Lawman Protection

“Even if it means destroying historic landmarks or using public land for private gain?”

She nodded. “I met some of his fans—everybody from property rights lobbyists to extremist groups who believe everything the government does is wrong.”

“So if he wanted to do something illegal, he could probably find people to help him.”

“I’m sure. And they don’t have to be fans of his—he has enough money to pay anyone to do what he wants. For some people that’s enough.”

He had enough money to buy a drone and a black-market missile to arm it. And people who’d cheer him on as he did so. “I’ll probably have more questions for you later, but right now, let’s change the subject to something less grim,” he said. “Why did you decide to be a reporter?”

She laughed, and the sound sent a tremor through his middle. “You don’t have to sound so disgusted. I’m not an ax murderer.”

He winced. “Sorry. Let’s just say a lot of my interactions with the press haven’t been positive.”

“I can’t imagine.” Suppressed laughter again.

Point taken. “So I’m not Mr. Personality. But I really do want to know what drew you to journalism.”

She sat back and took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for an ordeal. “All right, I’ll tell you. When I was nineteen, a freshman in college, my older sister disappeared. She was a nurse, working nights at a hospital. She got off her shift early one morning and was never seen or heard from again.”

He felt the pain behind her words, despite her calm demeanor. “How awful for your family,” he said, the words completely inadequate.

She nodded. “Sherry had left once before without telling the rest of us—she’d run off to Vegas with a guy she was dating for a wild weekend. At first the police suspected a repeat of that caper. We tried to tell them that this time was different, but they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t take the case seriously until we went to the newspapers. A reporter took an interest in the case and helped us. Eventually, the police found her body, not far from the hospital. She’d been murdered. They never found her killer.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand and sipped wine. “Anyway, that reporter inspired me. I wanted to help others the way she helped our family. Sometimes that means riding the police—reminding them to do their job.”

“Those questions you asked about Lauren Starling.” Understanding dawned.

She nodded. “She’s another woman who’s gone missing, and no one is doing anything about it.”

“We are keeping our eyes open for any sign of her. But we don’t have anything else to go on.”

“I’m still trying to find out more about her and the case,” she said.

“If you learn anything, let me know,” he said. “I’m not a callous jerk, no matter what kind of first impression I gave you.”

She patted his hand, which still rested on the table in front of her. “You still have a chance to redeem yourself.”

They finished the meal over espresso and small talk about each other’s background. He told her about growing up in a military family, playing football, then joining the marines and eventually moving into law enforcement with the FBI. “No wife or family?” she asked.

“I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I guess I’m one of those men who’s married to his work. No kids. What about you?”

She shook her head. “I was engaged once, but we both thought better of it.”

By the time Ray brought the check, Graham felt almost comfortable with her. He debated asking her out for a real date, but decided to wait. He’d be sure to see her again; the case gave him a good excuse to do so. No need to rush things and risk screwing up.

He walked her to her Jeep and lingered while she found her keys and unlocked the car door. “Here’s my personal cell.” He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me anytime.”

“About the case—or just to talk?” Her tone was teasing.

“Either. Maybe you’d like to give me your number?”

“I could make you work for it. I’ll bet the FBI could find it out.”

“I probably could, but I’d rather you gave it to me voluntarily.”

She smiled and opened her purse. But she never had a chance to write down her number. The loud crack! of gunshots shattered the afternoon silence. Her screams rang in Graham’s ears as he pushed her to the ground.

Chapter Three (#ulink_ddd28833-1dcd-58f5-b7a4-bfc4a2d81875)

Emma might have fantasized about Graham on top of her, but not like this. Gravel dug into her back, she couldn’t breathe and her ears rang from the sound of gunshots. The smells of cordite and hot steel stung her nose, and she realized he had drawn a weapon and was firing. A car door slammed and then a revving engine and the squeal of tires signaled their assailant’s escape.

Graham rolled off her, then took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She brushed dirt from her skirt, and tried to nod, but she’d always been a lousy liar. Her legs felt like jelly and she was in danger of being sick to her stomach. “I think I need to sit down.”

Ray and Lola emerged from the restaurant and crowded around them, followed by most of the waitstaff and half a dozen customers. “We called 911,” Lola said. “What happened?”

“Someone shot at us.” Graham put his arm around Emma. She leaned on him and let him lead her back inside. The reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. They could have been killed—but why? “Can you bring us some brandy?” he asked.

Ray left and returned with a snifter of brandy. Graham held it to Emma’s lips. “Drink this.”

She did as he asked, then pushed the glass away, coughing, even as warmth flooded her. “I don’t even like brandy,” she gasped.

Graham handed her a handkerchief. It was clean, white linen and smelled of lemon and starch. She wiped her watery eyes, leaving a smear of black mascara on the pristine cloth. “If this is a typical date with you, I think I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”

She tried to return the handkerchief, but he waved it away. “You keep it. I promise you, this isn’t typical.”

“Did you see anything?” she asked. “The shooter, or their car?”

“A man dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and a watch cap. He drove a dark sedan, no license plate.”

“I’m impressed you saw that much—I didn’t see a thing.”

“I make it a habit to notice things. The car was parked at the corner, waiting for us.”

“So this was planned—not a random drive-by.” She searched his face, hoping for some reassurance, but his expression was grave. Worried.

“I don’t think so, no. Do you know anyone who might want you dead?”

The question brought another fit of coughing. “Don’t sugarcoat it, okay?” she said when she could talk again. “What do you mean, does someone want me dead? What kind of a question is that?”

He patted her shoulder, his hand warm and reassuring. But these definitely weren’t the circumstances in which she wanted to be bonding with a guy. “Can you think of any reason someone would want to shoot at you?” he asked.

The idea was as unsettling as the shots themselves. “No. I’m just a writer. And a nice person. I don’t have enemies.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you’ve written a story that’s upset someone.”