Colorado Crime Scene. Cindi Myers
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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.”
“What do you think you’re doing, you idiot? You can’t come in here shooting up my kitchen!” Luke looked up into the florid face of the chef, who held a cleaver in one hand, the other curled into a fist.
“I’m a federal agent.” Luke gently separated himself from Morgan. “I have to go,” he said, to her, not the cook. “Maybe I can still catch them.”
She nodded and pushed him toward the door. “Go. Hurry.”
He raced past the gaping chef, skirted the fallen trash can and the lettuce shreds and potato peelings that spilled from it, and pounded into the alley. At the end he looked down the street filled with cars and pedestrians. Taxis and limos jostled for space with more modest sedans across four lanes of traffic idling at the red light on the corner. Half a block farther on, a light rail train blasted its horn as it pulled out of the station. His quarry could be anywhere by now—in one of the taxis or cars, on that train, or hiding in a dark alley nearby.
“You looking for those two who hightailed it out of there a minute ago?”
The raspy tenor voice came from a tall, thin black man who leaned against the brick wall a few feet to Luke’s left, one foot propped against the brick, a cigarette glowing in his right hand.
“Which way did they go?” Luke asked.
“Both ways. They split up. Which one did you plan on shooting?”
Luke realized he still held the gun in his right hand. He replaced it in the holster beneath his left arm. “The man with the short brown hair—which way did he go?”
The man straightened, both feet on the ground. “I didn’t pay attention to what either of them looked like,” he said. “I just know they were bookin’ it. I thought I heard gunshots, so I figured I’d best stay out of the way for a while.”
“Did you see either of them get into a car or taxi, or onto the train?”
“No. They were both running. I’d just stepped out for a smoke in time to see them leaving.” He snuffed out the cigarette against the brick. “And now it’s time for me to get back to work.” With that, he sauntered back into an alcove and took the stairs down a level to a club, The Purple Martini, spelled out in purple neon above the door.
Luke had little hope of finding either Morgan’s brother or his suspect now, but he had to make an effort. He set out walking, past The Purple Martini and a string of closed shops. As he walked, he pulled out his phone and called Travis. “Our suspect got away. He took a shot at me, then ran out the back door. I’m going to show his picture around on the street, but unless we get really lucky, he’s gone.”
“I heard the shot, but by the time I got to the kitchen it was all over but the crying,” Travis said. “The chef is ranting at anyone within earshot and Morgan looks like she’s seen a ghost.”
“See that she gets back to her hotel okay.”
“What happened?” Travis asked.
“I’ll tell you the story later. For now, I want to keep looking. It’s possible the suspect is still on foot downtown.”
“I’m on it.”
He ended the call, then scrolled to his photo album. The picture he had of their suspect was a grainy image from a surveillance video, but it showed his face and general build. He approached a group of young people gathered on the corner, waiting for the light to change. “Have any of you seen this man around tonight?” he asked, holding out his phone.
“Who wants to know?” demanded a beefy blond whose flushed cheeks and bright eyes suggested he’d had a few drinks.
“FBI.” Luke flashed his creds and the blond gaped, while his friends crowded close to study first the credentials, then the image on Luke’s phone.
One by one they shook their heads. “Sorry.”
“No, haven’t seen him.”
“What’s he done?” the blond asked.
“We want to talk to him in connection with a case we’re working on.”
He moved on to others. Everyone studied the picture, frowning in concentration, but no one remembered seeing the suspect. About the results Luke had expected. Most people didn’t really look at others. Even when they did,