worse, why put Scott on his radar if she was mistaken and he was looking for someone else?

She’d let herself be a little flattered when Luke Renfro told her he remembered her and was interested in knowing her better. Clean shaven, with thick dark hair cut short and deep blue eyes, he was the kind of man who would make any woman look twice. Relief had filled her at the thought of innocent flirtation. The FBI agent was good-looking, and when she allowed herself to relax and feel it, she could admit to a certain sizzle in the air between them.

He was interesting, too, with his unusual talent for remembering people. It was like knowing someone who could do complicated math in his head, or someone who remembered the phone numbers of everyone he knew.

Except Luke’s talent had a more sinister side. His talk of the bombings hadn’t made her feel any easier. When he’d all but admitted he was looking for the bomber, she’d wondered again why he’d approached her. Maybe the line about wanting to meet her was just an excuse. Maybe he’d only been pretending not to know her name in order to see what she’d say. He could have stopped her because he knew about her connection to Scott and he wanted to see if she knew anything more.

As much as she told herself Scott would never do something so horrible, how could she really know? The man she loved wasn’t the man he had been lately. He might be capable of anything, even something as terrible as this.

“Scott, where are you?” she whispered. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

* * *

LUKE RETURNED TO his surveillance of the mall, alert for any sign of Morgan, as well as his suspects. Was she mixed up in the bombings somehow, or was she just an unneeded distraction from the more important work he had to do?

Dusk descended like a gray curtain as he made his way to his hotel, down the mall from the one where Morgan was staying. Once in his room, he shed his jacket and tie, and telephoned his supervisor to give his report. “No sign of any of our suspects,” he said. “But a lot of familiar racers, support people and fans are converging on the city. Maybe I’ll have better luck at the kickoff banquet tomorrow night.”

“Steadman thinks he saw one of our guys at the airport yesterday afternoon, but he lost him in the crowd.” Special Agent in Charge Ted Blessing had the smooth bass voice of a television preacher, and the no-nonsense demeanor of a man who was comfortable with wielding authority. “If Steadman is right, we’ve got to stop this guy before he makes his move.”

“If Travis says he saw the guy, he saw him,” Luke said. Though he had no doubt Blessing would go to the mat to support his team, the Special Agent in Charge had never bothered to hide his skepticism about the whole super-recognizer phenomena. “And if he’s here, we’ll find him.”

“Unless he gets past us again. He’s avoided detection so far. Which is one reason our analysts think he can’t be acting alone.”

“I thought they’d decided that he was a lone wolf. Has some group claimed responsibility for the other attacks?”

“No. But other intelligence has come in that points to a terrorist cell with links to each of the bombing locations. We’ve got people trying to track down a connection to Colorado right now. Plus, we finally have results from the tests on the explosives he used in the London bombing. Scotland Yard believes the bomber used military-grade C-4. Not impossible for a civilian to obtain, but not something you’d pick up at the local hardware store, either.”

“Maybe some of the other suspects on our list are involved.”

“Maybe. Anything else of interest I should know about?”

The image of Morgan’s frightened face flashed into his mind, but he pushed it away. “Nothing yet,” he said. He wasn’t ready to offer her up for the Bureau’s scrutiny. Not until he’d had time to try to discover her secret himself.

They said goodbye and ended the call and he retrieved his tablet from the room safe and booted it up. Time to do a little research into Morgan Westfield.

The knot in his stomach loosened a little as he read through the search engine results on her name. She’d been telling the truth about being a writer. Every hit featured one of her articles, mostly about cycling. He read through her recap of the Tour of Britain, caught up in her depiction of the excitement and tension of a sport he hadn’t thought much about before being assigned to his case. The Bureau had briefed him and his fellow agents on the basics—how races are organized into stages, which could combine circuit races, cross-country treks and individual time trials. He understood the concept of racing teams that worked together to support one or more favorite riders, and had read about the dedication of the men for whom professional racing was their life.

But those facts hadn’t breathed life into the events the way Morgan did in her article. Reading her words, he felt the struggle of the racers to meet the demands of the challenging course, the devotion of the fans who followed the peloton from stage to stage and the resources that went into putting on an event that was popular around the world.

