Far Gone (18 page)

Remembering made her stomach hurt. Andrea despised pity, always had. And in spite of the concerned messages he’d left on her voice mail, she had no intention of ever calling him again, much less sleeping with him.

She flipped onto her back and gazed up at her ceiling. She thought of Jon North. She thought of him in his dark suit and silk tie, with his badge clipped to his belt. She thought of him at his house in Maverick, all sweaty and grimy, with the two-day beard. She remembered him pitching his boots across the room and glaring at her. She liked that version of him. That Jon North could probably get her off. The suit-and-tie version tended to get on her nerves.

She closed her eyes and sighed. She needed to get a life.

There was always running. A good ten miles would probably do the trick, would leave her feeling energized and in control. Mostly. At the very least, it would put some of this humming energy to good use. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time for a run or anything else this morning.

She dragged herself out of bed and took a lukewarm shower. She pulled a brush through her hair and decided to leave it down instead of pulling it into a ponytail. She was, after all, on leave. Her gaze went to her badge sitting on the dresser. It was starting to collect dust.

Tears burned her eyes. She’d been a good cop. It had surprised her how quickly she’d taken to it. After the hell of the police academy ended, she’d sailed right into her job with so much energy and enthusiasm. It had felt like a perfect fit.

She’d liked the work. She’d liked the other cops. She’d even liked the ribbing. Criticism was the lifeblood of a squad, and she’d never taken it personally. It had given her a sense of belonging.

More than anything, she’d liked showing up on a call and taking charge of a situation. It was something she still liked, even as a detective. When she arrived at a scene, her presence gave people reassurance. Hope. They trusted her to help them, and she took that trust seriously. It made her who she was. It mattered. Her job
mattered
, and the pang of missing it was overshadowed only by the excruciating prospect of never getting it back again.

Andrea grabbed her leather jacket. She tucked the Kimber into the holster at her back and headed out the door.

It was a crisp blue day, and she left the windows down as she drove across the bridge to North Lamar Street. The restaurant parking lot was busy, and she had to circle the block twice to find a space.

City Diner was an Austin landmark. Open around the clock, it attracted the postparty crowd when the bars closed on Sixth Street. After sunrise, it was a magnet for foodies and health nuts. Sunday was definitely for the fitness patrons, many in biker shorts and yellow spandex shirts. There were runners, too, and even a few tennis players. Andrea preferred the runners, because most had the courtesy to change out of sodden T-shirts before crowding into the place for a meal.

She stepped into the restaurant and immediately spotted Alex at the bar. There was an empty stool beside her. Andrea squeezed through the throng of people and claimed the seat.

“Nathan’s sorry he can’t make it,” Alex said. “He got a call-out.”

She felt a twinge of jealousy, even though she typically dreaded getting called out of bed on a Sunday morning.

“You order yet?” Andrea asked.

“Just sat down.”

Andrea scanned the menu. The restaurant’s name was really a misnomer. Yes, it was a diner in that it served meat loaf, sandwiches, and mac-’n’-cheese. But given their location directly across from the Whole Foods headquarters, they put a gourmet spin on everything. The grilled cheese sandwich was stacked with Gruyère. The deviled eggs came with a side of organic, locally grown arugula. The waffles were made with Madagascar vanilla and served with Grade A Vermont syrup, which wasn’t nearly as tasty as the Log Cabin that Dee always plunked on the breakfast table.

“You look stressed,” Alex said.

She glanced up. “Just tired.”

“Rough night?”

“Rough month.”

The waitress stopped by, and although the mimosas sounded tempting, Andrea ordered coffee. Alex asked for a virgin Bloody Mary.

Andrea narrowed her gaze. “Are you pregnant?”

“What? No!”

She searched her face for any sign that she was lying. She didn’t see anything but decided to ask Nathan. If he broke into a dopey grin, she’d know the truth.

“Nathan’s really sorry he couldn’t make it,” Alex said, deftly changing the subject. “He wanted a chance to talk to you. You know, he’s worried about you.”

Andrea looked at the TV above the bar. “I’m fine.”

