LITMIR.BIZ

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the soft floral aroma of her perfume, to the taste of wine that lingered on her lips, to the curve of her breasts against his chest and the strong line of her spine beneath his hand. He deepened the kiss, lost in the sensation of her.

      A flash of light to his left distracted him, and reluctantly he lifted his head to look around, a sleeper emerging from a wonderful, compelling dream. 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.

      “I’d better go. Good night.”

      She slipped from his arms and he curled his fingers into his palms to keep from pulling her back. She gave him a shy smile, then turned and walked away, hips swaying in the blue silk as she walked briskly down the sidewalk. He watched until she’d disappeared in a crowd at the corner, then turned toward the hotel to face a long night of unanswered questions.

      * * *

      THE MEMBERS OF Search Team Seven assembled the next morning in a conference room in the hotel that had hosted the banquet the night before. Luke slid into the seat next to Travis and nodded a silent greeting to the other team members. They all looked as weary and frustrated as he felt. Across from Luke, Gus Mathers stared at his phone, his eyes half-closed behind his black-framed hipster glasses. Next to him, Jack Prescott’s burly frame looked too big for the spindly folding chair. Farther down the table, the youngest members of the team, Wade Harris and Cameron Hsung, cupped hands around the takeout coffee they’d brought in. Even in their regulation suits, they managed to look like the college students they had been until only a few months before.

      The door opened and Ted Blessing strode in. He’d flown in on a red-eye and wore the look of a man who wasn’t happy about having his sleep disturbed. In his midforties, with mud-brown skin and closely cropped hair that showed no sign of gray, he favored tailored suits and had the ramrod-straight spine of the military officer he’d been before joining the Bureau. He laid a tablet computer on the conference table in front of him and studied his team, all of whom were now sitting up straight and at attention.

      “How is it that this man keeps getting away, when there are six of you and only one of him?” Blessing asked.

      The others cast furtive glances at one another. It wasn’t a question that had a good answer—or any answer. As usual, Jack was the first to speak. “He’s got to have accomplices, helping him get away,” he said. “Someone with a car waiting for him, and a safe place for him to hole up.”

      “We’re circulating his picture to all local law enforcement,” Wade said. “They’ll be on the lookout for him.”

      “He’ll dye his hair or put on glasses and they won’t recognize him if they trip over him,” Cameron said. Such disguises rarely fooled the recognizers on the team—they memorized facial composition, mannerisms and other details that couldn’t be hidden so easily.

      “I don’t want some local cop to nail him,” Gus said. “I want to nail him.”

      The others murmured agreement. Blessing sat, hands clasped on the table in front of him. “Let’s go over what we know so far. Agent Steadman?”

      Travis referred to the tablet in front of him. “We know our suspect was going by the name Danny in the hotel kitchen, but we’re pretty confident that isn’t his real name. We spoke with the day labor organization that supplies temp workers to the hotel. The supervisor tells me that a Danny Robinson, a sometimes homeless man with a history of alcoholism, was the man who was supposed to report for work in the hotel kitchen that night.”

      “His body was found wrapped in a tarp and stuffed in a culvert near Confluence Park, not far from downtown Denver.” Cameron picked up the story. “His throat was cut. We believe our suspect murdered him and took the hotel job in his stead, in order to get close to UCI officials.”

      “The chicken that President Demetrie ate tested positive for potassium cyanide,” Jack said. “We should have the autopsy results later this morning, but it looks like that’s what did him in. There was enough potassium cyanide in the dish that only a few bites would result in death within minutes.”

      “Did cyanide show up on any of the other plates?” Blessing asked.

      Jack shook his head.

      “So President Demetrie was definitely the target,” Gus said.

      “We don’t think so,” Travis said. “The covered plates with the entrées were stacked on trays and sent out by table. So the poisoner had a reasonably good chance of knowing that this plate would go to one of the tables of dignitaries seated at the front of the room, nearest the dais. But without the cooperation of the server, there was no way to be certain who would get that particular plate.”

      “So maybe the server helped him out,” Blessing said.

      “I spoke to the man who served that table,” Travis said. “He’s a longtime employee at the hotel. He says he never met our suspect, and witnesses back up his story. We’re still investigating, but if our suspect had help, I don’t think it was the server.”

      “What about the other guy in the kitchen—the dishwasher?” Cameron asked. “He and the suspect left together, right?”

      Luke shifted and all eyes turned to him. “The dishwasher’s name is Scott Westfield,” he said. “He’s a former pro cyclist who had to retire due to a medical condition. Since then, he’s traveled around, taking a series of odd jobs. He sometimes photographs races.”

      “What kind of medical condition?” Blessing asked.

      “He was diagnosed with schizophrenia.”

      “So, we’ve got a former racer, possibly upset at being made to retire, who’s mentally unstable.” Jack ticked the facts off on his fingers. “Sounds like the kind of guy who’d be happy to help our suspect. Maybe he’s even the one behind the bombings and our suspect is secondary.”

      “I don’t think so.” Luke hadn’t meant to speak up in Scott’s defense. After all, the evidence pointing to his involvement in the bombings was pretty damning. But Morgan’s faith in her brother had swayed him. “I can’t find any connection between Westfield and our suspect. Westfield had been working in the hotel kitchen a couple of days before our suspect hired on, and the rest of the staff didn’t notice any particular friendship between them.”

      “That kind of thing is easy enough to hide,” Wade said. “Westfield gets the job first to scope the place out, then our suspect joins him. The fact that they left together tells me they were working as a team.”

      “Maybe,” Luke conceded. “We need to find Westfield and question him.”

      “Oh, we’ll have plenty of questions for him,” Blessing said. He leaned forward. “But let’s not lose sight of the bigger picture here. We’ve got some intel pointing to a possible terrorist cell, possibly based here in Colorado.”

      “What kind of intel?” Luke asked, relieved that the focus had shifted away from Morgan’s brother, at least for the moment.

      “Some intercepted phone conversations that seem to point to a plan to sabotage transportation hubs in the region, and a report of suspicious activity at a private airport near Denver that was called in by a concerned citizen.” Blessing’s expression grew more grim. “Nothing concrete, but it’s worth paying attention to. We’ve got people working to follow these leads. For now, your job is to focus on finding our suspect and Scott Westfield. Don’t let them get away this time.” He stood, signaling the meeting was at an end, and the others rose, also. “Someone bring me the local papers. I want to see what the press is saying about all this.”

      As Luke turned toward the door, Blessing stopped him. “Agent Renfro, stay and talk to me for a minute.”

      Travis gave him a sympathetic look as he filed out with the others, leaving Luke alone with his commander. “Sit down.” Blessing indicated the chair to his right.

      Luke

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