Colorado Crime Scene. Cindi Myers
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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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