Far Gone (13 page)

“Of course, this is all real-time.” Ben checked his watch. “Peak Internet hours are early to mid-morning and nine
P.M.
to one
A.M.
I’d have to monitor it for a few cycles to really get a true read.”

“Cycles?”

“Days,” he translated. “The info you’re after could take a while.”

“What if I narrow it down?” Andrea took out her phone. “I brought GPS coordinates.”

Ben looked at Alex and grinned. “She brought GPS coordinates. A woman after my own heart.”

Andrea’s phone chimed, and she read the number with surprise. She hadn’t expected him to return her message. “Sorry, I have to take this.” She ducked into an empty cubicle and answered the call.

“I’m looking for Detective Finch?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Ryan Copeland in the governor’s office. I had a message you called?”

♦

Government buildings had a sameness about them, but the FBI field office in San Antonio bore very little resemblance to the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. This was by design. In the immediate aftermath of the attack that killed 168 people, including nineteen children under the age of six, the U.S. government launched an effort to reexamine federal buildings across the country to determine which were most vulnerable to attack.

San Antonio ranked high on the list. Located in the city’s densely populated downtown near the Alamo, the River Walk, and other tourist attractions, the FBI field office ticked off more than a few criteria for a soft target. It was decided it was time to relocate.

Jon passed through the security gate leading to the new building, a marvel of American engineering in the terrorist age. It was on the outskirts of San Antonio, with deep setbacks from other structures and roads. The facility had a state-of-the-art surveillance system and an external security checkpoint, complete with metal detectors and X-ray machines for visitors. The building’s outer shell was made of bomb-resistant material and specialty glass that—unlike the glass in Oklahoma City—wouldn’t shatter into deadly shards in the event of an explosion.

What was most notable to Jon, though, was what the building lacked: children. Because when Timothy McVeigh parked his yellow Ryder truck in the Murrah Building’s drop-off area beneath the America’s Kids day-care center, he introduced the public to a whole new type of horror.

Jon had been sixteen at the time of the attack, and he’d watched the coverage from a television in his American history class at New Trier High School north of Chicago. Earlier that morning, his life’s ambitions had included college and med school. But by sundown on April 19, all that had changed.

Jon passed through another gate and pulled into the bunker-like parking garage. He’d always been uneasy with the knowledge that he worked in one of the most secure buildings in the nation. Most Americans weren’t so lucky. Most Americans lived and worked in places that would be classified by engineers or terrorists or anyone else as soft targets. Just yesterday, Jon had read a news story about the hardening of America in which the reporter suggested that security needed to be beefed up at every school and church in the nation.

The article had depressed him. It had also driven him to squeeze in yet another trip to San Antonio so he could try to persuade his boss not to yank his team out of West Texas.

Jon headed for the door, catching some curious looks from colleagues who were shedding jackets and loosening ties as they hurried for their cars. The dusty ICE-agent attire, which was practically invisible in Maverick, made him stand out here. And maybe the leg holster was a little much, but Jon had gotten used to it.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t his clothes that were causing the funny looks but the fact that he was going
into
the office at five on a Friday while everyone else was streaming out.

His phone vibrated. He pulled it out and was surprised by the number. He’d thought he was at the very top of Andrea’s shit list.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

He considered lying, but then he thought of her laptop and the bedspread littered with candy wrappers. She was a workaholic, too.

“Heading into work. Why?”

“Maverick or San Antonio?”

“San Antonio.” He stepped through the door and slipped out of the traffic flow. “Torres and I have a meeting with our SAC tomorrow.”

“Can you get to Austin tonight? Come by my apartment at eight, and we’ll go from there.”

She wanted him to come over. On a Friday night. He pictured her in his house last night, with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing. He’d thought about her today through those long stretches of highway.

But something in her tone told him she wasn’t inviting him over to finish what they’d started in the parking lot of her motel.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’ve got a new angle for you. Investigation-wise.”

