She shook her head and wrenched away from him. “I...I do know him,” she gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand, fighting nausea.
“Who is he?” Ellison demanded.
“His name is Bobby Pace. I... He... We were dating. I went out with him two nights ago.”
The stricken look on Emma Wade’s face made Graham feel like the lowest form of jerk. He’d been furious with her for nosing her way into his investigation, but that didn’t give him the right to treat her so cruelly. “Come on.” He put his arm around her and turned her away from the sight of the dead man. “I’ll take you back to headquarters and we can talk there.”
“I’ll be fine.” She tried to rally, but fresh tears streamed down her face.
“I’ll have one of the officers bring your Jeep,” he said. “You come with me.”
She didn’t protest as he helped her into the Cruiser. “Bring her Jeep with you when you come back to headquarters,” he told Randall, then he climbed into the driver’s seat.
Neither of them said a word as the vehicle bounced over the rough terrain. He kept stealing glances at her. She’d stopped crying, and was staring out the windshield with the look of someone who wasn’t seeing what was right in front of her. Even in her grief, she was beautiful; he fought against the desire to hold and comfort her. She was a reporter, and a potential witness in his case. He needed to fight his attraction to her and keep his distance.
At headquarters, he led her into his cramped office at the back of the trailer and moved a stack of binders to make room for her in one of the two folding chairs in front of his desk. The administrative assistant who helped deal with the mountains of paperwork the job entailed was off today, so they had the building to themselves, at least until the rest of the team got back from the crash site. He opened a bottle of water from the case that sat in the corner and handed it to her, then pulled the other folding chair alongside her. “First, I apologize for being such a jerk back there,” he said. “I get a little...intense, sometimes.”
“And you don’t like the press.” Her eyes met his over the top of the water bottle. They were the green-gold of dragonflies, he thought, fringed with gold-tipped lashes.
Focus, he reminded himself. “The press sometimes makes my job more difficult.”
“And men like you make my job more difficult.” Amusement glinted in those beautiful eyes, and he had to look away.
“What can you tell me about the man in the plane?” he asked. “Was he the pilot?”
“Bobby was a pilot. I never saw his plane, but I know he owned a Bonanza.”
“You and he had been dating?” Some emotion he didn’t want to look at too closely—jealousy?—pinched at him and he pushed it away. “For how long?”
“We only went out a few times. We weren’t lovers, just friends. He was having a hard time and needed someone to talk to.”
“What do you mean, having a hard time?”
“His little boy is sick, and needs a lot of expensive care. Bobby was worried about money—that’s the reason he took the job with Richard Prentice, even though he couldn’t stand the guy.”
“He worked for Richard Prentice?”
She nodded. “That’s how we met. I wrote a profile of Prentice for the Post last year. Bobby was kind of like a chauffeur—he piloted his Bonanza, or sometimes he flew a plane Prentice owned. He was on call to take Prentice wherever he needed to go.”
“When you saw him two nights ago, did he say anything about doing a job for Prentice the next day, or the next?”
“No. We didn’t talk about work. And he didn’t just fly for Prentice. He worked for anybody who wanted to hire his plane. He taught flying lessons, too.” She set the still-full water bottle on the desk and leaned toward him. “What happened? Did the plane crash because he was shot, or did that happen after they were on the ground?”
“We don’t know, though someone would have to be pretty stupid to shoot the pilot while they were still in the air.”
“You’re sure there was a passenger?”
“We’re not sure about anything. But someone shot your friend, and someone took the cargo that was in the plane. And we found fresh tracks that looked like a truck or another big vehicle pulled up alongside the wreckage.” He clamped his mouth shut. He was telling her too much.
“I saw the busted-up crate,” she said. “What was in it?”
“We don’t know that, either.” Though Marco Cruz, the DEA agent who’d been patrolling with Randall, had recognized the markings on the crate.
“Do you think this is connected with Richard Prentice?” she asked. “Is he running a smuggling operation?”
“We don’t know. How well do you know him? You said you wrote a profile for the paper?”
“I spent two weeks visiting his home and shadowing him as he conducted business. He was charming. Arrogant, but when you have as much money as he does, maybe it comes with the territory.”
So she thought Prentice was charming? The idea annoyed him, probably more than it should, but he wasn’t going to waste any more time playing the polite card. “I’ll need you to tell me everything you know about Richard Prentice. And I want to see all your notes, recordings and any other material you collected while researching your article.”
“I’m not one of your officers who you can boss around, Captain,” she said. “If you really want that information, you can get a subpoena.” She stood, her face flushed, eyes practically snapping with fury. “And if you want to know about Richard Prentice, read the article.” She stalked out of his office, slamming the door hard behind her.
He stared after her, stomach churning. So much for his attempt to not be a jerk around her. But the thought of her and that arrogant billionaire...
“Captain! Wait ’til you hear this.” Marco Cruz, trailed by Randall Knightbridge, burst into the headquarters trailer. Lean and muscular, with skin the color of honey, Marco was the epitome of the strong, silent type. But at the moment, his face was more animated than Graham could remember ever seeing it.
“What’s up?” he asked, rising to meet them.
“I made some calls to some people I know,” Marco said. “I think my hunch about what was in that crate was right.”
“So what was in it?” Graham had no patience for top secret time-wasting, not when the agencies were supposed to be working together.
“I thought the crate looked just like the ones the military uses to ship Hellfire missiles. My sources in the army tell me they’ve had a few come up missing the last couple of years.”
“What, they just lost track?” Graham asked.
“That’s what I said,” Randall said. “But I guess people steal them to sell on the black market.”
“So what was a Hellfire missile doing in that plane?” Graham asked. “Provided that’s what was really in that box.”
“Hellfire missiles are what they use to arm unmanned drones,” Marco said.
The hairs on the back of Graham’s neck stood up. “Anybody with enough money can buy a drone from a private company. It’s not illegal.”
“But only someone with a Hellfire missile can arm that drone,” Marco said.
“Who around here owns a drone?” Graham asked.
Marco