Colorado Bodyguard (8 page)

Rand stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think she's on the level, all this stuff about being followed and smelling her sister's perfume and all?”

“Yeah, I think she's telling the truth. Don't you?”

“I was just wondering. I hear sometimes mental problems run in families.”

He gripped the steering wheel harder, knuckles whitening. “Yeah, so what's your excuse?”

“Hey, don't be so touchy. I'm just trying to look at this from all angles. Isn't that what we're supposed to do?”

“Sophie's only problem is that she's concerned about her sister, who's been missing a month, and the police have made pretty much zero progress on the case. I don't blame her for being a little upset.”

“She got to you pretty quick, didn't she?”

He glared at Michael. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm just saying I recognize the signs. It happened to me that way with Abby—one look and I was a goner.”

“But you two had known each other before, over in Afghanistan.”

“We met once—and not under the best of circumstances. She wasn't even conscious.” Michael had been a pararescuer in the air force's rescue squadron and Abby had been a casualty he'd helped airlift out of a combat zone. When her heart stopped en route, he'd revived her—but she'd remembered none of that until they met again five years later, after she stumbled onto a shooting in the park's backcountry while she was conducting research for her master's thesis.

Rand's relationship with Sophie—if he could even call it a relationship—wasn't on that level. “I feel for Sophie, that's all,” he said. “She's had a rough time of it.”

“So that's all you feel—sympathy?”

Sympathy. And a strong physical attraction. He admired her courage and her devotion to her sister. He wanted to know more about her and he enjoyed just being with her. What did all that add up to? “Mind your own business,” he said.

“Abby likes her, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I'd say Abby has good judgment, except she's with you.”

“Here's a little unsolicited advice—if you really feel there's something there, don't be afraid to go for it. Let her know how you feel and see what happens.”

“When I need your advice I'll ask for it, which is never.”

“Right.” Smiling, Michael folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “You can thank me at the wedding.”

The image of Sophie, in a white gown and veil, jolted him. But not in a bad way. He shook his head, trying to shake off the wave of unsettling emotions. Dogs were much easier to deal with than women. You always knew where you stood with canines; women were much harder to figure out.

Fifteen minutes passed in relative silence, the excited panting of Lotte over his shoulder and the hum of tires on pavement calming his jangled nerves. He signaled for the turn into the fish market parking lot and Michael opened his eyes and sat up straighter. “What's this Milbanks character like?” he asked.

“Nervous and suspicious,” Rand said. “He was sweating buckets and all we were doing was asking a few questions.”

“Let's hope he's not trigger-happy.”

Theirs was the only vehicle in the parking lot. The store was dark and empty. Michael parked the vehicle around the back of the building, out of sight of the street. He unloaded Lotte and clipped on her leash, then followed Michael around to the front door. “The hours posted on the door say they should be open until six-thirty,” Michael said. “It's six thirty-five.” He tried the knob and it turned easily in his hand.

One hand on his weapon, Michael slipped inside. Rand followed, a few paces back, alert for any movement within the store. Lotte strained on her leash, ears forward, tail wagging slowly.

Nothing looked out of place. The shelves of seasonings, cookbooks and a few canned goods were orderly. The coolers full of fish hummed away.

“Mr. Milbanks!” Michael called. “Mr. Milbanks, it's the police. We need to talk to you.”

No answer. Michael nodded to Rand. “Check out back,” he said.

Rand, with Lotte in the lead, hurried outside and around the building. The parking area here was empty, though the back door to the store stood open. Lotte whined, focused on the door. Rand studied her, recognizing her signal for a find, but her hair wasn't standing up; she didn't sense danger. Cautiously, he approached the open door.

He saw the blood first, a pool of dark red leaking into the doorway. A few feet away lay the body of Alan Milbanks.

Chapter Eight

Rand crouched beside Milbanks's inert body, avoiding the pool of blood. Michael joined him from the front of the store. Rand leaned over and felt for a pulse at the man's throat, already knowing he wouldn't find one. “He hasn't been dead long,” he said. “He's still warm.”

“I checked the cash register,” Michael said. “The drawer is full.”

“This doesn't look like a robbery.” Rand studied what was left of Milbanks's head. “More like an assassination. Close range. Somebody sending a message.”

The jangle of bells made them both start. Rand stood, withdrawing his weapon as he rose. He and Michael took up positions on opposite sides of the room and started toward the front of the store.

“Hello?” a man's voice called. “Alan? Anybody home?”

