Too bad the weather in the Cascades was keeping his helicopters grounded.

Damn it!

He’d forgotten to tell Kinton about the marshal’s team. Probably didn’t matter. The chances that those two teams were going to cross paths were slim to none. Patrick bit firmly on the inside of his cheek, thoroughly annoyed with his lapse. The news of the Gentrys had completely distracted him. The first call he’d made after Kinton’s had been to Liam Gentry’s mama. She hadn’t been one bit surprised to hear her boys had survived, claimed Tyrone and Liam each had nine lives and had only used up six. Patrick had hung up his phone, shaking his head at the woman’s faith and calm. He could use some of that.

But for right now Patrick had a new mission.

He needed to look for dirt on Whittenhall. Patrick gazed at the snow falling on the media corral. He didn’t see the woman he was looking for, but he was confident she’d make an appearance in time for the noon broadcast. He scanned for that blowhard Whittenhall, spotting one of his flunkies, but no Whittenhall. The marshal would crawl out of the woodwork around noon too. He never passed up a chance to get his mug on-screen.

Could Kinton’s story and implications be accurate? Too many things rang true for Patrick to doubt it, including his gut reaction to Whittenhall every time they crossed paths.

Patrick couldn’t wait until noon to get the wheels in motion. Impatient, he pulled out his cell and smiled as he pictured the shock on Regan Simmons’s face when she realized he was calling her.

When their conversation was over, he triple-checked the weather update.

Tomorrow morning. That was their window. The weather forecasters said it’d be a short one. Maybe four hours. But that should be enough time to get a couple of air force rescue choppers up there. Those chopper pilots were pretty stubborn. If they had a chance to get the team out they would push it with all they had. Especially when he told them one of their own was up there.

Hopefully, Regan Simmons was as stubborn and persistent. She’d leaped at the secret lead Collins had offered and decided to skip her live noon television report, letting a stunned junior reporter handle it. She’d appeared at the door to his trailer within two minutes of his request to chat. He’d sent the deputy manning the radio in the trailer on some useless errand. The man had left, raising his brow at the blonde woman impatiently tapping her toe next to the sheriff.

Regan had bargained fiercely. “If I’m going to do this task for you, then I want an update on that team.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you.”

“Bullshit. This lead on Paul Whittenhall didn’t come out of your head. You’ve talked to someone out there who’s found something in that plane crash to make them suspicious.”

Patrick had been pleasantly surprised. There was a sharp brain under that perfect hair.

“Yes. I’ve talked to them. They’re all doing fine. I can’t tell you anything else.”

Lake Tahoe–blue eyes had glared at him. “Not good enough. I’m not putting my job on the line by snooping into the history of one of the most powerful men in the state. I need a damned good reason to do this.”

Patrick had clenched his back teeth. “I can’t give you specifics. But if this story turns out the way I expect it’s going to, you’re going to be the most popular woman in Portland broadcasting.”

Regan had held his gaze, waiting for more.

He’d blown out an exasperated breath. “You get fifteen minutes of solo access to the team when they get back.”

“Done.” Her eyes had gleamed and she’d stuck out a hand. Patrick had reluctantly shaken it, feeling like he’d been deftly manipulated.

She’d immediately pulled out a BlackBerry and started punching buttons. “I had a related tip two months ago but I kept running into walls at every turn.”

“What?” Patrick had blinked.

“This is more specific. This is going to get me somewhere.”

“Who? Who told you about this before?”

She’d shaken her head and batted innocent eyes at him. “I can’t reveal my sources.” She’d made tracks for her car, her cell phone already at her ear, and had promised him an update in two hours.

He glanced at his watch for the fiftieth time. The woman had been gone for fifteen minutes.

A knock on the RV door brought him out of his musing. He pushed it open and immediately wished he hadn’t. Paul Whittenhall had tromped up the steps and now was brushing the snow off his sleeves to melt on Patrick’s dry floor. Patrick had just watched him on the noon news, answering reporters’ questions for sixty seconds and saying exactly nothing. Whittenhall was a pro at blowing hot air.

“Any news?” Whittenhall barked.

Patrick shook his head. “All quiet. Heard from your team?”

“No.”

The men silently measured each other. Each knowing the other wasn’t being totally truthful.

“We’re supposed to get a break in the storm tomorrow morning,” Patrick offered.

“I’d heard that. A Pave Hawk going in?”

Patrick nodded. “Two.”

“Good.” Whittenhall looked anything but happy. Beneath his eyes were deep shadows and his skin had developed a sallow color. He was restless. He paced and ran his hands over Patrick’s radio equipment and maps.

Through enlightened eyes, Patrick watched the marshal. Now that he had an inkling of what he was involved in, the nervous energy made more sense. Whittenhall had been a bundle of twitchy and fidgety movements since Patrick first met him.