Lawman Protection. Cindi Myers
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and small talk about each other’s background. He told her about growing up in a military family, playing football, then joining the marines and eventually moving into law enforcement with the FBI. “No wife or family?” she asked.
“I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I guess I’m one of those men who’s married to his work. No kids. What about you?”
She shook her head. “I was engaged once, but we both thought better of it.”
By the time Ray brought the check, Graham felt almost comfortable with her. He debated asking her out for a real date, but decided to wait. He’d be sure to see her again; the case gave him a good excuse to do so. No need to rush things and risk screwing up.
He walked her to her Jeep and lingered while she found her keys and unlocked the car door. “Here’s my personal cell.” He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me anytime.”
“About the case—or just to talk?” Her tone was teasing.
“Either. Maybe you’d like to give me your number?”
“I could make you work for it. I’ll bet the FBI could find it out.”
“I probably could, but I’d rather you gave it to me voluntarily.”
She smiled and opened her purse. But she never had a chance to write down her number. The loud crack! of gunshots shattered the afternoon silence. Her screams rang in Graham’s ears as he pushed her to the ground.
Emma might have fantasized about Graham on top of her, but not like this. Gravel dug into her back, she couldn’t breathe and her ears rang from the sound of gunshots. The smells of cordite and hot steel stung her nose, and she realized he had drawn a weapon and was firing. A car door slammed and then a revving engine and the squeal of tires signaled their assailant’s escape.
Graham rolled off her, then took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She brushed dirt from her skirt, and tried to nod, but she’d always been a lousy liar. Her legs felt like jelly and she was in danger of being sick to her stomach. “I think I need to sit down.”
Ray and Lola emerged from the restaurant and crowded around them, followed by most of the waitstaff and half a dozen customers. “We called 911,” Lola said. “What happened?”
“Someone shot at us.” Graham put his arm around Emma. She leaned on him and let him lead her back inside. The reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. They could have been killed—but why? “Can you bring us some brandy?” he asked.
Ray left and returned with a snifter of brandy. Graham held it to Emma’s lips. “Drink this.”
She did as he asked, then pushed the glass away, coughing, even as warmth flooded her. “I don’t even like brandy,” she gasped.
Graham handed her a handkerchief. It was clean, white linen and smelled of lemon and starch. She wiped her watery eyes, leaving a smear of black mascara on the pristine cloth. “If this is a typical date with you, I think I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”
She tried to return the handkerchief, but he waved it away. “You keep it. I promise you, this isn’t typical.”
“Did you see anything?” she asked. “The shooter, or their car?”
“A man dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and a watch cap. He drove a dark sedan, no license plate.”
“I’m impressed you saw that much—I didn’t see a thing.”
“I make it a habit to notice things. The car was parked at the corner, waiting for us.”
“So this was planned—not a random drive-by.” She searched his face, hoping for some reassurance, but his expression was grave. Worried.
“I don’t think so, no. Do you know anyone who might want you dead?”
The question brought another fit of coughing. “Don’t sugarcoat it, okay?” she said when she could talk again. “What do you mean, does someone want me dead? What kind of a question is that?”
He patted her shoulder, his hand warm and reassuring. But these definitely weren’t the circumstances in which she wanted to be bonding with a guy. “Can you think of any reason someone would want to shoot at you?” he asked.
The idea was as unsettling as the shots themselves. “No. I’m just a writer. And a nice person. I don’t have enemies.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you’ve written a story that’s upset someone.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What about Richard Prentice? What did he think of the profile you wrote about him?”
“He said he liked it—that I’d made him sympathetic. I mean, that’s not what I set out to do, but that’s how he took it.”
“You said you’ve been a crime reporter. Has your reporting been responsible for putting any violent criminals away—people who might have vowed revenge?”
“I’ve reported on all kinds of crimes, but no one’s ever threatened me, or even sent me angry letters.” She knotted the handkerchief in her hand. “I thought that kind of thing only happened on television.”
He squeezed her shoulder, and she fought the urge to lean into him and close her eyes. No, she had to be strong. “Tonight, when you’ve had time to think about it, I want you to make me a list of every story you’ve reported on that led—directly or indirectly—to the conviction of someone,” he said. “We can run a check to see if any of them are out of prison. I’ll work with the local police to determine if any of those people have been seen in the area.”
“Shouldn’t you leave this to the local police entirely? I thought your territory was the public lands.”
He frowned. “It is. But when someone shoots at me, I take a personal interest.”
“So maybe this isn’t even about me.” The idea flooded her with relief. “Maybe the shooter was after you.”
“That’s possible.”
“Maybe whoever shot Bobby decided to go after you.”
“That’s taking a big risk, considering we have no leads in that case.”
“Maybe the person responsible doesn’t know that.”
He nodded. “Maybe not.”
“Sir?” A uniformed police officer stepped into the alcove where they were sitting. “I’m Officer Evans, with the Montrose police.”
“Captain Graham Ellison, FBI. And this is Emma Wade.”
“I’ll need a statement from each of you about what happened,” Evans said.
“Of course.”
A female officer joined them and led Emma away to question her about what had happened. Emma kept her answers brief; everything had happened so quickly she had few details to share. “What were you and Captain Ellison doing before the attack?” the officer asked.
“We were having dinner.”
“You two are dating?”
The dinner had been like a first date. But not. “I’m a reporter and I was questioning him about a case he’s working on.”
“What case is that?”
“The Rangers found a downed plane in Curecanti Recreation Area today. The pilot had been shot.”
The cop’s eyes widened. “Murder?”
“It