He hesitated over the keys, then typed in another name, one he tried to refrain from searching but always came back to, month after month: Mark Renfro. The familiar links scrolled down the screen: an article Mark had written about the destructive potential of so-called dirty bombs, a piece for a scholarly journal on nuclear fission, a profile of him when he won a prestigious award from the University of Colorado, where he taught and conducted his research.

Farther down the page were articles about his disappearance almost a year before: Top Nuclear Physicist Missing. Professor Mark Renfro Missing, Feared Dead.

Luke read through that article, though he’d long ago memorized the text.

Mark Renfro, professor of nuclear physics at the University of Colorado in Boulder, has been reported missing after failing to return from a hiking trip in Colorado’s remote Weminuche Wilderness area. Professor Renfro set out alone to hike to the top of Wilson Peak on Monday, and has not been seen since a pair of hikers reported passing him on the trail at about noon that day. Renfro was an experienced hiker who had reportedly been struggling with depression since the death of his wife in a car accident six months earlier. One colleague at the university, who wished to remain anonymous, stated he feared Renfro had arranged the hike with the intention of committing suicide.

Luke exited the screen, familiar anger rising up inside him. Mark had not committed suicide. Yes, he’d been devastated by Christy’s death in the accident, but he would never have left their four-year-old daughter, Mindy, alone. Something had happened to keep him from coming back to the girl. Luke was certain his brother was still alive, and he would give anything to bring him back.

He’d driven Mark to the trailhead that day and arranged to meet him back there in two days. Luke’s work schedule had prevented him from accompanying his brother on the hike, but Mark had taken these solo treks before. “I get some of my best ideas out there with no one else around,” he’d said. Far from being depressed, he’d been in good spirits that morning. In the early hours, the sky showing the first faint hint of light, only one other car had been at the trailhead. Luke had scarcely glanced at the two dark figures inside. He wasn’t working, and he didn’t need to clutter his mind with more strangers’ faces.

But what if he had taken the time to memorize those men? Were they the key to finding his brother and he’d missed his chance? He closed his eyes and tried again to picture the scene, but his mind came up blank. All he saw was Mark’s face, smiling, eager to set out. Not the face of a man who was walking to his death.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, aided by a sleeping pill and a half hour of yoga, Morgan was feeling calmer. She headed down to the hotel’s free breakfast buffet, her mind on her plans for the day. In addition to writing several articles for Road Bike Magazine, she’d been hired to blog about each day’s race stage for the popular Cycling Pro website. Today she had an interview with an Italian rider who was one of the top contenders to win the race, then a Skype meeting with one of the UCI officials to get his views on the race. The Union Cycliste Internationale oversaw every aspect of sanctioned modern bicycle road races. In the wake of the bombings that had rocked other races, they had a lot riding on the success of this Colorado event.

Thoughts of the bombings brought her back to Agent Luke Renfro. He obviously knew more about the attacks than he was telling her. Maybe she needed to find him and pump him for more information. He’d said he was going to be around for the race. Maybe she’d spot him tonight, at the banquet to kick off the race festivities, before the racers headed out to the starting point in Aspen tomorrow. Under the guise of making small talk, she could question him, and maybe get a better feel for whether or not he was as dangerous to her peace of mind as he’d felt last night.

She found a table at the back of the breakfast room and was slathering strawberry jam onto a piece of wheat toast when Luke Renfro pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

Her initial pleasure at seeing him again quickly gave way to nervousness. Her heart fluttered and she had to set aside the knife before she dropped it. “What are you doing here?” she asked, avoiding meeting his gaze.

He was dressed more casually today, in a blue pinstriped oxford shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms lightly dusted with brown hair. He smelled of shaving cream—a clean, masculine scent that made her stomach flutter in rhythm with her racing heart.

“I had some more questions for you.” He unfolded a napkin across his lap, then picked up the mug of coffee he’d brought with him.

“You won’t tell me anything, so why should I share anything with you?”

