The Cooper Affair (A James Flynn Thriller Book 3)

by Jack Patterson

  She sighed. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  He nodded and waited until she left before he picked up the phone. He dialed Jones’ number.

  “This is Jones,” came the voice on the other end.

  “Agent Jones, thank goodness it’s you,” Coleman said. “I was hoping we could speak again.”

  “Mr. Coleman, would you please leave us alone and let us do our jobs?”

  “I would—if you were doing them well. It seems like you keep dropping the ball at every turn, and you’re not listening to me.”

  “Why do we need to listen to you? You say the same thing every time, over and over?”

  Banks walked over to Jones’ desk. “Who is it?” she mouthed.

  Jones put his hand on the receiver. “Crazy old man Coleman.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Here, let me talk to him.”

  Jones sighed. “Whatever. He’s your problem now.”

  Banks took the phone and settled down into Jones’ chair. “Mr. Coleman, do you realize how difficult it is to do our jobs when you keep bothering us?”

  “I can empathize with you—I really can. But I know who’s behind all this.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—it’s Carlton Gordon.”

  Banks exhaled a long breath. “Look, Mr. Coleman, I checked out his alibi after you told us that last time and he passed with flying colors.”

  “Well, he tried to kill me Friday night.”

  “Really? That doesn’t seem to be how he operates.”

  “What I mean is that he tried to run me off the road—and succeeded. Fortunately, it only resulted in a bashed up fender and a nasty bruise for Edith when the airbag deployed.”

  “And you were sharing the road with him because—?”

  “Well, maybe I was tailing him.”

  She sighed. “Did you report this to the police?”

  “There was no need. The car was still drivable, not to mention it happened on a dirt road.”

  “And which dirt road was that?”

  “One leading right up to Northwest Aerial Services.”

  She paused. “Interesting—but you know I can’t use a single shred of what you just told me in court. And even if we could, it’s all circumstantial.”

  “But at some point, Agent Banks, you know that where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “I’m in the business of putting away criminals, not speculating—and in order to do my job, I need more than coincidences and hunches.”

  Coleman grunted. “If you don’t do something about this guy, he’s going to end up hurting someone.”

  “Thank you for the call, Mr. Coleman. I’ll look into this.”

  “Good luck.”

  Banks hung up and let out a string of expletives. “I swear that man is gonna get himself killed if he keeps this up.

  She marched down the hall to forensics. “Jones, grab your coat. We need to pay Carlton Gordon a visit again.”

  Jones let out an exasperated breath. “Look, just take your special consultant. I really don’t have time right now.”

  “What’s so important that you can’t break away?”

  “I’m working back here with Copperfield, trying to see if we can pull some prints off this glass the pilot gave us.”

  She chuckled. “Trying to break into forensics now?”

  “If being an agent doesn’t work out, I want to have another career option in the Bureau so I don’t end up like Coleman.”

  “We’ll be back soon.”

  ***

  FLYNN LATCHED HIS SEATBELT and settled into the passenger’s seat of Banks’ car. As the engine roared to life with the twist of her key, Banks looked at Flynn. He had his nose buried near his armpit, inhaling large breaths through his nose.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, switching the target of his sniffing to the front of his shirt. He pinched it with his index finger and thumb and raised it close to his nose.

  “You might be smelling the stench from the dead guy whose scent I still catch from time to time. He was only in the truck for three days, but I never thought it could get so bad so fast.”

  “You often travel with dead companions?”

  “Just one of the job hazards, I’m afraid.”

  He cut his eyes toward her. “Is that the reason you have at least a half dozen scented Christmas trees in this vehicle?”

  “I try. I really do. But the odor of a dead man is difficult to mask.”

  “I put on some cologne this morning to see how long it would last throughout the day.”

  “Depends on what kind you put on.”

  “What about Stallion?”

  She laughed. “I’m not a cologne expert, but I know what it smells like—and it’s obvious that you aren’t wearing it. I’m thinking maybe some designer cologne sold in bulk at Macy’s.”

  “I didn’t buy it in bulk. And I didn’t get it at Macy’s. One more strike and you’re out.”

  “Maybe a brand you could pick up from Wal-Mart then?”

  “Look, this stuff wasn’t cheap.” He paused. “But it did come in a rather large bottle.”

  “So it was in bulk?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. Define bulk.”

  “If you have enough to take a bath in it—it’s bulk.”

  Flynn looked up and thought for a moment. “Okay, maybe it is bulk. But it’d be a tiny bathtub.”

  “Don’t worry—if Gordon is wearing Stallion cologne, I’ll know it.”

  “I’m more concerned about him wearing a side piece than cologne.”

  “Fair point. Good thing I’ve got a gun—and I’m a pretty good shot.” She smiled at him and winked.

  Flynn looked out the window and sighed. The conversation, while a necessary one, was a speed bump to him. He wanted to fast forward to the end—the part where the criminal is revealed.

  “Am I boring you, Flynn?” she asked.

  He shook his head and bit his lip.

  “I know. You’re probably staring out that window right now and pining away for a television interview.”

  He glanced at her. “Hardly.”

  “What? Don’t you love having millions of followers who hang on your every word?”

  Flynn shrugged. “Sure. That’s kinda cool. But that’s just a byproduct of what I do.”

  “And what exactly do you do?”

  “I expose conspiracies.”

  She bobbed her head back and forth. “Well, as far as conspiracies go, this one is pretty cut and dry.”

  “You never know. Some people still think D.B. Cooper was an inside job.”

  She flipped her blinker on as they stopped at a traffic light. “Some people think aliens are running everything here.”

