Gordon grabbed a giant red sack and pulled it next to him. He waved at the crowd below, close enough to tell that he’d gained their attention.
Now, time to make them love me.
Gordon reached into the bag and snagged a handful of $100 bills and tossed them out of the plane. And then another, and another.
“What the hell are you doing, man?” Spurlock shouted.
“Just fly the plane.”
In the time it took Spurlock to fly his plane the length of the stadium twice, Gordon had emptied his bag. Every last $100 bill—gone.
From the roar of the crowd, they appeared to love it—just as Gordon predicted.
Who wouldn’t want to go to an NFL game and have a million dollars worth of hundred-dollar bills rain down from the sky?
Thirty minutes later, Spurlock set his plane down on his airstrip.
“Mr. McDonald, I don’t know if this was worth it,” Spurlock said after he shut the engine off. “What difference does it make if I have a plane if I can’t fly it again after that stunt? I’m liable to get a heavy fine from the FAA or have my pilot license suspended.”
Gordon dug into bag and tossed two wads of tightly rolled cash at Spurlock. “Here’s twenty grand for your troubles. Just keep your mouth shut and tell the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?”
“You had no idea what I was going to do and you couldn’t stop me while you were flying the plane.”
Spurlock looked at the money. “That is true.”
“You’ll be fine. Just don’t mention I came by on Friday.”
***
TWO HOURS LATER, Gordon sat in the lounge at Ridgeline, nursing a glass of Scotch. He made it there in time to see the end of the game, but all the talk was about the mystery Santa Claus throwing out money from an airplane during halftime.
A man settled onto the stool next to Gordon. “Can you believe this guy? Thinks he can win over people just by throwing money at them.”
Gordon took a sip and set down his glass. “It works most of the time.”
“Yeah, but not when it’s obvious what you’re trying to do. This guy is a failed criminal who thinks he’s the second coming of D.B. Cooper. He’s just a hack.”
Gordon shrugged. “The feds haven’t caught him yet, have they? Or perhaps our criminal is a she. We have no way of knowing for sure since the feds haven’t named any suspects.”
The man furrowed his brow. “Where have you been, man? You haven’t heard the interviews with the pilot. He claimed some man hired him and came dressed as Santa Claus.”
“Good. They finally dwindled the pool of suspects in half from three hundred and twenty million.”
The man chuckled. “Well, I guess that’s one way to look at it.” He paused and stared at his bill. “But I think they’re going to catch this guy soon. He’ll make a mistake somewhere. They always do.”
“Not always. Don’t forget D.B. Cooper is still out there.”
“Well, I guess that means there’s still time for him to make a mistake, too.”
The man patted Gordon on the back and stood up. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“You, too.”
Gordon focused his attention back on the television, where a local news reporter was talking with fans outside the stadium.
The first fan wore a Seahawks jersey with blue and green face paint—along with an angry scowl on his face.
The reporter, a young, fit woman with tightly cropped blonde hair, held the microphone and waited for a response from her opening question: “How did you feel about the interruption in this afternoon’s game?”
What a biased question! She should be asking how did it feel to leave the stadium with a couple hundred dollars in your pocket.
“I don’t know who this guy thinks he is,” the man said. “He may have dressed up like Santa, but he was the Grinch today. Ruining the game with his stunt made me pretty angry. I wish he’d fallen out of the plane.”
“Okay, sir. Thank you for your comments,” said the reporter, taken aback by the vitriol. She grabbed another fan. “Ma’am, how did you feel about the forty-five minute delay this afternoon at halftime to clear the field of all that money?”
The woman shook her head. “I snagged five bills out of the air before the announcement came over the speakers that we had to give it all back or face prosecution. It was my money.”
The reporter eyed the woman carefully. “But you are aware that all that money was stolen from the Federal Reserve just a few days ago?”
“Sure, but that don’t mean they can just come and take my money and threaten me with jail time. I pay my taxes.”
The reporter withdrew her microphone for another question. “But what do you think about the man who stole all the money?”
“He’s a genius—especially for giving it away. Now there’s no evidence that he ever had it. It’s like the crime never existed.”
Genius. I like the sound of that.
The reporter turned back toward the screen. “Regardless of the money, those responsible for today’s stunt at halftime will also face several charges and fines, according to law enforcement officials. Dan.”
Dan Walker, the smooth-talking anchor, frowned as the on-screen picture turned to him.
“Whoever this guy is jumping out of planes stealing money and then littering CenturyLink Field with it is one of the worst kinds of people,” Dan stated. “I hope they catch this scumbag soon.”
Nobody asked for your opinion, Dan.
The next segment, “What’s Hot with Hannah,” involved a voluptuous woman, wearing a tight blue dress and with long wavy brown hair, parading in front of the camera. Hannah held a tablet and smiled at the camera.
After several updates delivered in a countdown style about the Kardashians and Katy Perry, all of whom Gordon found obnoxious, she turned serious.