“After I got back to the hotel last night, I went online and read some of your work. You’re very good. I’m curious why you’re a freelancer, and not on staff with one of the top cycling publications.”

She told herself it wasn’t creepy that he’d looked her up online. Everyone did it these days, whether they were checking out potential job applicants or prospective dates. So why did it make her so nervous that this particular man had been checking out her background? “Those staff jobs aren’t necessarily easy to come by,” she said. She sipped her coffee, her hands steady enough to drink it without spilling. “Anyway, I prefer the flexibility of freelancing.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday,” he said. “What, exactly, did I say that made you so afraid?”

“I wasn’t afraid.” Her voice squeaked on the last word and she looked away.

“You may be an excellent writer, but you’re a lousy liar.”

When she dared to look at him again he was smiling. His lack of hostility soothed her a little, and in that moment she made a decision. She pulled out her phone and thumbed to the picture library. She turned the screen toward him. “Is this the man you’re looking for?” Her voice quavered, and her heart pounded painfully, drowning out the clatter of cutlery and chatter of the diners around them.

She’d taken the photograph of Scott almost a year ago, on a hike in the Texas hill country, near their home in Austin. He stood with his slender frame leaning against a bent pine tree, a breeze blowing his blond hair across his face. He’d refused to smile for the camera or even to look directly at her. At the time, she’d thought he was merely being stubborn and moody; now she recognized the first signs that he wasn’t himself, that what he always referred to as “his demons” were getting the best of him.

“Who is this?” Agent Renfro asked, his expression giving away nothing.

“First, tell me if he’s your bombing suspect.” Even saying the words made her feel a little faint, but better to know the truth than to keep wondering.

“No.”

Relief flooded her, leaving her weak and shaky. She set aside the phone and sagged back against the chair. “Thank God,” she whispered, not even caring that he saw her so undone.

“But I’ve seen him before,” he said, his smile gone, his voice serious.

“Where?” she demanded. “When?” Was he all right? Was he safe? Was he in trouble?

“First, tell me who he is. And who he is to you.”

“He’s my brother. My older brother. Scott.”

Something—surprise?—flickered in Luke’s eyes. Followed by sympathy. He definitely didn’t look as threatening. “He was in London,” he said. “At the Tour of Britain.”

“Oh.” She put her fingers to her lips, too late to hold back the cry. To think that she’d been so close to him but hadn’t seen him.

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” Luke’s voice was gentle, his blue eyes full of understanding. “That’s why you freelance—so you can travel around and look for him.”

“Yes.” She swallowed, reining in her emotions. “He disappeared ten months ago. But before that, he was a bicycle racer. A really good one. He was part of the US Olympic team in London. Then the trouble started.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He began disappearing. He claimed to hear voices—his devils, he called them. He tried to hurt himself. Doctors diagnosed schizophrenia. They put him on medication and he began to get better. But he had to give up racing. He continued to follow the races and found work as a photographer.”

“When I saw him on the surveillance videos, he had a camera.”

She closed her eyes, summoning an image of her brother with his camera. In the memory, he was taking pictures of her, laughing and joking around. This was the memory she wanted to keep, not the one of the troubled young man who had left their family so bereft and confused.

She opened her eyes again and found Luke watching her, calm and patient, waiting for more. “We thought everything would be all right,” she said. “The medication had side effects—he gained weight, he couldn’t sleep—but we thought he had accepted that. That he was building a new life for himself. And then one day he just...vanished.”

“No signs of foul play?”

She shook her head. “Later, when we put all the pieces together, I realized there were warning signs—things we ignored because we wanted so desperately for things to be all right. He was unhappy. He stopped socializing with friends. And then we learned he’d stopped seeing his doctors. He didn’t refill his medication. He lied to us and told us everything was fine, but we should have known better. We should have seen the signs...”

His hand covered hers, warm and strong, pulling her out of the mire of guilt she’d almost allowed herself to slip back into. “Beating yourself up won’t bring him back,” he said.

