unit sucked in air to test for traces of chemicals. It didn’t take long.
Swearing under his breath, he switched off the machine. Just as he’d suspected, but the job required details, more details and more details.
Returning to the command post, he told Finn Colton what he’d found. Then West glanced at the man standing just outside the crime scene tape, staring with avid interest at the bombed building.
He jerked a thumb at the man. “Curious bystander?”
Finn shook his head. “Witness. He’s already been interviewed. Drove right past before the bomb exploded.”
After the chief summarized what the man had said, West decided to talk to the witness himself. Experience taught him it was best to get firsthand information himself, before memories grew dim. People’s detailed memories got muzzy real quick. Besides, if someone saw something linking Demi Colton to this explosion, and that interview got buried...
West peeled off his gloves and chucked them into a biohazard container, heading for the middle-aged man.
Slightly chunky, with quick, eager green eyes, the man looked around as if this were entertainment arranged just for him. West knew the type—self-important, glad to help, wanted to get his name in the paper. Still, he took a moment to study the witness. Though West had been in town less than a month, he didn’t recognize him.
West introduced himself and scribbled the man’s name—Santo Nestor. A cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth. He puffed constantly.
Nicotine addict.
“What were you doing at this end of town?”
Keeping his voice mild, he studied the witness’s eye movement. The man stared earnestly back at him.
“I was headed into the city to grab a bite,” Nestor said in a thick Hispanic accent. “I’m a salesman. Thought maybe I could scope the place out at the local eatery, make a few contacts. I sell aluminum siding for houses.”
Better than bridal supplies in this town. West made a few notes. “What did you see?”
Nestor prattled on the same thing he’d told detectives.
“Black smoke after the explosion?” West asked.
The man shook his head. “White smoke. I was so afraid, I almost wet my pants. Oh, Dios mío, I was damn lucky, I was right in front when it blew. I’ve been all over the country, never seen anything like this. What kind of place is Red Ridge, anyway, with terrorists bombing buildings?”
West took a long, thorough look at the man. Puffy cheeks, thick, dark brows, and a bulbous nose.
Drinker, as well as smoker.
White shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. Black hair slicked back with too much gel. Slight paunch oozing over his cheap leather belt. No tie. Black trousers, cotton, a bit casual for a salesman, but it was August in South Dakota and warm. His gaze scanned the trousers. Rumpled, maybe from driving a long distance.
“Longtime smoker?” West pointed to the cigarette.
Nestor shrugged, tossed the butt and ground it out with his leather shoe heel. “Si. Road trips get long. My ex tried to get me to quit. No luck. Did get me to give up the Cubans. I love a good Cuban. You smoke?”
West shook his head. “Where is your next client?” he asked.
The salesman flicked a hand toward the west. “I don’t have an appointment until next week in Cheyenne. I was checking out the town for prospects. Going to stay a couple of days. You know any places in town that are good?”
You mean ones that don’t blow up? West shook his head.
After taking the man’s cell phone and home address, plus the name of his company, West closed his notebook. Santo Nestor returned to his car, tossed the cigarette butt out the window and drove off.
Litterbug. He loathed civilians contaminating the area anywhere near his crime scene.
Glancing with disgust at the cigarette, he bagged it and put it in his pocket as evidence just in case.
Then West returned to the rubble, again, picking his way through it carefully. White smoke suggested black powder, as in TATP, not TNT or C-4.
Don’t jump to conclusions. But his instincts tingled. TATP was a low-heat bomb and it took more than five hundred grams to do this kind of destruction.
The distinctive bleach-like odor told him his gut was right. TATP didn’t contain nitrogen and made the explosives easier to avoid detection by scanners.
When they found it, the packaging containing the bomb might reveal hard evidence. Tape or wires could also contain scraps of skin cells, sweat or even hairs. If they were lucky, the unsub left some kind of DNA on the fragments.
Was the unsub Demi Colton?
Who did this? Does it have anything to do with the Groom Killer? Upcoming wedding site? Maybe the killer wants to blow up wedding party members in the future?
As he continued to gather evidence, his thoughts flashed back to his family, the ruins of their home, the ruins of his former life. West deliberately thought of Quinn, her sweet smile, saucy attitude. It soothed him as he worked.
Relationships were all about power. He knew this even with Quinn. In bed, he dominated, but out of it, she ran the show. She held his heart and, man, he enjoyed every single moment of it.
Even though they were private about their relationship for now, he preferred to keep it that way. The less interference from her family, the better.
But he couldn’t help but wonder if her half sister was behind this explosion, as preparation for something more deadly to come.
* * *
Working a crime scene was an arduous, grueling task. Shortly before one o’clock, the chief ordered takeout for everyone.
Takeout from Good Eats.
His heart raced as he glanced up and saw Quinn’s white delivery van pull up in front of the tent. She jumped out and opened the back door. Someone hastened to set up another long folding table for the food. As she picked out the aluminum containers, her brother Brayden ran to help.
ATF agent Cal tracked her moves and whistled, making the outline of an hourglass with his hands. “Nice dish.”
West wanted to smack him. Hands off. She’s mine. He only grunted, and at the low sound, Rex growled.
Cal glanced down at the canine. “Easy, boy. I’m not going to take your chow.”
But I’ll take your head if you even try to touch her. West gripped Rex’s leash harder. Hell, it was tough enough concealing the fact he was secretly investigating the RRPD’s efforts to find the Groom Killer. Hiding his relationship with Quinn was agonizing. His instincts were to draw her away from the admiring glances, put an arm around her waist to signal that she was taken. Exclusively. By him.
And he didn’t even dare do more than nod at her when he helped carry a warm container of something that smelled like roasted lamb. Their fingers touched as she handed it to him, and familiar sparks jumped between them. West sucked in a low breath.
Damn, he could smell her amid the chemicals and the dust and the delicious odor of grilled meat. Real meat, too, not that tofu she also served.
His fiancée smelled like apples and spice, everything delicious.
Quinn finished setting up the containers and unpacked the paper plates and plastic silverware.
“All set, Chief,” she told her cousin. “There’s grilled lamb and rice, salad and butternut squash linguine with fried sage.” Quinn tossed West a saucy, knowing look. “For those who prefer froufrou food.”
Damn if it took every inch of his control not to laugh. Not to toss aside his plate