“The hottest thing on the Internet right now is something that happened right here in our own backyard today. The top trending Twitter hashtag in the U.S. right this moment is #CoopersCreepyTwin, referencing the man who wants to be D.B. Cooper so badly but just isn’t. Cooper, while also a thief, was suave and had some panache. But this guy is a poor man’s Cooper who showed today how desperate he is to be loved by the public. So, join in the fun of mocking this guy on Twitter, especially those of you who had your afternoon ruined at CenturyLink Field by his antics. On a side note, I’m certain that if we didn’t have that extended delay at halftime, the Seahawks would’ve won today instead of losing on a last-second field goal.”
Oh, now they’re blaming me for the Seahawks’ loss. Typical millennial crap.
He took a long pull on his glass of Scotch and seethed. As much as he hated Hannah and her countdown, he knew she was right. He was fighting a losing battle in the court of public opinion.
Time to cut my losses.
CHAPTER 30
FLYNN AND BANKS STOOD by the curb of the Seattle airport waiting for Jones to pick them up. Since they were in the air during the “Hundred Dollar Santa” incident, they didn’t know anything about what happened other than the news reports.
“I’ll tell you all about it when I pick you up,” Jones told Banks on the phone. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The pair watched in silence as the travelers walked mindlessly into the airport, tugging luggage behind them.
“Don’t you always wonder where everyone is going?” Flynn asked, gesturing toward a line of travelers.
“Those people, specifically?” she said.
“No—everyone. Where are they all going?”
She nodded. “I do think about that sometimes. Mostly I just wonder where the women with out-of-control children are going—and say a quick prayer that it isn’t the same place as where I’m headed.”
Flynn grinned. “I wonder if the man we’re looking for is here, right now.”
“If he isn’t, he should be because we’re going to catch him and lock him up.” She stopped and poin
ted toward the road. “Look—there’s Jones.”
Jones pulled next to the curb and popped the trunk. Once Flynn and Jones stored their luggage and were buckled in, he drove toward the airport exit.
“I hope you two are ready to get back at it,” Jones said. “I’ve got to get you caught up to speed on what happened today—and I want to hear about your trip to San Francisco.”
“Before we do anything, I need to drop something off with Copperfield in forensics,” Banks said.
“No problem. It’s on the way.”
They all exchanged their stories over the past day, swinging by the office for a brief pit stop.
“You think there’s any point in talking to this pilot again?” Banks asked once she learned of Jones’ plans to interview him.
Jones glanced over his shoulder and pulled onto the Interstate. “You know how local law enforcement interviews are. I feel like we need to interview him ourselves to get a feel for what this guy is about.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“That he’s telling the truth, but you know the truth often contains various shades.”
Flynn looked out the window and took in the conversation happening in the front seat as well as the sights of a Sunday evening in Seattle bustling along the highway. His gut told him that they were close—very close. It also told him that their suspect, whoever he was, had already made a mistake. They simply needed to catch him before he vanished like Cooper did years ago.
***
THE DIRT ROAD leading up to Northwest Aerial Services dipped and swerved, much like Jones’ driving as he fought to avoid the numerous potholes. The first stars began to twinkle beneath the dusky sky painted with fading oranges and purples. The silhouetted tail of an airplane on top of a small rise let Flynn know they were close.
“So, here’s how this is going to go down,” Banks said as they slowed down and pulled into the driveway. “This guy is scared. Let’s make him sweat for a few minutes before we extend him any goodwill. I want to see if he’ll crack without exerting too much force.”
“He didn’t break for the blues today,” Jones said.
Banks rolled her eyes. “And your point?” She held up her badge. “This is far more frightening to most people.”
Once Jones parked, they got out. Banks spotted a man tinkering on the plane about a hundred yards away.
“I bet that’s our guy,” she said, pointing in his direction.
They all followed her lead, trekking up the small rise to the hanger sized to fit Spurlock’s Cessna 210.
“Mr. Tommy Spurlock?” she said.
“Yeah. Who’s asking?” he said.
“Agent Jennifer Banks with the FBI along with Agent Chase Jones and special consultant James Flynn. We have a few questions for you, sir.”
Spurlock wiped his hands on a towel and threw it aside. “I already talked with some officers earlier today.”
“Well, this is linked to our case, one we’re specifically investigating. Sorry for the duplication of efforts, but we need to talk.”
He motioned for them to follow him back to his office. The cramped space just off the hangar floor had room for a desk, a small couch, and two chairs. Once they were all inside, Jones pulled the door shut and stood against it. Flynn settled into the couch, while Banks grabbed a chair and dragged it directly in front of his desk.
Spurlock slumped into the chair behind his desk and picked up a small metal airplane part, twirling it around in his hands and refusing to look up.
“Mr. Spurlock, what happened today over CenturyLink Field is a major FAA violation—more than one, actually,” she began. “You’re in danger of losing your license. Are you aware of that?”
He nodded without removing his gaze on the part in his hands.
“I need your full cooperation here. We’re dealing with a dangerous criminal. And if you don’t help us, we’re not sure how many other people might get hurt.”