She nodded and gently pulled out of his grasp, though reluctantly. He was so calm and steady, not freaking out at the mention of mental illness and not pulling away from her. She didn’t normally associate law enforcement officers with such empathy. The police who had responded when they’d filed a missing persons report on Scott had been coldly suspicious and unhelpful. They didn’t have time to waste searching for a twenty-six-year-old who’d decided to drop out of society; especially a twenty-six-year-old who was crazy.

“I’m going to ask you a question that’s going to be hard for you to hear,” Luke said. “But I want you to answer honestly.”

She nodded. Hadn’t she already asked a million hard questions of her own over the months since Scott had left?

“Do you think it’s possible that your brother has had anything to do with the bombings at bike races?”

“No!”

“But when we spoke yesterday—when I said I was looking for the bomber—that’s what you were afraid of, wasn’t it? That’s why you showed me his picture this morning?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “I thought you might believe it of him, but I don’t believe it,” she said. “Scott was never violent toward anyone else. Even when he was at his worst, he only tried to hurt himself, not others.”

“Mental illness can make people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do,” he said. “He may have a grudge against professional cycling since he’s no longer able to participate in a sport he loved.”

“But you only saw him at the one race, right? He wasn’t at the Paris Roubaix, where the first bomb exploded?”

“He wasn’t in any of the videos I saw.” He didn’t add that it was possible her brother had avoided the surveillance cameras; she was grateful for that.

“I don’t think he would be comfortable in a place where he didn’t speak the language,” she said. “Unfamiliar situations upset him, but he knew London from his racing days. He always liked it there.”

“Do you think your brother is here, in Denver?” he asked.

She nodded. “He trained in Colorado for the Olympics and he loved it here. For a while, he even talked about moving here. He has friends competing in the race, so that’s one more reason for him to be here.”

“What will you do if you find him?”

“I think if I could just talk to him, I could convince him to come home with me. There are other medications he can try, ones without as many side effects. I can help him get better if he’ll only give me a chance.”

“Do you think he’ll listen to you?”

“I hope so. We’ve always been close. Our mother died when I was seven and Scott was nine. My dad worked a lot, so it was just the two of us a lot of the time. I could always talk to him when no one else could.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him, and if I see him, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d really appreciate it.” It was probably the kind of offer anyone would make, but coming from him, it carried more weight. He was going to be looking closely at everyone associated with the race, and since he never forgot a face...

“If you see him, call me at this number.” She pulled a pen and notepad from her purse and scribbled her number, then slid the paper across to him.

He studied the number, then folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I guess that’s one way to get a pretty woman’s phone number,” he said.

His teasing tone surprised a laugh from her. She sipped more coffee and pretended to contemplate her now-cold breakfast, though she was really watching him through the screen of her lashes. A man who could make her laugh despite her sadness was remarkable, indeed. “I hope you’ll be in touch,” she murmured. And not just because of her brother.

Chapter Three

“See anybody familiar?”

“By this time, everyone here is familiar.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then, no. I don’t see anyone we’re looking for.” Luke stood with his friend and fellow Search Team member, Special Agent Travis Steadman, outside the hotel ballroom where the banquet to kick off the Colorado Cycling Challenge was set to begin in fifteen minutes. A crush of well-dressed men and women filled the hall, the slender athletes mingling with more robust race fans, national media and a good number of security personnel, both plainclothes and in uniform.

Scanning the crowd, Luke quickly identified racers, racing fans, hotel personnel and people he’d passed on the street since his arrival in Denver. But the crowd contained none of the suspects the team had identified from surveillance videos. “What about you?” he asked Travis. “Have you seen any of our suspects?”

The tall, laconic Texan frowned. “Not since I spotted Boy Scout in the airport yesterday. I can’t believe I let him slip away.” The team members had nicknamed the suspect Boy Scout for his slight build and clean-cut good looks.

“He’s been either very good or very lucky so far, but he won’t get away this time,” Luke said. “Not with the team here, actively looking for him.”

Travis nodded. “Everything points to him being here. A friend of mine with the Denver Police said they’ve heard a lot of rumblings that something big is going to go down at the race.”

“Then why not stop the race?” Luke asked. “Why risk lives?”

