style="font-size:15px;"> “I’m sure it’s in the back of everyone’s mind,” Morgan said. “No sense putting more of a damper on the evening by bringing it up.”
“Where were you when the bombs went off in London and Paris?” Luke asked.
“You were at those races, too?” Travis was immediately more alert, focused on her. Luke sent him a quelling look.
Morgan didn’t appear to notice the exchange. “I was stuck on a shuttle in Paris,” she said. “Furious because I was missing the arrival of the winners at the finish line. By the time I got there, the ambulances were carrying away the injured. I realized how lucky I’d been.”
“And in London?” Travis asked.
“I was at the finish line, interviewing the leading American racer. We’d moved into the doorway of a building across the street to get out of the sun.” Her eyes met Luke’s, beautiful and troubled. “The explosion was so loud. It stunned us. We stared at each other and for the longest moment we didn’t hear anything else. Then someone screamed, and we knew it had happened again.”
He took her hand under the table and squeezed it. “I’m glad you were okay.”
“I knew the two racers who died that day,” she said. “I had interviewed both of them for an article before the race. They were nice guys, funny and easy to talk to.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why anyone would do something like that. Why resort to violence for the sake of violence?”
“Terrorists act to induce fear, and to draw attention to themselves,” Travis said.
“But why bicycle races?” she asked.
“It’s an international sport,” Luke said. “It’s popular and draws big crowds. Or maybe this person has a grudge against the sport or the athletes.”
“A former racer,” she murmured, and he knew she was thinking of her brother.
“It could be anyone.” He squeezed her hand. “First we find them, then we worry about their motives.”
An army of servers arrived to clear the tables and deliver the entrées—some kind of chicken over rice, in a maroon-colored sauce. Luke leaned over and whispered to Morgan. “Any idea what this is?”
“Not a clue.”
Luke ate without tasting the food, one eye on the crowd, the rest of his attention focused on the woman beside him. She was definitely more relaxed now, though with an underlying sadness he understood. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t involved with the bombings, he reminded himself. But his instincts told him no. She was exactly what she appeared to be: a journalist covering the races, and a sister looking for her missing brother. The two of them had more in common than she knew.
A commotion near the front of the room drew his attention. At the table directly in front of the podium, people were standing. “Someone call an ambulance!” a man shouted.
Luke and Travis rose as one, shoving back their chairs. “What’s going on?” Morgan asked, her fork paused, halfway to her mouth.
“We’re going to find out,” Luke said. He pushed his way toward the front table, Travis on his heels. “Security,” he said, flashing his badge when a man tried to block his way.
“What happened?” Travis asked when they reached the table.
“The president has had some kind of attack.” The thin-faced man spoke with a French accent.
“I fear he is dead,” an older woman in a black evening gown said.
“The ambulance is on its way,” the first man said.
Union Cycliste Internationale President Alec Demetrie was a familiar figure to Luke, and to anyone in the professional cycling world. But the inert, ashen-faced man slumped in his chair was almost unrecognizable. Luke felt for a pulse but couldn’t find even a flutter. He met Travis’s gaze and shook his head.
“What happened?” Luke asked the woman, who he recalled was the president’s wife.
She took a deep breath, visibly pulling herself together. “He had a few bites of the entrée and complained of it tasting off. I told him he should send it back to the kitchen, but by then he was already unwell. I tried to get the attention of one of the waiters, then Alec slumped in his chair and...and...” She stared at her husband, unable to say more.
“Paramedics, let us through!”
Luke stepped back to allow two uniformed EMTs to reach the president. He motioned for Travis to follow him some distance away from the table and was surprised when Morgan joined them. “Is he dead?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Luke nodded. “What do you think?” he asked Travis.
“Maybe he had a heart attack,” Travis said. “But I think we’d better make sure someone takes that plate as evidence.”
“I overheard what the woman said about the food tasting odd,” Morgan said. “Do you think someone poisoned him?”
“I think I’d like to check out the kitchen,” Luke said.
“I’ll question the waitstaff.” Travis nodded toward the dozen or so black-clad servers who stood along the back wall.
Morgan turned to Luke. “I’m coming with you,” she said.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He didn’t like to involve civilians in his work. And if there really was a poisoner in the kitchen, the situation could be dangerous.
“You can’t stop me,” she said, then slipped her arm in his. “Besides, you’re less likely to arouse suspicion in the culprit if you look like a diner interested in complimenting the chef, instead of an FBI agent snooping around.”
“I never worry about looking suspicious.” But he covered her hand with his own to keep it in place on his arm.
“Right. Because you’re an FBI agent and whatever you do is right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I think the attitude comes with the badge.”
“You don’t look too upset about it.”
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,
