I’ve addressed the question already.” He turned away, aware of her gaze boring into him.
“Captain?”
He turned and found Lance, cell phone in hand. “I think you’d better take this call,” the deputy said. He handed the phone to Graham, then stepped forward to address the reporters. “We’re going to have to wrap this up now,” he said. “Thank you all for coming.”
At first, Graham thought the sheriff’s deputy had manufactured the call, as a ruse to end the press conference early. Points for him, Graham thought as he turned his back to the reporters and spoke into the phone. “Ellison here.”
“Captain, Randall here.” Randall Knightbridge was the Bureau of Land Management’s representative on the team. His voice was strained, putting Graham on alert; this was no fake call.
“What is it, Randall?”
“Marco and I were patrolling in the Curecanti Recreation Area and we came upon a plane wreck. It looks recent—within the last day or so.” Marco Cruz was with the DEA, probably the best tracker on the task force—well, the best, except for Randall’s dog, Lotte. “A Beechcraft Bonanza,” Randall continued. “One casualty—the pilot.”
“Give me your coordinates and I’ll send a team right away.” Graham pulled a notepad and pen from the front pocket of his uniform shirt.
Randall rattled off the GPS coordinates. “You probably want to come with the team,” he said.
Graham tucked the notebook back into his pocket and glanced over his shoulder at the departing press. The curvy blonde was trailing the pack, headed toward a red SUV parked at the far end of the lot. For a moment he was transfixed on the tantalizing sway of her backside as she moved away from him. Too bad she was a reporter...
“Captain?” Randall’s voice recalled him from his fantasies.
“I’m here. What were you saying?”
“I said, there’s some interesting cargo here you’re definitely going to want to see.”
* * *
EMMA WADE STARED at the captain’s back through the windshield of her Jeep Wrangler—broad shoulders, muscular arms and yes, a very nice rear end. In other circumstances, he was exactly the kind of guy she’d go for—big enough that she wouldn’t feel like an elephant next to him. Strong. Intelligent. Too bad he was a jerk.
He finished one call and immediately made two more, then barked something at the sheriff’s deputy at his side. She was too far away to hear the words, but the tension in his expression and body language made her sit up straighter. Something was up.
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.