Rand moved to where he could see through the passage into the front. A disheveled man in baggy cords and a sweatshirt, dirty blond hair falling into his eyes, stood in the middle of the shop. Phil Starling.

Rand stepped into the front room, his weapon fixed on Starling. “Police. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Starling turned the color of sour milk and inched his hands into the air. “Wh-what's going on?”

“I'll need to see some ID.” Rand approached slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Michael moving up on the other side of the room.

“In my right back pocket.” Starling stared at Rand's weapon, mesmerized.

“Take it out slowly.”

Starling did so and extended the open wallet toward Rand. “I just came in to buy some fish,” he said.

“How do you know Alan Milbanks?” Rand checked the ID. Phillip Starling, with a Denver address.

“Who?”

“Alan Milbanks. You called for Alan when you entered the store.”

His smile was weak and lopsided. “I didn't know his last name. Just Alan. He...he introduced himself when I was in here last week.”

“You buy a lot of fish, do you?” Rand returned the wallet to Starling.

“Yeah, I do. It's good for you, you know.”

Starling's sickly pallor and unkempt appearance didn't mark him as a healthy living aficionado. “When was the last time you saw Alan?”

“Last time I bought fish. Maybe, I don't know—a couple of days ago. Why are you asking me all these questions? Is something wrong?”

“Your license has a Denver address. What are you doing in Montrose?”

“I'm here on vacation.” He shoved the wallet back into his pocket. “You know, see the Black Canyon, do some hiking, like that.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Why do you need to know?” Starling's expression turned surly. “Like I told you, I just came in to buy some fish. I didn't do anything wrong.”

“We may need to get in touch with you. Where can we reach you?”

Starling pressed his lips together, in the expression of a pouting child, then heaved a sigh and gave the address of a cheap motel on the west side of town.

“You seem nervous, Mr. Starling,” Rand said. “Any reason for that?”

“You're joking, right? I come in to buy some fish for dinner and suddenly I'm being grilled by cops. Who wouldn't be nervous?”

“Are you related to Lauren Starling?” Michael asked the question, startling the actor, who seemed to have forgotten he was there.

“She's my ex-wife,” he said.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“In court, the day we finalized the divorce. Almost three months ago.”

“You haven't talked to her since then?”

“No.”

“When did you arrive in Montrose?”

He hesitated. Because he resented the question, or because he needed time to think up a lie? “A week, maybe ten days ago. I don't remember.”

“You don't remember?”

“It's a vacation, you know. It's not about keeping track of time.”

“We'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions for us,” Rand said.

“I've already been answering your questions.”

“Yes, but we have a few more for you, and we'd like to talk to you where we can all sit down and get comfortable.”

“No. You don't have any reason to hassle me this way. I just came in here to buy fish and you guys are giving me a hard time.” He started to turn and walk away, but Michael was on him in a flash, twisting his arm and bringing him to his knees.

Starling howled and swore. “What do you think you're doing?”

“What do you think you're doing with this?” Rand gingerly pulled a pistol from the back waistband of Starling's cords. The snub-nosed revolver dangled from his index finger. He sniffed the barrel and shook his head. The gun didn't smell to him as though it had been fired recently, but he'd leave the final determination to the experts.

“I got a right to carry that,” Starling protested.

“So you have a carry permit?” Michael asked.

“No, but I have a right to protect myself.”

“Do you think buying fish is a particularly dangerous activity?” Rand asked.

“In some neighborhoods, it could be. I like to be careful.”

“So do we, Mr. Starling, which is why we're going to take you in for questioning and booking.”

“You can't arrest me.” Starling's voice rose. “I haven't done anything wrong. What are you charging me with?”

“We'll start with carrying an illegal concealed weapon.” Rand pulled the actor's arms behind his back and snapped on a pair of cuffs. “From there we might move on to kidnapping, or even murder.”

* * *

“A
LAN
M
ILBANKS
 
IS
 
DEAD
?” Sophie stared at Rand, who met her at Ranger headquarters the next morning with the news. She'd planned to spend the morning with Carmen, trying to put names to the rest of the list of numbers Lauren had called in the days before her disappearance. Some of the numbers were easy to identify. Lauren had made calls to her office, her hairdresser, her doctor's office and Sophie. One of the numbers had surprised Sophie. In the days before she'd gone missing, Lauren had spoken to her ex-husband, Phil, three times.

But none of the numbers on Lauren's phone records had a Montrose exchange. The news that one of the few people they knew Lauren had spoken to in town was dead shook her. “Did he have a heart attack or something?”

“He was murdered. Shot in the head.”

