Colorado Abduction - By Cassie Miles & Marie Ferrarella Page 0,37
He has nothing good to say about Miller.”
“Nobody does,” Dylan said. “He’s as mean and bitter as his old man.”
She agreed with her brother. Being around Miller made her skin crawl. “But did they find evidence?”
“Nothing that links him to the kidnapping, but he doesn’t have an alibi for yesterday or last night. We’ll keep him on our list of suspects.”
A list that was ridiculously long. “Are you talking to other people on that list?”
“Silverman will be coordinating those interviews with Sheriff Trainer.” He met her gaze. “As you pointed out when we were in town, a lot of these people won’t open up to the FBI. At least they’ll talk to Trainer.”
The painstaking process of gathering clues frustrated Carolyn. She was a big picture kind of person who made decisions and charged ahead, figuring the details would eventually sort themselves out. “Have you got anything, Burke? Any new leads at all?”
“We’re working on it.”
In the distance, she saw the helicopter approaching, flying low over the rugged landscape of forest and rock. Dylan gave her a squeeze and separated from her. “There’s nothing more I can do here. I’m going up with the chopper while there’s still daylight.”
She was glad he’d be getting away from the tension-filled house. “I’ll be here. If there’s nothing I can do to help the investigation, maybe I’ll start with some Christmas decorating.”
“No,” he said firmly. “That’s Nicole’s job. She loves doing that stuff.”
“Should I go in the helicopter with you?” she asked. “Another pair of eyes can’t hurt.”
“You need to stay here,” Burke said. “Corelli is ready to interview you.”
She sensed there was something more he wanted to talk to her about. The midnight rendezvous with Sunny? Carolyn needed to be there to reassure Sunny. If that poor girl saw a bunch of FBI guys in bulletproof vests, she’d certainly be spooked.
Waving goodbye to her brother as he ran toward the chopper, she turned to Burke. “Tonight at midnight,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”
He glanced left and right, looking for spies. The only person she saw was bowlegged Lucas, ambling toward the front gate with the evergreen wreath hanging from his shoulder.
“We’ll talk,” Burke said. “Inside.”
Compared to the chaos of this morning, the dining room had taken on an aura of quiet efficiency.
At one end of the table, Agent Silverman stood before a battery of computers and maps. He wore a phone headset, leaving his hands free to make notes. She’d barely noticed this young man before, probably because he looked like she thought an FBI agent should—totally average. With his brown hair, brown eyes and medium build, Silverman could easily fade into the background. This morning, he’d traded his FBI windbreaker for a faded green Stanford sweatshirt. When she smiled at him, he acknowledged her with a quick grin before he refocused on the task of coordinating the search efforts.
At the opposite end of the table was Corelli, wearing his neat black suit and striped tie. He could have been the junior partner in a law firm.
Burke stood with her behind Corelli’s left shoulder. “Take a look at what we’ve got so far.”
Corelli clicked a few keys on his computer, bringing up a rogues’ gallery of photographs. “This is what I’ve found on the names Burke gave me for the SOF.”
She scanned the driver’s-license photos, recognizing some of the faces from the men she’d seen at the Circle M. The only one who jumped out at her was Butch Thurgood. Even without a Stetson, he looked like a cowboy with a thick, old-fashioned mustache. “Tell me about Butch.”
“No criminal record,” Corelli said, “but a Web search gave me a lot of info. He’s a former rodeo star, a bucking bronc rider. Won the championship title at Cheyenne Frontier Days in 2004 and 2005.”
He brought up a full-length photo of Butch Thurgood on the computer screen. A rangy, good-looking man, he wore an embroidered Western shirt and a silver belt buckle the size of a saucer. “He has a reputation as a horse whisperer, somebody who can tame wild mustangs.”
Oddly, Carolyn felt reassured. Since Nicole was a veterinarian, she might have something in common with Butch.
Beside her, Burke checked his wristwatch. “Now the bad news. Pete Richter.”
Corelli clicked a few keys. The photo that appeared was a police mug shot. His dark eyes had a mean squint. Like Butch, Richter had facial hair but his patchy beard was the result of careless grooming.
“I assume,” she said, “that he has a criminal record.”
“Starting when