“I didn’t know you were helping me.”

Silence on the other end. He’d bet money this new angle had nothing to do with her brother.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

“No catch.”

He didn’t believe her.

“I’ll explain when you come,” she said. “Be here at eight.”

♦

Jon’s F-150 showed every sign of a recent road trip: dusty running boards, bugs on the windshield, empty cups in the console.

“It’s eight fifteen,” Andrea said as she slid inside.

“Had to go home and change.”

She checked him out. “You look like an agent again.”

He wore a dark suit with a blue silk tie, and his clothes looked fresh and unwrinkled.

“Where to?” he asked

“The Four Seasons on Cesar Chavez.”

He swung into the Friday-night traffic headed for the bridge.

“What’s at the hotel?”

“Ryan Copeland,” she said. “He works in the governor’s office.

Jon looked at her.

“He used to work for Kirby’s reelection campaign.”

“Inside dirt. Not a bad idea.”

“Believe it or not, I actually
am
a detective.” She looked at him and noticed a few details she hadn’t taken in at first glance. He hadn’t just changed clothes; he’d showered, and he was wearing aftershave—something subtle and masculine that she was going to have to try hard to ignore. Had he done that for her? Would it matter if he had?

Andrea looked away. There was more going on here than two cops working a case together. She needed to remember that they were coming from totally different places and had conflicting agendas.

He wanted to solve his case, period. She had to keep in mind that as attractive as he was, as
helpful
as he was, his primary motive was to achieve his objective. He didn’t give a damn about Gavin except as a means to an end.

A few minutes later, Jon held the door open as she stepped into a hotel that looked nothing like the Lazy Dayz Inn. Polished floors, huge fireplace, oversize leather club chairs. A ridiculously tall flower arrangement dominated the lobby, and piano music drifted from the bar.

Andrea spotted their contact. He stood beside a staircase, talking on his phone and checking his watch. His attention landed on Andrea, and he tucked the phone into the pocket of his pin-striped suit as she walked over to make introductions. The man’s expression sharpened when she mentioned that Jon was with the FBI.

“I thought you all were with the police?” He looked at Andrea.

“I am. Austin PD. Listen, I know you don’t have much time. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Jon’s badge seemed to be making the man antsy. He glanced over his shoulder to where people in cocktail attire were milling around outside a ballroom. Tonight’s event was a high-dollar fund-raiser benefiting the governor’s reelection campaign.

“Let’s step outdoors,” Copeland said, leading them onto a patio.

The weather was cool, and Andrea stuffed her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. Copeland lit a cigarette and looked Jon up and down as he took a drag.

“I assume you work with McMurphy?” Copeland asked.

“Who’s that?”

“Philadelphia office. I returned his call. Twice.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Guy never got back to me.”

Jon looked at Andrea.

“When you were with Senator Kirby’s election campaign,” she said, “you filed a complaint with Dallas PD about someone harassing the senator and his staff.”

“It was the staff, mostly.” He flicked his ash onto the patio. “I’m not sure Kirby even knew he existed.”

“You didn’t inform him?”

“We can’t tell him about every wing nut who shows up to complain.” He looked at Jon. “Especially a guy like Kirby. The minute he put his name on that gun bill, he had people coming out of the woodwork. We were getting calls, letters, people showing up in person to rant.”

“What sort of security does the senator have?” Andrea asked.

“In Washington, the Capitol Police,” Copeland said. “But everywhere else, it’s thin—just some private bodyguards. We’re not talking Secret Service caliber or anything. They’re a step up from rent-a-cops.”

“So he was getting lots of threats,” Andrea said. “What was different about this guy?”

Copeland leaned back against a wrought-iron banister separating the patio from some manicured flower beds. She watched him through the veil of smoke.

“
He
was different.”

“How?”

“Persistent, for one. And smart.” He tossed his cigarette butt onto the concrete and crossed his arms. “Frankly, he scared the shit out of me.”

