you think it’s possible that your brother has had anything to do with the bombings at bike races?”
“No!”
“But when we spoke yesterday—when I said I was looking for the bomber—that’s what you were afraid of, wasn’t it? That’s why you showed me his picture this morning?”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “I thought you might believe it of him, but I don’t believe it,” she said. “Scott was never violent toward anyone else. Even when he was at his worst, he only tried to hurt himself, not others.”
“Mental illness can make people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do,” he said. “He may have a grudge against professional cycling since he’s no longer able to participate in a sport he loved.”
“But you only saw him at the one race, right? He wasn’t at the Paris Roubaix, where the first bomb exploded?”
“He wasn’t in any of the videos I saw.” He didn’t add that it was possible her brother had avoided the surveillance cameras; she was grateful for that.
“I don’t think he would be comfortable in a place where he didn’t speak the language,” she said. “Unfamiliar situations upset him, but he knew London from his racing days. He always liked it there.”
“Do you think your brother is here, in Denver?” he asked.
She nodded. “He trained in Colorado for the Olympics and he loved it here. For a while, he even talked about moving here. He has friends competing in the race, so that’s one more reason for him to be here.”
“What will you do if you find him?”
“I think if I could just talk to him, I could convince him to come home with me. There are other medications he can try, ones without as many side effects. I can help him get better if he’ll only give me a chance.”
“Do you think he’ll listen to you?”
“I hope so. We’ve always been close. Our mother died when I was seven and Scott was nine. My dad worked a lot, so it was just the two of us a lot of the time. I could always talk to him when no one else could.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him, and if I see him, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d really appreciate it.” It was probably the kind of offer anyone would make, but coming from him, it carried more weight. He was going to be looking closely at everyone associated with the race, and since he never forgot a face...
“If you see him, call me at this number.” She pulled a pen and notepad from her purse and scribbled her number, then slid the paper across to him.
He studied the number, then folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I guess that’s one way to get a pretty woman’s phone number,” he said.
His teasing tone surprised a laugh from her. She sipped more coffee and pretended to contemplate her now-cold breakfast, though she was really watching him through the screen of her lashes. A man who could make her laugh despite her sadness was remarkable, indeed. “I hope you’ll be in touch,” she murmured. And not just because of her brother.
“See anybody familiar?”
“By this time, everyone here is familiar.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Then, no. I don’t see anyone we’re looking for.” Luke stood with his friend and fellow Search Team member, Special Agent Travis Steadman, outside the hotel ballroom where the banquet to kick off the Colorado Cycling Challenge was set to begin in fifteen minutes. A crush of well-dressed men and women filled the hall, the slender athletes mingling with more robust race fans, national media and a good number of security personnel, both plainclothes and in uniform.
Scanning the crowd, Luke quickly identified racers, racing fans, hotel personnel and people he’d passed on the street since his arrival in Denver. But the crowd contained none of the suspects the team had identified from surveillance videos. “What about you?” he asked Travis. “Have you seen any of our suspects?”
The tall, laconic Texan frowned. “Not since I spotted Boy Scout in the airport yesterday. I can’t believe I let him slip away.” The team members had nicknamed the suspect Boy Scout for his slight build and clean-cut good looks.
“He’s been either very good or very lucky so far, but he won’t get away this time,” Luke said. “Not with the team here, actively looking for him.”
Travis nodded. “Everything points to him being here. A friend of mine with the Denver Police said they’ve heard a lot of rumblings that something big is going to go down at the race.”
“Then why not stop the race?” Luke asked. “Why risk lives?”
“The UCI won’t do it,” Travis said. “When nothing bad happened at the Tour de France this summer, they persuaded themselves they were in the clear. Never mind the intelligence we’ve received to the contrary.”
“Obviously, the feds are overreacting, as usual.” Luke repeated the complaint they heard too often in the news.
“The UCI are determined to prove they can run a safe race here in the States,” Travis said.
“You can bet it will come back on us if they don’t.” Luke shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and jingled his change, eyes still sweeping over the crowd. “What if we’re wrong and none of our suspects is the bomber?” he asked. “What if it’s one of the racers? Or a racing official?”
“The Bureau has other people looking at them,” Travis said. “We’re focused on the outliers, the people who don’t have a logical reason to be at every race where there’s been a bomb.”
“The people who we were lucky enough to capture on video,” Luke said. “I worry about the ones who slip past, unnoticed.” He’d let down his guard one time and failed to notice the men who might have the answers to what had happened to his brother. If Luke had been more vigilant, maybe Mark would be home right now with his daughter, instead of “missing, feared dead,” as the notation in the police file of his case indicated.
“Our man is here, I know it,” Travis said. “Focus on what we can do, not what we can’t.”
Good advice, though Luke found it hard to implement. He continued to scan the crowd, then stilled as he recognized a familiar blonde head.
“What do you see?” Travis asked. He leaned closer, following Luke’s gaze, then nudged him in the side. “The woman in the blue dress? Definitely a knockout.”
Morgan had traded her jeans and tank top for a formfitting evening gown of a shimmery, iridescent blue silk. She carried a cocktail in one hand, a small silver evening bag in the other and turned her head from side to side, as if searching for someone.
“She looks familiar,” Travis said. “Someone from our videos?”
“She’s a journalist, writes for racing magazines,” Luke said. At that moment, Morgan turned in his direction and their eyes met. The now-familiar jolt of connection went through him, and he started toward her.
“Hey, Luke. I was hoping I’d see you here.” She touched his arm. “What a crush, huh?”
“Yeah, a lot of people.” But he wasn’t looking at any of them anymore, only her.
“See anyone, uh, interesting?” Her eyes filled in the question behind the question—had he seen her brother?
He shook his head, but before he could say more, Travis inserted himself between them. “Since Luke’s not going to introduce me, I’ll have to do it myself,” he said. “I’m Travis Steadman.”
“Hello,