“The UCI won’t do it,” Travis said. “When nothing bad happened at the Tour de France this summer, they persuaded themselves they were in the clear. Never mind the intelligence we’ve received to the contrary.”

“Obviously, the feds are overreacting, as usual.” Luke repeated the complaint they heard too often in the news.

“The UCI are determined to prove they can run a safe race here in the States,” Travis said.

“You can bet it will come back on us if they don’t.” Luke shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and jingled his change, eyes still sweeping over the crowd. “What if we’re wrong and none of our suspects is the bomber?” he asked. “What if it’s one of the racers? Or a racing official?”

“The Bureau has other people looking at them,” Travis said. “We’re focused on the outliers, the people who don’t have a logical reason to be at every race where there’s been a bomb.”

“The people who we were lucky enough to capture on video,” Luke said. “I worry about the ones who slip past, unnoticed.” He’d let down his guard one time and failed to notice the men who might have the answers to what had happened to his brother. If Luke had been more vigilant, maybe Mark would be home right now with his daughter, instead of “missing, feared dead,” as the notation in the police file of his case indicated.

“Our man is here, I know it,” Travis said. “Focus on what we can do, not what we can’t.”

Good advice, though Luke found it hard to implement. He continued to scan the crowd, then stilled as he recognized a familiar blonde head.

“What do you see?” Travis asked. He leaned closer, following Luke’s gaze, then nudged him in the side. “The woman in the blue dress? Definitely a knockout.”

Morgan had traded her jeans and tank top for a formfitting evening gown of a shimmery, iridescent blue silk. She carried a cocktail in one hand, a small silver evening bag in the other and turned her head from side to side, as if searching for someone.

“She looks familiar,” Travis said. “Someone from our videos?”

“She’s a journalist, writes for racing magazines,” Luke said. At that moment, Morgan turned in his direction and their eyes met. The now-familiar jolt of connection went through him, and he started toward her.

“Hey, Luke. I was hoping I’d see you here.” She touched his arm. “What a crush, huh?”

“Yeah, a lot of people.” But he wasn’t looking at any of them anymore, only her.

“See anyone, uh, interesting?” Her eyes filled in the question behind the question—had he seen her brother?

He shook his head, but before he could say more, Travis inserted himself between them. “Since Luke’s not going to introduce me, I’ll have to do it myself,” he said. “I’m Travis Steadman.”

“Hello, Mr. Steadman.” She shook his hand. “Are you with the FBI, too?”

He grinned. “How did you know?”

“You have that look about you.”

“What kind of look?” Luke asked.

“Very official.”

“It’s an unfortunate side effect of our training,” Travis said.

“Are you two headed to Aspen for the first stage of the race tomorrow?” she asked.

Was she making conversation or asking for another reason? Luke hedged his answer. “I’m not sure. What about you? Do you follow the racers around the state?”

She shook her head. “I wish I could, but it’s not in my budget. As the racers get closer, I’ll make a few day trips, maybe get in a few interviews with the top athletes. But most of the time I can stay in Denver and follow the race on television. At the end of the week, I’ll be in a good position to report on the final stage of the race and the results.”

Luke liked this answer. Unless his superiors changed their minds, the plan was for him and a few others to stay in Denver all week, as well, while the rest of the team followed the racers. Previously, the bomber had waited until the last day of the races to make his move, when the biggest crowd and the most media coverage were in place. But there was no guarantee he’d stick to that pattern. Meanwhile, maybe Luke and Morgan would have the chance to get to know each other better.

The crowd began to move toward the ballroom doors. “I guess it’s time to go in,” Travis said.

“May I?” Luke offered Morgan his arm. “That is, if you haven’t already arranged to sit with someone else.”

“No, um, that would be nice.” She laid her hand on his arm, a touch as light as a butterfly, yet he felt it all the way up to his chest. He was definitely in trouble, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to get out of it. At least not yet.

By the time they made it inside, most of the tables near the front were already full. Travis steered them toward an empty table at the back, near the kitchen. “Not most people’s idea of choice seating,” he said, “but it works better for our purposes.”

