The Cooper Affair (A James Flynn Thriller Book 3)

by Jack Patterson

  Nothing.

  The news anchor dangled the information—and the tavern in Ariel ran with it, creating fascinating theory after fascinating theory. Flynn couldn’t believe any of them. But he couldn’t ignore them either.

  He needed a story. The whole country would be onto this before midnight.

  Flynn had to find a compelling angle—and fast.

  CHAPTER 3

  HAROLD COLEMAN WOULD’VE LEAPT off his recliner if he were able. Instead, he just threw his cane toward the television and let out a string of profanities. The older he became, the more he cursed—but even this was more than usual for him. It drew the concern of his wife, Betty.

  She shuffled into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “What is it, Harold? Why are you so upset?”

  “Somebody’s trying to copy D.B. Cooper’s crime,” he said, waving his hand dismissively at the television.

  “I see,” she said, rolling her eyes and sighing. Before she could say another word, the newscaster uttered a sentence that made her husband go from upset to livid.

  The man with a chiseled jaw and slick dark hair delivered his line with what sounded like a mocking tone to Harold: “Tonight’s heist comes on the anniversary of D.B. Cooper’s infamous skyjacking, a crime that former FBI investigator Harold Coleman and his team failed to solve and remains unsolved to this day.”

  Coleman stood up and shook his fist at the television before stumbling toward his cane. He slowly knelt down to pick it up. When he stood upright, he used his cane like a baseball bat to smack the screen. It wasn’t hard enough to cause any damage, something his wife made sure of by hustling toward him and putting her arms around him.

  “It’s okay, Harold,” she said. “They’re not blaming you. It’s just a news story. No one would’ve caught him.”

  Coleman struggled to free himself from his wife’s grip before he lumbered back toward his chair and sat down. He snatched the remote from the table next to him and turned off the television.

  “The bastard’s dead. Case closed,” he snarled. “Why does every blood-sucking journalist need a body to prove what we already know? If Cooper wasn’t a tasty snack for a bear, his body was surely devoured by some animal.”

  “Calm down, dear,” Betty said. “You know how everyone just loves a good conspiracy.”

  “Not me. I hate ’em, especially any time they’re related to Cooper.”

  “I know—but you’ve got to let the newscasters have their fun, okay? There are only so many fundraisers for environmental conservation to fill an evening newscast in Portland.”

  Coleman laughed, snickering at his wife’s dry wit. Besides, she was right. This was a juicy story based on the history of Cooper and his legendary leap from that plane more than forty years ago.

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, reliving each moment like it was yesterday. Nobody at the time believed Cooper could’ve survived the jump into that terrain under those conditions. And the ones who believed it today? Coleman wrote them off as fame whores. Like anything in this day and age, if someone presented a theory contrary to popular opinion, it was sure to find the light of day. It’s how some people built their followings.

  Coleman didn’t care. He knew the truth. Cooper had never been found. And the long list of suspects—Floyd McCoy, Gary Samdel, Joseph H. Johnston, John Hoskin, Louis Macaluso, James Henry Zimmerman, William Warwick—proved to be one dead end after another. If Cooper had survived, Coleman knew he would’ve found him. The only logical explanation was that he wasn’t alive, the thief and his money consumed by nature’s fiercest and finest. It wasn’t a cruel twist of fate, but an act of justice—and mercy. If Coleman had ever laid hands on Cooper, it wouldn’t have been pretty.

  But what Coleman just witnessed on the news stirred something in him—a second chance. He was old, but he still had his wits.

  He was going to help the feds catch this man and bring him to justice—dead or alive.

  CHAPTER 4

  GORDON PULLED HIS HOOD SNUG and kept his head down as he exited the train and walked toward his condominium. Each time he passed a person on the street, he wondered if they could see the money hanging from pockets he’d created in his coat. Instinctively, he wanted to glance up at the street cameras, but he fought the urge, knowing the danger just one full facial look at the camera would cause him.

  Just breathe. You’re almost home.

  Instead of entering his high-rise condo the normal way, Gordon slipped through the alleyway and prepared to enter through a back exit. The door was supposed to be open, cracked just enough for him to wedge his fingers into it and open it, but not enough that anyone would realize it was open. In preparation for the heist, he put a camera on the door to monitor how often it was used. In three weeks of tapes, he saw two people use the door, both on Friday nights. It was Tuesday and he assumed he’d be in the clear.

  Just a small sliver of wood should do the trick.

  At least, that’s what he thought when he hatched his plan. But as he rounded the corner, his eyes fell immediately to the spot he’d left the piece of wood.

  It was gone.

  Shallow breathing. Walking in circles.

  Take a deep breath. All is not lost. Calm down.

  If he went into the lobby, the camera could capture him along with the fingerprint identification key necessary to access the elevator and the stairwell lock. He couldn’t avoid both, though even evading one proved challenging. Were he to become a suspect, he needed his alibi to remain airtight. There could be no wiggle room for the prosecutor to establish his whereabouts as anywhere but where he said they were. There could be no room for the jury’s suspicion.