“Really?”

She forced herself to make eye contact. “Really.” She cleared her throat. “So any word yet? On that stuff Ben was checking for me?”

“Still working on it.”

“Has he come up with anything?”

“You never know with Ben.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s very mysterious. Doesn’t like to be pestered for updates while he’s researching.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced at the TV again, where a local newscaster was standing in a street beside a red Suburban. It was the pushy blonde who had staked out Andrea’s apartment for two days, hoping to get an interview about the shooting. Holly Something-or-Other.

“I’m concerned about you, too.”

Her gaze snapped to Alex. “Don’t be.”

“You know, I was with Nathan when he went through this. I know it’s tough.”

Her attention drifted to the TV again, and she noticed the headline crawling along the bottom of the screen:
GAS EXPLOSION 2200 BLOCK OF CHERRY KNOLL. CAUSE STILL UNDER INVESTIGATION.

Her stomach dropped.

“Andrea?”

“Nathan—you said he’s on a call. Was it a gas explosion?”

Alex darted a confused glance at the television. “I think it was a house fire. Why?”

“So there were fatalities?”

“I don’t know.”

Andrea looked at the TV. The camera panned to the charred remains of a house. Beside the burned structure was a shiny black Jaguar.

She jumped up from her stool.

“Andrea, what is it?”

“Sorry.” She snatched up her purse. “I have to go.”

♦

The street had been blocked off with barricades. Andrea cut between them and skirted the black-and-white parked in the exact spot where Jon had been yesterday. She ignored the curious look from a patrol officer she vaguely recognized and found Nathan in the driveway with the fire chief. He frowned when he spotted her.

Andrea surveyed the property. A white crime-scene van was parked directly in front of the house—or what was left of it. The entire front of the structure was a blackened pile of debris. What remained of the back of the home was a smoldering mess.

Nathan got free from the fire chief and made a beeline toward her.

“Is Alex okay?”

Intense concern. Andrea would bet money that girl was pregnant.

“She’s fine,” she told him. “I need to talk to you.”

He darted a look over her shoulder, and his frown deepened. Andrea turned to see a second news van pulling up to the barricade. The local media had obviously discovered there was more to this incident than they’d first reported.

“Here we go,” Nathan muttered. He took Andrea’s arm and steered her farther up the driveway, where the red Suburban would shield them from view.

Andrea caught a glimpse of the backyard. A blue plastic swing dangled from a tree limb.

Jesus God.

“Why are you here, Andrea?”

She looked at Nathan. She swallowed the bile in the back of her throat. “What happened here?”

He gave her a long, hard look. Maybe he figured she was missing the job, wanted to put her skills to use. “Gas explosion, just after midnight. Victim’s thought to be Carmen Pena, but that hasn’t been confirmed. Her child was there, too. The neighbor’s a trauma surgeon. He rushed into the house and rescued the kid, got third-degree burns all over his arms and feet. Child’s in ICU.”

Andrea felt dizzy. She fought the urge to bend over and throw up.

“Why’s homicide here?” she managed.

“The fire chief has questions,” he said. “His guys were here all night, working the scene. He doesn’t like this for an accident.”

Andrea looked at the house. The bedroom wing had been less affected than the kitchen, and it was still possible to discern a bathroom with the sink standing upright amid the singed walls. “Where’s the point of origin?” she asked.

“In the kitchen, near the gas stove.” He glanced at the debris.

“So someone tampered with it?”

“Probably.” He looked at her, and she knew she was missing something. “One of the fire investigators found shards of metal and pieces of a timing device. Looks like possibly a pipe bomb, but that’s totally unconfirmed.”

“Show me.”

Nathan watched her, clearly debating with himself. He led her to a white crime-scene van with its back doors standing open.

“Hey, you got that pipe debris?” he asked one of the CSIs.

The guy glanced at Andrea, then reached into the van and pulled out a flat metal box with a see-through lid. It looked like an airtight container, the preferred method of transporting fire-scene evidence in order to keep accelerants from evaporating.

