whose name he couldn’t recall.
“When’d you have time to do that?” he asked.
“Last night,” she said without looking up, her leg swinging again.
“In a hurry to get me out of your hair?”
“Eeyup,” she responded as she opened the file, lifting her hand to the bridge of her nose, almost as if she were pushing up a pair of nonexistent glasses. When she realized what she’d done, she gave him a look.
“Contacts,” she murmured.
He’d wondered what had happened to the glasses.
“According to what you told my superiors, you’re suspicious about Randy Newell’s death.” She looked at him, her face serious. “If it’s too hard to discuss the death of your friend, just let me know.”
“Do it.”
She turned back to the file. “Forensics is looking at the debris right now, but so far you’re the only one who thinks something looked suspicious about the wreck.”
He nodded, remembering yet again the way Randy’s car had exploded. Just detonated. Fuel cell rupture. That’s what they claimed. It happened. Rare, but it happened.
And Randy had been inside.
“I have to be honest. I don’t see how someone could blow up a race car. They’d have to put the explosives inside the vehicle, but your tech inspection would’ve uncovered that. And what would be the motive? Terrorist act? If so, we’d have known by now. One thing about terrorists, they love to claim their work. And so if not that, maybe revenge? Revenge against who? You? Your driver?”
He felt her look over at him.
“Blain?”
He met her gaze, though he had to repeat her words in his head to remember what the question was.
“You all right?”
He told himself he was fine.
She grabbed his hand. “Blain?” she asked again.
He stared down at that hand. Her nails were short. No-nonsense. Not a lick of polish. Typical Cecilia.
“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, trying to focus on her, on the plane, on anything other than the sudden memory he had of Randy standing in the winner’s circle after they’d won their first race together.
She tilted her head toward his, forcing his attention. “I lost my partner a few years back.” She shook her head, still clasping Blain’s hand, squeezing it gently before she released it. “I still think about him every day.”
His breath hitched unexpectedly at the sadness in her eyes. She truly did seem to understand. “Actually,” he said gruffly, suddenly uncomfortable with his feelings, “I just don’t like flying.”
She drew back, her pretty eyes widening. And then her lids narrowed, her lips compressing just before she said, “Liar.”
He barked a laugh—just one little laugh—but it was the first since watching Randy’s car fragment into a thousand pieces.
He opened his mouth, about to thank her, but a voice came over the P.A. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. We need everyone to exit the plane. Immediately.”
Blain looked up, wondering what the hell was going on.
“Bomb threat,” Cece said, her eyes instantly and completely serious.
CHAPTER THREE
“IT WAS JUST a coincidence,” Cece told Bob from the privacy of her Las Vegas hotel room via a Bureau cellphone. She and Blain were staying at the Rodeo, a western-themed resort meant to make someone think she was in the Wild West…or a B movie. Knotty pine furniture and a lodgepole pine bed filled the room. Various horses and cowboys galloping to save helpless calves were depicted in the prints hanging on the wall.
“I’m sure of it,” she insisted. “Why would Blain’s bad guys call in a bomb threat?”
“I agree it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense,” Bob said. “But we have to treat this as if it’s not a coincidence.”
Her hand tightened around the palm-size phone. “I know, I know, but I still think the whole thing is a wild-goose chase. If someone wanted to blow up a racetrack, or an airplane, why not just do it? Why tell someone you were going to do it beforehand?”
“That’s what you’re there to investigate.”
“The letter about Blain’s driver was probably sent by some crackpot redneck mad at Blain for owning the car that beat his favorite driver,” Cece muttered. “Not a real murderer.”
“Look, Cece, it was a threat, and these days we have to take all threats seriously, including today’s. I’ll let you know what we find.”
She inhaled, knowing he was right. They’d taken a lot of heat for 9/11. Didn’t want to be caught with their pants down again. And, hell, these days a shopping list could get someone in trouble—if it had fertilizer and Clorox on it.
“When do you want me back?”
“As soon as you’re done making your report.”
The sooner the better, Cece thought. She didn’t like the way being around Blain made her feel. For a second there on the plane she’d been overcome by memories of her old partner, of the look on his wife’s face when she’d broken the news to her, and his kids’ faces at the funeral….
“Got that, Cece?”
“Roger,” she answered, stabbing the Off button without saying goodbye. This was no time to dwell on the past.
A knock sounded. Cece turned to the door. Blain. She’d told him to meet up with her the moment he’d settled into his room. Apparently that was now.
She crossed to the door, opening it.
“What’d he say?” Blain immediately asked, striding in without so much as a hello.
She shook her head, looking up and down the hall before stepping back into her room and closing the door.
“He said he’ll look into the threat,” she summarized.
Blain stopped in front of her one window, the Las Vegas strip stretching out behind him. Blinking lights flicked on and off, visible even in late morning. It was a warm day, despite it being early spring… not that you’d guess it was spring by the mud-brown mountains surrounding the city.
“Does he think it might be the same person who sent me the letter?”
“Look, Blain, it’s too early to tell. He’s going to have someone look into it. Meantime, I’m here to check things out.”
He didn’t seem pleased. Well, she wasn’t exactly thrilled, either.
“Are