  His options were limited. He could walk around downtown for hours until the second part of his plan fell into place, though he still risked getting captured by a surveillance camera somewhere. If he remained where he was, he still faced the problem of being in public long enough for someone to identify him.

  Neither of those options worked for Gordon. He needed to get into his apartment and out of sight without anyone noticing him.

  Think, Gordon. Think.

  His perfectly crafted plan suddenly seemed riddled with holes. He slumped against the wall in the alleyway and thought about another possible way. His criteria included not getting identified in his building on the security camera or with the fingerprint identification log. The more he pondered his options, the less hopeful he became.

  Until now, his execution of the plan remained flawless. Now it was a dumpster fire—at least it felt that way.

  Then an idea sparked in his mind.

  He got up and walked several blocks toward a district that was known for its dive bars and meth junkies. With his sunglasses on and his hood cropped tightly around his face, Gordon sauntered up and down a block, surveying his potential recruits. After a few minutes, he made his choice.

  Gordon knelt down next to a young man with a scraggly beard. He wore an army green jacket and a pair of boots with gaping holes in the toes. Leaning against the wall with his feet extended outward, his head drooped.

  Gordon took a firm grip on the man’s bicep and shook him.

  “Hey, man! What are you doing?” the man asked.

  In an effort to disguise his identity, Gordon conjured up a guttural voice. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Kid? Who you callin’ ‘kid’?”

  Gordon sighed and shook his head. “Would you prefer I call you a ‘Meth Head Adult’?”

  The man withdrew. “Leave me alone, dude. You’re interrupting my sleep.”

  “How would you like to make an easy hundred bucks?”

  The man sat up. “I’m listening.”

  Gordon gave the man instructions and then slapped a hundred dollar bill into his hand, a bill he’d fished out from his wallet instead of his jacket to make sure they couldn’t trace the money back to him—if the authorities would even bother to look for him.

  Gordon followed the man at a safe d
istance back toward his condominium. In a matter of minutes, the junkie reached the condominium. And just as directed, he wandered inside and pulled the fire alarm before rushing outside.

  Within a few minutes, more than a hundred people spilled out of the condo and onto the sidewalk, most of whom Gordon didn’t recognize. Once everyone realized it was a false alarm and began re-entering the building, Gordon slipped in with the mass of people. No need to use his fingerprint identification now.

  He slipped onto a crowded elevator, his best option for remaining forgettable. The woman with the large bust and skimpy dress attracted the most attention. He kept his head down and smiled at his good fortune. By the stop on the twenty-first floor, everyone exited. He was in the clear.

  Almost.

  “Carlton? Is that you?” a woman cried out from down the hall of the twenty-first floor, her heels clicking on the marble as she waddled toward the elevator.

  Keep your head down. She can’t see your face.

  Gordon punched the button for the thirtieth floor several times.

  Come on, come on.

  The doors began to close as the click-clack of Mrs. Danaman’s shoes approached with urgency.

  He hadn’t seen her in over two months—and he hadn’t called her back since then either. He’d run into her at a local bar. She was tipsy. He was drunk. It was a disaster, a mistake he chose to forget. He couldn’t let her ruin his plan.

  Gordon peered beneath his hood at Mrs. Danaman—or, as she was more affectionately known in social circles, “Cookie”—as she reached to push the elevator button to keep it open. But as she did, the doors clinked shut and the elevator hummed, carrying him upward.

  He sighed in relief as he proceeded to push several buttons for floors above and below his. Gordon needed to confuse the socialite just in case she recognized him and was watching the floor numbers on the display to confirm her suspicions.

  The elevator dinged on his floor and he rushed out toward his condo door. He checked both directions of the hall. Nothing. He shoved his key into the lock and went inside.

  Disaster averted.

  He tumbled into his favorite recliner and turned on the news in time to watch a segment about his exploits. No footage yet but they were already calling him the D.B. Cooper Copycat. It wasn’t original, but he could live with it.

  He flung his jacket onto the couch and stared at the stacks of hundred dollar bills.

  I did it.

  He smiled, satisfied that he managed to pull off the heist.

  But he was just getting started.

  He was going to do it again.

  CHAPTER 5

  JAMES FLYNN LEANED ON HIS CIA contacts when he wanted to find out what was going on during a criminal investigation. But since this case was strictly domestic, he needed to look elsewhere, specifically in the direction of the FBI. It was only a matter of time before his editor called him demanding an update on the story—and he was going to have as many answers as possible for her.

  He looked at his watch and took a swig of coffee.

  Five minutes past seven on a Monday morning. I’m sure she’s up by now.

  Flynn hesitated before knocking on the door.

  A few shoeless footsteps on hardwood floor, then a feminine yet firm voice. “Yes?”

  “It’s James Flynn,” he said. “I come bearing caffeine.”

  The light sneaking through the eyehole vanished and reappeared again as the deadbolt lock clicked.

  “Grande soy latte, no whip cream?” the dark-haired woman at the door asked after she pulled it open.

  Flynn nodded and put the drink in her hand. “I never forget a coffee order.”

  She rolled her eyes and waved him inside. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon again. What brings you to Seattle?”

  “Do you need to ask?”