“You met him?” Jon asked.

“Just the once. At least, I
might
have met him. I don’t even know his name, just that he liked to call and lurk around the campaign headquarters. I talked to him on the phone one time, too. At first, I thought he was a donor, but then he roped me into a debate about civil liberties and the theft of democracy.”

“Was this before or after the confrontation?” Andrea asked.

Jon cut a glance at her, clearly annoyed to be playing catch-up. She had a copy of the police report, but there hadn’t been time to show it to him.

“Before,” Copeland said. “The confrontation came later, maybe a few weeks. I was leaving the office, and he was waiting in the alley between the building and the parking garage.”

“So no name,” she said. “How can you be sure it was the guy from the phone and the letters?”

“He talked to a lot of us. Kirby’s staffers. He had certain phrases he used over and over.”

Andrea glanced at Jon, who was intent on their interview subject now. She took out a notepad and reviewed what she’d written.

“In the report, you describe him as six-two, goatee, shaved head, jeans, and a bomber jacket?”

She looked up, but he didn’t confirm.

“You also mention an eagle tattoo on the side of his neck.”

Again, no comment.

“How did he threaten you, exactly?” she asked.

“He showed up, ranting about the usual antigovernment stuff. But the whole time, he’s holding his jacket open, showing me his holster. ‘Give Kirby a message. Tell him I’m watching him.’ ”

“What kind of gun was it?” Andrea asked.

“What’s in the report?”

“A black handgun.”

He nodded. “That sounds right.”

Andrea glanced at Jon, whose steely look told her she was botching this interview. She took an envelope from her jacket pocket and pulled out a five-by-seven photo.

Copeland stiffened.

“Does this look like the man you saw?”

He flicked a glance at it. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t even look at it.”

Copeland returned her gaze coolly.

“Mr. Copeland,” she said, “why do I get the feeling you’re not being entirely straight with us here?”

He looked at Jon, then back to her again.

She shook her head. “Lying to the police, Mr. Copeland. Never a good idea.”

He sighed. “Fine, all right? It wasn’t actually me in the alley.”

God damn it, she knew she should have vetted this witness. But she hadn’t had time.

“
Who
exactly—”

“Carmen Pena.” He folded his arms over his chest, wrinkling his nice pinstripes. “She didn’t want her name on the police report.”

“Why?” Jon asked.

“The beat reporters read those things. She’d already been in the news that week. Someone started a rumor that she was having an affair with the senator.”

“Was she?” Andrea asked.

“Of course not. Those rumors are a dime a dozen for any politician. But this one came at a sensitive time, and we needed it to die down. I told her I’d put my name on the report, but we should at least get it on record. You know, that this guy showed up with a gun and everything.”

“Filing a false police report is a serious offense,” Andrea said.

He lifted an eyebrow. “You going to arrest me?”

“What happened with the report?” Jon asked, picking up the slack now because Andrea was busy being ticked off.

She was mad at herself for not seeing through this. And she was embarrassed that she’d called Jon all the way up here to interview this man.

“I’m not sure. I would guess Dallas PD referred it to the local FBI, but we didn’t have a name or anything, just a description. And we’re not even sure it’s the same guy who sent the letter and called—that’s just a guess. So what can they really do with that?”

“Where’s Carmen now?” Jon asked.

“She left right after I did. Last I heard, she was working for the mayor.”

“Did she leave on her own or get fired?” Andrea asked.

“She was let go.”

“Fired?”

“People come and go on campaigns. There’s a lot of turnover.”

“What about you?” Jon asked. “Why’d you leave?”

Copeland tapped his breast pocket. She could tell he was battling the urge for another cigarette, but the urge to wrap up this interview was stronger.

“Look, I need to get back in there. I’m on meet-and-greet tonight.”

“Last question,” Jon said. “Why’d you leave the campaign?”

He sighed. He tucked his hands in his pockets and met Jon’s gaze. “I worked for Kirby five years. We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”