Far Gone (16 page)

Elizabeth left Moore’s and motored over to Hill Country Automotive across the street. She passed the repair bays and pulled right up to the front. It was already four o’clock, so she’d keep it quick. As she strode toward the door, her gaze landed on a shiny green Pontiac.

She halted. A Grand Am. She pulled the photo from her purse and stepped over for a closer look.

Identical.

Except for a few key details. This car lacked a broken taillight, a dented quarter-panel, and a license plate obscured by mud.

She crouched down beside the bumper, which had a scuff mark. She studied it. She studied the photo in her hand.

Her pulse sped up.

“Help you with something?”

She turned around. A man was watching her from one of the repair bays. Short, beefy, tattooed arms, buzz cut. She walked over and glanced at the name embroidered on his gray coveralls.
Randy.

“Is your manager here?”

“You’re looking at him.”

She smiled, but it didn’t work this time. He’d made her for a cop the second she pulled out that photograph.

She went ahead and introduced herself, flashing her badge. His blue eyes turned a few degrees cooler.

“I’m interested in that Pontiac,” she said. “Would you happen to know who the owner is?”

“That’d be me, temporarily. It’s on its way to auction.”

Elizabeth looked him over. He seemed guarded but not uncooperative.

“I take it you bought it from someone?

“Couple days ago. Quoted him a price on the body work, and he decided not to bother. We get that sometimes. If it’s worth it, we do the body work here, then bundle a few vehicles together and take them out to auction.”

Her heart was pounding now. She tried to keep her tone neutral. “Do you remember the day, exactly?”

He squinted. “Wednesday, I think. I’d have to look to be sure.”

“Would you mind?”

Without a word, he led her into a building as a trio of Gawkers watched from the nearest service bay. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of motor oil. A UT basketball game was playing on a TV mounted in the corner. He scooted behind a counter and tapped at a computer.

Elizabeth held her breath as she watched his hands. The creases of his knuckles were black with grease.

“Wednesday. Paid fifteen hundred for it.” He gave her a dark look. “I can show you the title, too. We’re not running a chop shop here.”

Elizabeth pulled out her notebook. “Could I get the name of the person who sold it to you?”

“David Woods.”

He rattled off a San Marcos address as she jotted it down.

“And do you remember what he looked like?” She glanced up, and the manager was watching her. “White, black? Tall, short? Old, young?”

“He was white.” He had the expression of someone who wasn’t crazy about helping the police but didn’t see a way around it. “Medium build. Maybe late twenties.”

Elizabeth scribbled it down and felt a surge of excitement. She looked up from her notepad and smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

“Thank you,” she told him. “You’ve been very helpful.”

♦

Andrea was downtown when her phone buzzed, and she recognized the number of a cop she knew from her patrol days.

“Hey, Andie. I got that info you wanted,” she said. “She’s at an address over on Cherry Knoll.”

“In Pemberton Heights?”

“That’s right.”

Andrea veered into the turn lane. “Wants or warrants?”

“Negative. Clean as a whistle. You need me to text this over?”

“Thanks, that’s a big help. I owe you.”

“Forget it. Hope to see you back soon.”

Andrea pulled an illegal U-turn and headed north. As she turned onto Cherry Knoll she surveyed the charming old bungalows and towering new McMansions. The neighborhood was expensive. Not her usual stomping grounds, either on or off the job. Almost every driveway seemed to have a BMW or a Saab, with the occasional Volkswagen thrown in. Just keeping it real.

Andrea scanned the street numbers and spotted the house she wanted—a white clapboard one-story with black window shutters and a red front door. There was a Kia parked out front—with a crumpled bumper, no less. Andrea noted the other cars up and down the block as she rolled to a stop.

Instead of approaching the door, she walked up to the gray sedan on the opposite side of the street. She pulled open the passenger door and slid inside.

“Hi.”

Jon checked his side mirror. “What are you doing here?” he asked flatly.

“Same thing you are. I take it she’s not home?”

“Woman who answered the door said she’s due back any minute.”

