“What, they just lost track?” Graham asked.
“That’s what I said,” Randall said. “But I guess people steal them to sell on the black market.”
“So what was a Hellfire missile doing in that plane?” Graham asked. “Provided that’s what was really in that box.”
“Hellfire missiles are what they use to arm unmanned drones,” Marco said.
The hairs on the back of Graham’s neck stood up. “Anybody with enough money can buy a drone from a private company. It’s not illegal.”
“But only someone with a Hellfire missile can arm that drone,” Marco said.
“Who around here owns a drone?” Graham asked.
Marco nodded. “That’s what we need to find out. And fast.”
* * *
FORGET GRAHAM ELLISON, Emma told herself as she unlocked the door to her house in a quiet suburb on Montrose’s south side. She didn’t need him to get to the bottom of this story. Safely inside, she dumped her purse and the day’s mail on the kitchen table.
“Meow!” A silver-gray tabby emerged from the bedroom and leaned against her ankles.
“Hello, Janey, darling.” Emma bent and scooped the cat into her arms. As she rubbed a finger beneath the furry chin Janey—for Jane Austen—purred loudly.
“How was your day?” Emma asked. “I had to deal with the most frustrating man.”
“Meow!” Janey said—though whether in sympathy, or simply because she wanted to be fed, Emma couldn’t say.
But she opened a can of Salmon Supreme and dumped it into Janey’s dish, then poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the table to try to organize her notes. She didn’t have that much, but she had enough to write a story about the plane crash. For a painful moment the image of Bobby’s lifeless body slumped in the pilot’s seat of his destroyed plane flashed into her mind and she felt a sharp pang of grief for her friend.
She swallowed her tears and opened her notebook. All the more reason to do everything she could to find his killer. Bobby had been a great guy—not a man she could fall in love with, but a good friend, and he deserved better.
Her doorbell rang, the loud chimes startling her. She hurried to the door and checked the peephole, and sucked in a breath when she saw Graham Ellison standing there. He was still in uniform, but he held a large bouquet of flowers in his hand, wrapped in green tissue paper.
She unlocked the door and opened it. “Captain, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“It seems like I’m always apologizing to you,” he said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again?”
She regarded him warily, trying hard not to notice how he towered over her, or how his shoulders were almost wide enough to fill the doorway. A man who made her feel dainty was a rarity, and she usually liked to savor the experience. But she had trouble relaxing around Captain Ellison. “Why should I give you another chance?” she asked.
“Because we both want to find out who killed your friend.”
It was the one answer that was sure to sway her. She held the door open wider. “Come in.”
He moved past her into the foyer, and handed her the flowers. “Peace offering,” he said.
“Come in here.” She led the way into the kitchen, and motioned to the table. “I was just going over my notes.” She found a vase in a cabinet and filled it at the sink.
“I’m not going to make the mistake of asking to see them.”
She flushed. “I don’t like being ordered around. Also—I have my own system for organizing my research material. It’s messy and it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.”
“I shouldn’t have barked at you like you were one of my junior officers.”
She arranged the flowers in the vase and set it on the counter, then looked him in the eye, ignoring the way her heart sped up when she did so. “What is it about me you don’t like?” she asked. “Is it just because I’m a reporter? Because we’re on the same side here. I want to know who killed Bobby, and I want to see them brought to justice.”
He grimaced, as if in pain. “You’ve got it all wrong. Our problems aren’t because I don’t like you—they’re because I’m so attracted to you.”
Now her heart was really racing, and she felt as if she’d swallowed battling hummingbirds. So she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the heat between them. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
He looked around the apartment, everywhere but at her. His gaze finally focused on the cat, who had finished eating and was meticulously grooming herself. “When I saw you in that crowd of reporters, I had a hard time not staring.” He hazarded a glance her way. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”
“That depends on your definition of trouble.”
He shoved both hands in his pockets. “We’re both professionals. Maybe we should keep it that way.”
“Or maybe we should be more honest.” She stepped out from behind the kitchen counter, moving toward him. “I’m an adult. I think I can handle my job and my personal life without ruining either.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m attracted to you, too, Captain. It takes a special man to appreciate a woman like me.”
His gaze swept over her like a caress. “Then those other men are fools.”
She laughed. “Maybe. But some men don’t know how to handle a woman who’s five-eleven and probably outweighs them. I’m no delicate flower.”
“I’m not interested in flowers.” His gaze drifted to her cleavage. She had plenty of that. And an ample backside. He wouldn’t be the first guy to appreciate her killer curves, even if the women in fashion magazines never looked like her.
“So did you come here this afternoon to ask me out?” she asked.
“No. I came to ask for your help. You know a lot more about Richard Prentice than I do. Maybe you can give me some insight.”
“Richard Prentice?” The mention of the billionaire surprised her. “Do you think he’s behind Bobby’s death?”
“We don’t know. Your friend worked for him, so that seems the most logical place to start our investigation.”
He still wouldn’t look her in the eye, a sure sign he was holding something back. “You’re not telling me everything,” she said. “Why focus on Prentice? Do you think he’s connected to other crimes in the park?”
“I’d rather you tell me what you think—and what you know—about Prentice.”
She considered the question for a moment, sorting through her impressions of the billionaire. “He pretty much hates the federal government, but you already know that,” she said. “He’s made a career of forcing the government’s hand and of trying to circumvent regulations he sees as controlling and unjust. But he’s never broken the law.”
“Never that anyone can prove.”
“But you think he has now? Why? How?”
Graham shook his head. “I have no proof that Mr. Prentice has anything to do with any crime—his only connection is that the dead pilot was known to have worked for him.”
“But you have your suspicions.”
His silence was as good as a confirmation. “I understand why you won’t say anything more,” she said. “And I wouldn’t write anything about Mr. Prentice without a lot of proof to back it up—he can afford