“I get it,” she said, as she took the chair Luke held for her. “It’s a good place to watch the rest of the crowd.”

“She’s a fast learner.” Travis took the chair on one side of her, while Luke sat on the other side. “How did you two meet?” Travis asked.

“Um...” She glanced at Luke.

“I recognized her from the surveillance video and started following her,” Luke admitted. “She caught me and demanded to know what I was doing.”

“She caught you?” Travis grinned. “Didn’t we teach you better than that?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our mayor.” The introduction saved Luke from having to come up with a reply. As they ate their salads, a parade of local dignitaries made speeches praising the athletes, the sponsors, the spectators—pretty much everyone, up to and including the sanitation workers.

“Notice how no one’s mentioning the bombings,” Travis said.

“I’m sure it’s in the back of everyone’s mind,” Morgan said. “No sense putting more of a damper on the evening by bringing it up.”

“Where were you when the bombs went off in London and Paris?” Luke asked.

“You were at those races, too?” Travis was immediately more alert, focused on her. Luke sent him a quelling look.

Morgan didn’t appear to notice the exchange. “I was stuck on a shuttle in Paris,” she said. “Furious because I was missing the arrival of the winners at the finish line. By the time I got there, the ambulances were carrying away the injured. I realized how lucky I’d been.”

“And in London?” Travis asked.

“I was at the finish line, interviewing the leading American racer. We’d moved into the doorway of a building across the street to get out of the sun.” Her eyes met Luke’s, beautiful and troubled. “The explosion was so loud. It stunned us. We stared at each other and for the longest moment we didn’t hear anything else. Then someone screamed, and we knew it had happened again.”

He took her hand under the table and squeezed it. “I’m glad you were okay.”

“I knew the two racers who died that day,” she said. “I had interviewed both of them for an article before the race. They were nice guys, funny and easy to talk to.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why anyone would do something like that. Why resort to violence for the sake of violence?”

“Terrorists act to induce fear, and to draw attention to themselves,” Travis said.

“But why bicycle races?” she asked.

“It’s an international sport,” Luke said. “It’s popular and draws big crowds. Or maybe this person has a grudge against the sport or the athletes.”

“A former racer,” she murmured, and he knew she was thinking of her brother.

“It could be anyone.” He squeezed her hand. “First we find them, then we worry about their motives.”

An army of servers arrived to clear the tables and deliver the entrées—some kind of chicken over rice, in a maroon-colored sauce. Luke leaned over and whispered to Morgan. “Any idea what this is?”

“Not a clue.”

Luke ate without tasting the food, one eye on the crowd, the rest of his attention focused on the woman beside him. She was definitely more relaxed now, though with an underlying sadness he understood. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t involved with the bombings, he reminded himself. But his instincts told him no. She was exactly what she appeared to be: a journalist covering the races, and a sister looking for her missing brother. The two of them had more in common than she knew.

A commotion near the front of the room drew his attention. At the table directly in front of the podium, people were standing. “Someone call an ambulance!” a man shouted.

Luke and Travis rose as one, shoving back their chairs. “What’s going on?” Morgan asked, her fork paused, halfway to her mouth.

“We’re going to find out,” Luke said. He pushed his way toward the front table, Travis on his heels. “Security,” he said, flashing his badge when a man tried to block his way.

“What happened?” Travis asked when they reached the table.

“The president has had some kind of attack.” The thin-faced man spoke with a French accent.

“I fear he is dead,” an older woman in a black evening gown said.

“The ambulance is on its way,” the first man said.

Union Cycliste Internationale President Alec Demetrie was a familiar figure to Luke, and to anyone in the professional cycling world. But the inert, ashen-faced man slumped in his chair was almost unrecognizable. Luke felt for a pulse but couldn’t find even a flutter. He met Travis’s gaze and shook his head.

“What happened?” Luke asked the woman, who he recalled was the president’s wife.

She took a deep breath, visibly pulling herself together. “He had a few bites of the entrée and complained of it tasting off. I told him he should send it back to the kitchen, but by then he was already unwell. I tried to get the attention of one of the waiters, then Alec slumped in his chair and...and...” She stared at her husband, unable to say more.