“Who was she?”

“Didn’t ask. Sister, roommate, maid—she could be anybody.”

Andrea pulled a notepad from her jacket and took down the Kia’s license plate. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

Jon watched without comment, and she figured he was a step ahead of her.

“So.” She tucked the notepad away. “How’s your day going?”

“Busy.”

“Me, too. Went for a jog. Hit the gym. Ate a big lunch. I feel like a million bucks.”

He looked at her.

“You, on the other hand, look pissy.”

He glanced at the side mirror. He was in a suit and tie again, with his badge clipped to his belt alongside his gun. She remembered him at the bar last night, with his tie gone and his sleeves rolled up, watching her with that dark, steady gaze that made her heart thud.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

He checked the mirror again. “I met with Maxwell this morning. He gave us one more week.”

“Okay.” She paused. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I wanted three. And more resources. It’s impossible to monitor six different subjects with the team we have now.”

“I assume you asked for all that?”

He didn’t respond.

Well, that explained his sour mood. She doubted he was used to losing an argument.

They sat in the tense silence. The street was empty of people. She glanced at Jon staring a hole in that red door.

She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a bullet.

“What’s that?” He frowned at her open palm.

“A thirty-aught-six.”

“I know what it is. Why’s it in your pocket?”

“Someone left it in my room Thursday.”

He stared at her. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

His face hardened as he looked at the bullet. She placed it on the dash, where it gleamed in the sunlight—except for the black tip.

“You dust it for prints?”

“None. Big surprise. Anyway, I know who left it. It’s like you said, he hates law enforcement. He’s playing games.”

“
Games?
” He leaned closer. “Do you realize how dangerous he is?”

“If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could have. Instead, he’s taunting me because he knows I’ve been asking about him.”

“That’s just—” He shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

A flash of movement pulled their attention to a sleek black Jaguar turning into the driveway. A woman got out: slender brunette, black pants, black heels, black sunglasses. A shimmery white blouse balanced out all the dark.

Andrea slipped the bullet back into her pocket as she looked the woman over.

“You know if she’s married?” she asked.

“Divorced.”

“Looks like the mayor’s gig pays pretty well.” She glanced at Jon. “You want to do this together?”

“No.” He shoved open the door. “This time, I do the talking.”

They approached the woman as she strode toward her front door, clearly in a hurry.

“Ms. Pena?”

She halted on the front step and turned to look at them.

“I’m Special Agent Jon North.” He flashed his ID. “This is Detective Finch. Are you Carmen Pena?”

“I can’t talk right now,” she said briskly. “I’m late for an appointment.”

“This won’t take long.”

She shoved a small Chanel handbag under her arm. “What is this about?”

“Would you mind if we come inside for a moment?”

“Yes.”

Andrea cut a glance at Jon, but he looked unfazed.

“I understand you used to work for Senator Richard Kirby’s campaign,” he said.

“I have no comment about Senator Kirby.”

“Did you work for his campaign?”

“I said I have no comment.”

Andrea folded her arms over her chest. “Ms. Pena, we hear you had a confrontation with a man outside Kirby’s campaign headquarters about eighteen months ago.”

She peeled off the sunglasses, and Andrea got hit with a blast of hostility. “What part of ‘no comment’ do you not understand, Detective?”

“Ma’am, we’d just like to ask you a few simple questions,” Jon said.

“And I’d just like
you
to listen to a simple answer: No comment.” She headed for the door.

“
Ma’am.
” Andrea used her cop voice, and she turned around. The curtain in one of the windows shifted, suggesting that someone was watching them from inside the house. A dog walker had stopped in front of the neighbors’ place, ostensibly to admire the landscaping. “We just need a moment of your time.”

“Do you have a warrant of some sort?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you step off my property. If you’d like to talk to me, discuss it with my attorney. He’s at Biskell and Klein downtown.”

She strode into the house and slammed the door.

Andrea looked at Jon. “And I thought I was a bitch.”

He walked back to the car.

“So what now?” she asked his back.