“Don’t shuffle anything around,” the guy told Nathan, then ducked between them and returned to what was left of the house.

The box was divided into numbered sections containing mangled pieces of what had once been a metal pipe. Other sections contained misshapen bolts and ball bearings, some coated with blood.

She glanced at Nathan. “Mind if I take a picture?”

He gave her a stony look. Then he unlatched the lid and turned the box to face her so she could snap a few shots with her phone camera. When she finished, he returned the box to its place, slammed the van doors shut, and stepped onto the water-saturated lawn.

“Where’s the victim?” Andrea asked.

“Medical examiner’s office. I called over there this morning. He said he’s going to have to bring in a forensic anthropologist to get a positive ID.”

Her gaze went to the swing again.

“Want to tell me why the sudden interest in my case?”

She looked at Nathan. And then she looked behind him, where a CSI in a white Tyvek suit was crouched beside the Jaguar, dusting the door for prints. All the windows were shattered, and shards of glass surrounded the car like ice chips.

“Andie?”

“I’ll explain, but . . . I have to make a call first.” She desperately needed to talk to Jon.

Another news van pulled up. A familiar reporter jumped out and immediately homed in on her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Nathan said, eyeing the growing huddle of reporters.

Andrea squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, I’m gone.”

chapter fifteen

DAVID WOODS WAS A BUST.

Elizabeth and another agent spent the better part of Sunday staked out in front of the man’s apartment, simply trying to get a look at him. She’d enlarged the surveillance photos showing their un-ID’d bank robber in order to make a comparison. But they’d had nothing to compare.

After four hours without a hint of movement in the apartment, she’d tracked down the building manager, who’d let her know the tenant had disappeared two weeks ago in the middle of the night. One day the landlord was pounding on the door looking for rent money, next day the apartment was empty. Elizabeth insisted on seeing the place, in case he might have left behind a clue, but the only evidence of Woods was a fist-sized hole in the wall beside the bathroom door.

Elizabeth dragged herself into the office and tossed her keys onto her desk. This case was exasperating. So far, every lead she’d painstakingly uncovered had turned into a dead end.

She opened her e-mail and watched a torrent of messages fill the in-box. One was from a lab tech at Quantico. Subject line: “Letter Analysis.”

According to the message, the letter from the bank robbery had yielded no fingerprints or DNA. Big shocker. The paper was twenty-pound multipurpose stock, common at any office-supply store. The ink was from an HP printer, nothing unusual. But the technician did want to discuss “one more observation.”

Elizabeth stared at the message, irritated. Why hadn’t he simply told her the observation right there in the e-mail? He’d provided his cell-phone number beneath his name.

Elizabeth recalled the technician. She’d met him briefly while touring the Questioned Documents section of the FBI Laboratory with her Academy class. The man had given their group a presentation on check forgery.

She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock on a Sunday. She pictured the guy at home with his feet up, watching a game and knocking back a few beers. You’d have to be pretty pathetic to willingly spend your entire weekend toiling away at work.

He picked up on the first ring.

“This is Elizabeth LeBlanc. I just read your message here about the letter I sent in?”

“A very
interesting
letter, I must say.” His voice had a slight lisp, and she remembered wire-rimmed glasses and an underbite.

“Interesting how?” she asked.

“Interesting in that I wasn’t able to glean very much from it at all.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Usually, I find something. A watermark, a copy mark, a partial print. So I was very happy to find the indented writing. At least gives you a clue to work with, albeit a small one.”

“Indented writing?”

“On the letter. You didn’t notice it? Lower left corner. I attached a PDF for you with the e-mail.”

She leaned forward and clicked open the file. He’d scanned in a copy of the letter that was all marked up. A red arrow pointed to the lower left corner, where some faint gray numbers were scrawled.

“How did I not notice that?” she asked, perplexed. She’d examined the thing with a magnifying glass before the CSI sealed it in an evidence bag.

“It’s almost invisible to the naked eye,” he said. “The writing’s indented into the surface, as the term implies.”

“You mean like when you write on top of something?”