“Paramedics, let us through!”

Luke stepped back to allow two uniformed EMTs to reach the president. He motioned for Travis to follow him some distance away from the table and was surprised when Morgan joined them. “Is he dead?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Luke nodded. “What do you think?” he asked Travis.

“Maybe he had a heart attack,” Travis said. “But I think we’d better make sure someone takes that plate as evidence.”

“I overheard what the woman said about the food tasting odd,” Morgan said. “Do you think someone poisoned him?”

“I think I’d like to check out the kitchen,” Luke said.

“I’ll question the waitstaff.” Travis nodded toward the dozen or so black-clad servers who stood along the back wall.

Morgan turned to Luke. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” He didn’t like to involve civilians in his work. And if there really was a poisoner in the kitchen, the situation could be dangerous.

“You can’t stop me,” she said, then slipped her arm in his. “Besides, you’re less likely to arouse suspicion in the culprit if you look like a diner interested in complimenting the chef, instead of an FBI agent snooping around.”

“I never worry about looking suspicious.” But he covered her hand with his own to keep it in place on his arm.

“Right. Because you’re an FBI agent and whatever you do is right.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I think the attitude comes with the badge.”

“You don’t look too upset about it.”

A sly smile curved her lips. “I like a man with a little attitude.”

At the kitchen door, they had to push their way through a crowd of workers who had gathered to view the excitement in the dining room. “What’s going on?” asked a man in a white chef’s toque and apron.

“One of the diners became ill,” Luke said. He scanned the crowd of workers, searching for a familiar face.

Not all the workers had left their duties to gawk at the door. A dishwasher stood with his back to them, rinsing dishes, seemingly oblivious to the commotion. Another worker carried a trash bin to the back door. As he reached the door, the dishwasher moved to open it for him.

Faster than he could articulate the information, Luke’s brain processed the data his eyes transmitted: young male, early to midtwenties, slight, athletic build, five-eight or five-nine, clean shaven, short brown hair. “You there, by the door,” he called.

The man dropped the trash can and reached behind him. Time slowed as Luke drew his weapon from the holster beneath his jacket. Light glinted off the barrel of the gun the suspect they’d dubbed Boy Scout pulled from his waistband. Morgan screamed, then launched herself toward Luke as shots rang out.

They fell together, Luke propelled backward, crashing against a counter, Morgan sagging against him. Adrenaline flooded his system and he struggled to right himself, gripping his weapon in one hand, pulling Morgan up beside him with the other. “Are you all right?” he demanded, forcing himself to look for the wound he was sure was there.

“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. “I had to stop you.”

“Are you all right?” he asked again. No blood stained her gown, but he knew the man at the door had been aiming right at them.

“I’m fine.” She struggled to pull away from him, but he held her firmly. “I couldn’t let you shoot him.”

The shooter had missed. Luke glanced toward the back door. Both the men who had been there were gone, the door standing open, the trash can on its side.

He gently set Morgan aside and raced to the door. The alley outside was empty, with no sign of the two men, and no apparent place for them to hide. He pulled out his phone and called his boss. “We’ve got a shooter on the loose,” he said as soon as Blessing answered. “Two men took off on foot from the kitchen of the hotel.” He gave a brief description of each man. “I’ll be in touch after I’ve finished assessing the situation here.”

He holstered his weapon and returned to the kitchen. Around him, the voices of the others in the room rose, full of questions and protests. He ignored them and found Morgan, standing where he had left her, shoulders hunched, expression stunned. He slipped his arm around her and guided her to a quiet corner. “Who did you think I was shooting at?” he asked.

“The dishwasher. I know you think he’s guilty, but he’s not. He would never...”

“Shh.” He put two fingers to her lips. “I was aiming for the other man. The one by the trash can. Didn’t you see the gun in his hand?”

Confusion clouded her eyes. “A gun? I wasn’t looking at him. I was watching the dishwasher. He was...”

“I know.” He laid her head against his shoulder and smoothed his hand down her back. “I recognized him, too. He was your brother.”

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