Spurlock shook his head. “Well, nobody’s been hurt yet, right?”
“Yet. But we want to keep it that way. When criminals like this get backed into a corner, who knows what they might do. And this guy obviously knows where you live.”
Spurlock sat upright. “What do you want to know, Agent Banks?”
“I want to know how it is that you came to fly this man today,” she said.
“I’ll tell you what I told the cops earlier today. The man asked me to fly him over the stadium—said he wanted to take some aerial photos during the game. I had no idea he was going to open the door and start throwing out money.”
She eyed him carefully. “You didn’t think it was odd when he showed up in a Santa Claus outfit?”
Spurlock shrugged. “There are some weird people around here—I just thought he was in a festive mood.”
“A festive mood, huh? And he lugged a giant red bag onboard and you didn’t ask any questions?”
“Business has been slow lately. I can’t afford to scare off any customers.”
“What if he had a bomb in there?”
Spurlock shook his head. “I knew it wasn’t a bomb.”
“So you saw what was inside?”
“No. Not exactly. I heard it as he slung it over his shoulder. It sounded like paper and appeared really light. I didn’t think he was going to throw something out. I just thought it was some publicity stunt or something to get on television.”
Banks leaned forward in the chair. “So, which was it, Mr. Spurlock? A publicity stunt or a photography shoot? Seems like your story is starting to fall apart here.”
He scowled. “Do I need to get a lawyer?”
“Not if you tell us the truth, though I doubt you’ll be able to afford one seeing how business is so slow these days.”
“Just tell us what the guy looked like?” Jones said.
“How do I really know?” Spurlock answered. “He looked like Santa Claus.”
Banks folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. “And this was the first time you’d ever seen the guy?”
Spurlock nodded. “Yeah. He called me up today and asked me to do this.”
“What time did he call?” she said.
“Around noon. Maybe a little after.”
Flynn put his hand up in the air. “Hold up. I know a little about planes, and I’m having a hard time believing that you were able to get the plane ready for takeoff and over to the stadium that quickly if he called you that late.”
“With all due respect, sir, I know a lot about planes and I’ve been doing this for a long time—and it doesn’t take me long to get my plane prepped and ready for flight.”
Flynn bobbed his head from side to side. “Yeah, maybe you’ve got mad skills with your airplane, but where your story falls apart for me is that this guy clearly wanted to do this during halftime. He wouldn’t just start calling up places an hour before kickoff and seeing who’s available.”
Spurlock shrugged. “Maybe it was on a whim?”
Banks jumped back in. “And on that whim he went out and secured a Santa outfit without calling around to see if there was a company who could fly him over the stadium? Seattle’s a big area, but there aren’t that many pilots licensed to fly over CenturyLink Field.”
Spurlock looked down again at the part in his hand, fiddling with it.
“How did he pay you?” Banks asked.
“In cash.”
“Do you still have the bills with you?”
Spurlock cracked. “Okay, look. He told me not to talk to you guys. But the real story is that I fell behind on my bank payments and one of the bank representatives came out here on Friday and told me that he’d forgive my missed payments if I did him a favor.”
“And you agreed to this?”
“I didn’t know what he was going to do. I admit I thought it was a little strange when he showed up in a Santa Claus outfit, but I couldn’t say no at that point. My wife just had surgery, and, like I said earlier, business has been slow. I was in danger of losi
ng my plane. I didn’t really have a choice.”
Banks nodded. “So, what was this guy’s name?”
“He said his name was William McDonald.”
Banks pulled out her notepad and started jotting down notes. “Can you describe what he looked like?”
Spurlock took a deep breath. “He was balding with a goatee, Caucasian, wore glasses. And if I had to guess his age, I’d say he was in his mid-40s.”
“Now, was that so difficult, Mr. Spurlock?” Banks said as she stood up.
He shook his head.
“I do appreciate your cooperation and it will be duly noted.”
Spurlock’s shoulders dropped as he appeared relaxed for the first time since the trio walked up to his hangar. “There is one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Jones asked.
“Before we got on the plane, I offered him a drink. It’s sitting on that windowsill right there. He was wearing gloves so you won’t get any prints other than mine, but maybe you can get something else from it.”
Jones pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and held the glass. “Looks like you’re driving us back to the office, Banks.”
CHAPTER 31
COLEMAN SHUFFLED INTO HIS OFFICE and made some notes after watching the evening news report about the Cooper Copycat. Because he showered the stadium with $100 bills during the Seahawks game, it actually trumped Seahawks’ coverage. And Coleman couldn’t remember the last time some news event trumped NFL football on the Sunday evening news when the city’s beloved team had a game.
Edith stopped at the doorway and poked her head inside his office. “What are you doing, Harold?”
“Just going over a few things, honey. It’s no big deal.”
She chuckled. “Is that your way of telling me to leave you alone—and that you’re trying to solve this case again?”
He turned around and glanced at her over his shoulder. “We’ve been married a long time—and you know me too well.”
“I could’ve been married to you for only fifteen minutes and known that.”
She sighed. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
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