  A faint smile crept across the woman’s lips. “I always ask. It’s what I do.”

  Flynn shook his head. Jennifer Banks, FBI agent extraordinaire—at least, that’s how he perceived her. He’d remained enamored with her since their last adventure across the country to stop a potential bio terror threat and save the Capitol building from becoming a permanent quarantine zone. He couldn’t believe his good fortune to get to work with her again so soon—that is, if she’d let him. And he had a feeling she would.

  “Well, I’m hoping that you’re working on the Cooper Copycat case,” he said. “Am I in luck?”

  She smiled. “Indeed you are—but I have a feeling you already knew I was.” She held up her coffee cup. “You think this little gift is going to get you in on the action?”

  “I’m very familiar with the original case.”

  “As are most FBI agents and conspiracy theorists. Not sure I can see the value in letting you in on this one. My partner, Chase Jones, is very capable.”

  “I’m not trying to replace him. But perhaps you don’t understand—this is the case I’ve obsessed about since I started working at The National. I know every piece of trivia there is to know about D.B. Cooper.”

  “Every piece?”

  “Try me.”

  “What kind of plane did he jump out of?”

  Flynn sighed. “Seriously? I thought you were going to ask me some tough questions.”

  Banks took a sip of her latte. “What kind of cigarettes did Cooper smoke?”

  “Raleighs.” He shook his head. “This is child’s play. Can you please ask me something worthy of my D.B. Cooper obsession?”

  “What color shoes was he wearing?”

  “Brown.”

  “How did he cut his sideburns?”

  “Low ear level.”

  She cracked a faint smile. “His voice?”

  “Low, but no real discernible accent, though some FBI profiles suggested he was from the Midwest.”

  She shrugged. “Not bad, but you haven’t proven that you’d be helpful on this case.”

  “You know my background with the CIA. It couldn’t hurt to have me around, could it?”

  She shook her head. “You’re incorrigible. I’ll come up with something.” She stood up. “Let’s go.”

  “You won’t be sorry.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t publish anything about this case without my permission. Is that understood?”

  Flynn nodded. Behind his back he crossed his fingers. It was an old habit, but he didn’t want to hamstring why he was really there—to find out the identity of Cooper’s copycat and write about it. His word was only good when it suited his agenda; otherwise, all bets were off. He couldn’t get at the truth if he made some sophomoric promise to remain tightlipped. And Banks should’ve known better, at least that’s how he justified it to himself.

  ***

  AT THE SEATTLE FIELD OFFICE, Flynn received an access badge. He didn’t know what Banks had told her supervisor, but he didn’t want to know either. Whatever it was, she likely lied to get him in the door—and for that, he was grateful. He needed to peek under the covers and see if there was anything else that warranted being told to the general public. The more information the FBI withheld, the less chance they had of capturing him.

  Flynn took the position that crowdsourcing was the best way to catch a criminal on the run. In the digital age, no one could outrun social media. Someone always wanted to be a hero on the Internet. But Banks didn’t share the same sentiment—and neither did the FBI.

  In the initial briefing, Flynn took notes on what information had already been regurgitated to the public: the who, what, when, where, and how of the crime. But the who was nothing more than a moniker bestowed upon the copycat by the FBI. And the why? The FBI seemed clueless.

  To Flynn, this wasn’t a crime that needed to be solved by rehashing every detail. It was a crime that could only be solved by determining why it was committed. And it was very evident to him that the criminal was obsessed with D.B. Cooper, which was to Flynn’s a
dvantage.

  Since joining The National, Flynn had been assigned to write about Cooper’s skyjacking at least three times. It had been a source of constant conversation whenever he returned to the office. And he estimated that at least twenty percent of the emails requesting he look into a particular conspiracy asked about D.B. Cooper. It ran neck-and-neck with emails asking why so many people affiliated with the Clinton administration died. He preferred not to touch the latter, lest he end up just like all the people who supposedly crossed the Clintons in one way or another. But the former? He wanted to get to the bottom of the Cooper hijacking more than his readers did—of that much he was confident.

  Flynn found an office and pounded out a short piece on the investigation.

  D.B. Cooper Revisited?

  SEATTLE, WA — FBI officials remain baffled as to how a D.B. Cooper copycat managed to pull off a heist of a similar nature Saturday night.

  According to officials, the man who leapt out of a commercial jet Saturday over the Seattle metro area absconded with $1 million, leaving behind more than $5 million in the plane on its way to Seattle area banks. With the holiday season fast approaching, FAA officials will be tightening security to squelch any opportunity of such a heist happening again.

  While FBI officials declined to go on record, the identity of the criminal remains a mystery. In cursory investigations, no footage of the criminal has surfaced, while officials continue to determine a motive for the crime.

  Despite the fact that the crime wasn’t an exact duplication of the 1971 skyjacking that remains unsolved, the similarities were evident. The amount of money involved may seem like a difference since D.B. Cooper only made off with $200,000, but the money was given to him in $20 bills. The $1 million taken from the San Francisco to Seattle flight was equivalent to the weight of the money stolen in the original heist. And the fact that the thief jumped near Seattle wasn’t lost on investigators, nor was the date.