Graham Ellison and the deputy headed for a black-and-white FJ Cruiser parked on the side of the task force trailer. Emma fastened her seat belt and started her vehicle. The press conference had been a bust as far as gathering any new information, but she didn’t have to go home empty-handed. Wherever the captain was headed, maybe there was a story there.
He could refuse to answer her questions at the news conference, but he couldn’t keep her off public land. Fresh anger rose at the memory of his easy dismissal of the idea that Lauren Starling might be a concern of his precious task force. The police had had the same attitude ten years ago, when Sherry had turned up missing. The next thing Emma knew, she’d been attending her sister’s funeral. She gripped the steering wheel of the Jeep until her knuckles ached. Captain Ellison might think he’d heard the last from her about Lauren, but he was wrong. She wouldn’t let another family suffer the way hers had if she could help it.
She eased off the accelerator, letting the Cruiser get farther ahead. Unpaved roads made following easy—she could track the plume of dust that rose behind the speeding vehicle, her own vehicle hidden by the dirty cloud.
When the Cruiser’s tracks turned off the road, headed across the prairie, she hesitated only a fraction of a second before following. The Jeep bounced over the rough terrain, rattling her teeth, and she prayed she wouldn’t blow a tire. They were headed away from the canyon that gave the park its name, across an expanse of rocky ground pocked with sagebrush and piñon trees, deep into the roadless wilderness area where few people ventured. All that largely unpatrolled public land had proved attractive to the criminals who’d taken advantage of sheltered canyons and abandoned ranch buildings to plant marijuana, manufacture methamphetamine and smuggle people and illegal goods. Hence the need for the task force, though public opinion wasn’t convinced that the influx of law enforcement had been much of a crime deterrent.
The dust was beginning to settle around two black-and-white Cruisers by the time Emma parked the Jeep a few yards behind them. As she climbed out of her vehicle, she focused on the mass of wreckage behind the cops: the tail and one wing of a small plane pointed skyward, the nose crumpled against the prairie. She took a couple of pictures with her digital camera then, aware of at least two cops glaring at her, strode forward with all the confidence of a journalist who knows she has every right to be where these men didn’t want her.
“Stop right there, ma’am.” A rangy officer in a long-sleeved brown shirt, khakis and a buff Stetson stepped out to meet her. A blond-and-black police dog stalked at his side, golden eyes fixed on her.
“Hello, Officer. I’m Emma Wade, from the Denver Post.”
“You need to turn around and leave, Ms. Wade. This is a crime scene.”
“Oh?” She directed her gaze over his shoulder, to where the captain and two other officers were huddled at the door of the crashed plane. “What kind of crime? Was the plane carrying drugs? Illegal aliens? Some other contraband? Did anyone survive the crash? Do you know who the plane belongs to?” She took out her reporter’s notebook, pen poised. She didn’t really expect him to answer any of her queries, but sometimes interrogating men who were more used to assuming the role of interrogator yielded interesting results.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the plane, then back at her, his expression tense. “No comment,” he said.
“Then I’d better talk to someone else.” She started forward, but he put out his arm to stop her.
“You really need to leave,” he said.
“After I’ve driven all the way out here?” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll stay.”
“Then you’ll have to wait over there.” He motioned in the direction of her Jeep.
Clearly, he wasn’t going to let her any closer. Better to wait him out. “All right.” She replaced the notebook in her purse. “Tell Captain Ellison I have some questions for him when he’s finished.”
She turned and walked back to her vehicle, not in any hurry. Once there, she rummaged in the glove compartment until she found a pair of binoculars. She leaned against the Jeep and trained the binocs on the wreckage.
Debris littered the area around the crash—chunks of fiberglass and metal, a tire, a plastic cup, the remains of a wooden crate. She focused in on the crate and made out the words Fragile and Property of— Property of whom?
She scanned to the right of the crate and froze when she found herself looking into a pair of eyes the color of hot fudge, underneath craggy brows.
Angry brown eyes, she corrected herself, that belonged to Captain Graham Ellison. He glared directly at her and she gasped and drew back as he stalked toward her.
By the time he reached her Jeep, she’d lowered the binoculars and was doing her best not to look intimidated, though the site of the big bear of a man glaring at her was enough to make a guilty person tremble.
But she hadn’t done anything wrong, she reminded herself. “Hello, Captain,” she said. “What can you tell me about this plane crash?”
“Why did you follow me out here?” he asked.
“I’m a reporter. It’s what I do— I track down stories.” She took out her notebook and pen. “When do you think the plane crashed? It looks recent, considering the broken tree limbs are still green, and the scar in the earth looks fresh.”
“So now you’re an expert?” Irritation radiated from him like heat, but she was no longer nervous or afraid. His intensity excited her, both professionally and—she wasn’t going to analyze this now, only note that it was true—personally. Being attracted to Captain Ellison might complicate things a little, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t do her job.
“Not an expert,” she said. “But I’ve been a crime reporter for a while now. Who does the plane belong to? Do you know?”
“Whoever he is, he’s dead.”
“Oh.” Her pen faltered, leaving a scribble on the notebook. “I suppose it would be difficult for anyone to survive a crash like that.”
“Oh, he survived,” Ellison said. “Then someone put a bullet in him.”
She swallowed hard. She didn’t like this aspect of her work, dealing with violence. But finding justice for victims often began with exposing the particulars of the crime. “How was he killed?”
“He was shot. In the chest.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Who do you work for, again?”
“The Denver Post. I’m with the Western Slope Bureau.” She was the Western Slope Bureau. While she wrote stories about everything from local festivals to water rights, she specialized in crime reporting. The attempted arrest and subsequent murder of Raul Meredes had focused her attention on The Ranger Brigade—a romantic name for a disparate collection of officers from all the federal law enforcement agencies.
“If you’re so interested in this story, maybe you’d like a closer look.” He took her arm and pulled her toward the plane.
She didn’t protest. Clearly, he wanted to shock her, to frighten her even, but she’d seen death before. Whatever that plane held, she’d study it objectively and write about it later. She’d show the captain she was tougher than he thought. She wouldn’t be bullied or intimidated just because he didn’t like the job she was doing.
The pilot slumped sideways in his seat, safety belt still fastened, his shirt stained brown with dried blood. Flies buzzed around him, and she swallowed hard against the sickly stench that rose to greet her. “Recognize him?” the captain asked. He still held on to her arm, as if he feared she might bolt.
She started to look away, to shake her head, but that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? For her to be horrified and repulsed. She straightened her shoulders and