She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm and take it all in. “Was it a robbery?” she asked. “Or something to do with drugs? You said he might be dealing drugs.”

“It could be related to drug activity.” Rand spoke softly, his eyes locked to hers. “Or it could be because someone saw us questioning him earlier and didn't want him to tell us what he knew.”

“Do you think Richard Prentice did this?” she asked. “Because of the photograph showing him with Mr. Milbanks?”

Rand settled into the chair beside her at the conference table, where they'd retreated to talk privately. “Richard Prentice is hosting a fund-raiser for Senator Mattheson in Denver today.” He slid over a copy of the
Denver Post
with a photograph of the senator and the billionaire smiling and shaking hands.

“That doesn't mean he couldn't have ordered someone else to do his dirty work,” Rand said.

“What will you do now?” Sophie asked.

“We're working with the local police to investigate the crime scene. There are no security cameras and everything had been wiped pretty clean, but maybe we'll find something. Someone driving by might have seen something. But we did arrest someone on the scene for questioning.”

“Who is that?”

“Your former brother-in-law, Phil Starling.”

Her eyes widened. “You think Phil had something to do with Alan Milbanks's murder?”

“He showed up right after we discovered the body. He said he'd come in to buy fish, but he was acting awfully nervous for an innocent shopper, and he knew Milbanks's name before we mentioned it. And he was carrying a gun.”

“A gun?” She shook her head. “This is crazy.”

“Do you know if he has a history of drug use?” Rand asked. “Did Lauren ever mention anything like that?”

“No. I mean, I may have heard him mention smoking a joint a couple of times, but never anything more than that. He liked to have a few drinks—a few too many drinks, sometimes, but drugs?” She shook her head again. “Did you ask him about Lauren?”

“He said he hadn't seen her since the divorce, and that he'd only been in Montrose a week or so. We're following up on that, trying to find out where he's been staying.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing. As soon as we got him to the station, he demanded to see his lawyer and clammed up. The lawyer will be here later this morning, so we'll talk to him then. He might feel more cooperative after he's spent a night in jail.”

Would she feel more comfortable, knowing her former brother-in-law was in jail? “Do you really think Phil had something to do with Lauren's disappearance?” she asked.

“I don't know. He's a hard guy to read. No surprise, I guess, considering he's an actor.”

Sophie thought all men were hard to read, even Rand. Was he spending so much time with her because he truly liked her, or merely because she was part of his case? Or maybe the captain had ordered him to keep an eye on her, despite his protestations to the contrary. After all, everyone who had a connection with Lauren was probably a suspect in her disappearance.

All right, enough with the paranoia already, she thought. Instead of wondering about Rand's motives, maybe she should try to get to know him better.

“Why did you want to be a police officer?” she asked.

“I really wanted to be a park ranger,” he said. “I like the outdoors, but, at least for national parks, a law enforcement background is helpful. Then I got on with the Bureau of Land Management and it was a good fit—the outdoor lifestyle I wanted, and the chance to make a real difference.”

Her own job didn't make a difference to anyone, she thought. “I wanted to be a librarian,” she said. “But those jobs are hard to come by. Business seemed a more sensible choice.”

“And you're a sensible person.”

She looked away.

“Hey.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “I didn't mean that as an insult. I think it's a good thing.”

“Sure.” Again, she didn't know how to read him. “Would you like to, um, get something to eat? I mean, go to lunch?” she asked. They'd never made it to dinner last night, something that had disappointed her more than she liked to admit. Would he think she was coming on to him, or worse—trying to bribe him or something?

“I'd like that. A lot. But can I take a rain check? I have a feeling I'm going to be pulling a long shift today.”

“Sure.” She stood, almost knocking her chair over in her haste. “I'll just get out of your way and let you get back to work.”

“You don't have to rush off.” He smiled, that genuine, warm look that made her insides turn to pudding. Or maybe something warmer and sweeter—hot fudge.

“Sophie?”

“Mmm?” She snapped back to attention.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. I'm great.”

“You look a little flushed.”

“It's a little warm in here.” She fanned herself. “I'll be fine. See you later.” The rest of the phone records would have to wait. She turned and ran from the room.
Get a grip,
she scolded herself as she hurried to her car. Lauren would never have lost her cool with a man that way. Even when she'd been devastated by Phil's behavior, she'd never let him see her pain. She knew how to hide her emotions from the people she cared about.

Oh, Lauren,
Sophie thought.
I always thought you needed me more than anyone else, because I was the only one you could really be yourself with. But now I need you, sister. I'm not as strong as we both thought.