He pulled open the door and rested his elbow on the window as he looked at her. “I’ve got to go home. Change. I have a five-hour drive ahead of me.”

“You’re leaving now?”

“I’ve only got seven days left, Andrea. I don’t intend to waste them.”

chapter thirteen

TORRES STRODE ACROSS THE
parking lot, feeling more energized than he had in weeks. It was good to be home—only for a few nights, yeah, but that was better than nothing. He’d missed San Antonio. He’d missed the green. He’d missed the lights. He’d missed the restaurants and bars and even the traffic. Most of all, he’d missed the women.

He held the door for a young agent juggling an armload of files. Saturday-night case work. The life of a rookie. Torres flashed her a smile, but she didn’t return it as she squeezed through the exit and hustled toward her car.

Undaunted, he made his way upstairs to the desk he hadn’t seen in weeks. The bullpen was deserted tonight, except for a few wrung-out agents talking on the phone. Torres booted up his computer to check e-mail before thumbing through the paperwork crowding his in-box.

Across the room someone slammed down a phone receiver. Torres glanced over his cube and spotted a blonde hunched over her desk, squeezing the bridge of her nose as if she was fighting off a headache.

Elizabeth LeBlanc. She hadn’t been around that long—just long enough to raise a few eyebrows.

No one could figure LeBlanc out. She was hot, but she didn’t date. Guys asked her out—nothing, not even a drink after work. Some people thought she had a secret boyfriend in the Bureau, maybe someone married. Some people thought she had a secret girlfriend. But Torres didn’t get that vibe.

He’d observed her on more than one occasion. He’d noticed the way she listened in meetings and took copious notes. He’d noticed her habit of arriving early and leaving late. If she was having a love affair, it was with her job.

She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her neck tiredly.

So much for paperwork.

“Long day?” he asked, sauntering over. It was a lame opener, but he was out of practice.

“Long week. Long, crappy week, if you want to know the truth.” She frowned. “I thought you were in Maverick.”

He rested an arm on the wall of her cubicle. “Headed back tomorrow.”

“Any chance you guys might make an arrest soon? Put me out of my misery?”

“You’re working on
our
case?”

“Evidently.”

“How’d that happen?”

She sighed and glanced down at a stack of files on her desk. “The Del Rio bank robbery. Someone thinks it’s connected to what you’re doing.”

“It is.”

“You want to tell me how?”

Torres hesitated. He probably shouldn’t share too much. But on the other hand, if she was working it—

“That’s what I thought.” She had an edge in her voice. “Slaving away all weekend still doesn’t put me in the inner circle.”

“Slaving?” He smiled down at her.

“Sorry. I’m throwing myself a pity party. I spent my day interviewing used-car dealers, trying to track down your getaway vehicle.”

“Any luck?”

“No. I thought I had a lead, but”—she lifted her arms to tighten her ponytail, and Torres’s heart stuttered—“it’s not panning out. At least, not tonight.”

He gazed down at her. Wisps of hair curled around her neck, and her eyes were pale blue, almost gray. She really
was
pretty.

She glanced at her watch and started stacking files.

The blue eyes looked up at him. “You want to have dinner?”

Torres stared at her. Holy shit, was she . . . ?

“O-
kay
, forget I asked. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“No. I mean—you’re not. I was just thinking, it’s pretty late, right? I’m not sure what’s open.”

She stood up and glanced at her watch again. “Well, it’s only eleven. Luv’s is open.”

“Luv’s?”

“The truck stop. On I-35?”

He tried to picture her dining at a truck stop and drew a complete blank.

“I drop in there sometimes after working late.” She stuffed some files into a computer bag and hitched it onto her shoulder. “It’s not bad, actually.” She hesitated a beat. “You want to join me?”

Fifteen minutes later, he slid into a parking space between Elizabeth’s Honda and a pickup with oversize tires. The separate cars had been her idea, which didn’t really bode well for his chances of taking her home. Didn’t rule it out, though. Torres was an optimist.

They took a corner booth with a view of the whole restaurant, and a waitress stopped by right away to take their orders.