  Flynn couldn’t help but chuckle. “I know. Those people make up eighty percent of my fans.” He sighed and sat back in his seat. “There’s just something about this case that’s just not right.”

  “Think we’re about to get our answer?”

  “We’ll find out—and it’ll be the end of Coleman torturing us.”

  A grin spread across her face. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  Several minutes later, Banks pulled into a vacant spot along the street, across from the entrance to Carlton Gordon’s condo. They both got out of her vehicle and crossed the road.

  “Ready for this?” Banks asked. “One way or another, we’re going to get some answers.”

  Banks rapped hard on Gordon’s door.

  “Who is it?” Gordon asked.

  “It’s Agent Banks.”

  Gordon’s displeasure, marked by a slight groan and accompanied by a heavy sigh, could be heard through the door. “Just a moment.”

  “This ought to be pleasant,” Flynn said.

  The door opened and Gordon appeared, his hands on his hips. “What is this about, detective?”

  “Agent. It’s Agent Banks
.”

  “Whatever,” he said, waving them inside. “I don’t care what they call you as long as you end this endless harassment once and for all.” He turned toward them after he shut the door. “Please, have a seat.”

  They all sat down on the couches in his living room, Flynn and Banks on the smaller love seat and Gordon on the long couch all alone.

  “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Gordon,” she said. “I hope you understand. We just need to eliminate you once again.”

  “This is getting old, Agent Banks.”

  “I understand.” She pulled out her notebook. “So, where were you this afternoon?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I was at the 12th Street Bistro and Pub watching football with some friends.”

  “Any chance you’ve got names and contact information for those friends?”

  He nodded. “Let me write them down for you.” He disappeared from the room.

  While he was gone, Flynn took the opportunity to walk around and check out Gordon’s digs. Banks remained on the couch, scratching out a few notes on her pad.

  Flynn glanced at the mail on the counter. It appeared to be nothing more than a handful of bills. Yet it was the painting on the far wall that captured his attention—“The Incredible Journey of the Caird” by Austin Dwyer.

  Gordon walked back into the room.

  Flynn turned around. “Original?”

  Gordon nodded. “I love maritime paintings. The rough waters and the struggle for survival—there’s just something about those images. I could sit and stare at them all day.”

  “Life’s never easy, even when it’s supposed to be.” He paused. “You sail?”

  Gordon shook his head. “I try to stay away for any activity that might result in my death.”

  “Like jumping out of airplanes?”

  Gordon shot Flynn a look. “I definitely stay away from that activity.”

  “Good,” Banks said, taking from Gordon the piece of paper with the names of his football buddies. “Stay away from anything that takes you out of town, too.”

  “Why?” Gordon said. “Am I under suspicion for a crime?”

  Banks rubbed her forehead with her left hand. “Give me a few more minutes and I’ll tell you.”

  “Fair enough,” Gordon answered. “I’m confident you’ll be calling me back with news that I’m cleared so I can get out of here for a while.”

  “Big plans elsewhere?” Flynn asked.

  “I take a ski trip to Switzerland about this time every year.”

  Banks held up the paper and locked eyes with Gordon. “Thanks for your cooperation.” She turned and looked at Flynn. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s your favorite maritime painting, Mr. Gordon,” Flynn asked, ignoring Banks’ directive.

  A wide grin spread across Gordon’s face. “That’s easy—Hendrick Cornelisz Vroom’s Dutch Ships Ramming Spanish Galleys off the Flemish Coast.”

  “So, which one are you—the Dutch or the Spanish?”

  Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “I’m always the victor.”

  “Interesting. I always thought the victor kept his spoils,” Flynn said before spinning around and joining Banks at the door.

  “I hope you catch him,” Gordon said.

  “Me, too,” Banks said before pulling the door shut.

  She didn’t say a word until they were in the elevator.

  “What was that all about?” Banks said. “You’re here to help me with this investigation, not jeopardize it.”

  “He knows exactly what he’s doing—and you know it, too.”

  She held up her hand. “Let’s check out these names he gave us before we draw any conclusions.”

  A few minutes later in her car, Banks was furiously dialing the list of contacts Gordon presented her with. Caller after caller described a similar afternoon, one in which they hung out at the same bar and watched football. They weren’t all exactly the same, but there were no statements that drew her suspicion.

  After the fourth call, she sighed. With shoulders slumped, she declared, “Looks like Gordon wasn’t in that plane this afternoon.”

  “Jones must be right about Coleman, then. He’s certainly crazy.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Okay, so if it wasn’t Gordon, who was up there in that plane this afternoon? Because it had to be somebody he knew if he’s behind all this.”

  Banks shrugged. “I’ve got no idea.” She paused as she cranked the ignition on her car. “But I did learn something interesting about Gordon on our little visit this evening.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He wears Stallion cologne.”

  CHAPTER 32

  ON MONDAY MORNING, Gordon awoke with a sharp pain in his gut. More coughing and spitting up blood—and it was getting worse. He threw on his bathrobe and shuffled toward the kitchen. A glass of water increased the pain, forcing him to call his doctor again.

  “Hi, this is Carlton Gordon, one of Doctor Watts’ patients. I was wondering if I might be able to get an appointment with him this morning,” he said to the cheery receptionist.

  “Can you tell me what kind of symptoms you’re experiencing?” she asked.

  Gordon briefly described them and awaited an answer.

  “Hold please.”

  Gordon drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter. He knew the end was rapidly approaching—he just had no idea it’d be this rapid or this painful. Besides, he still had work to do.

  After a couple of minutes, the line clicked.

  “Mr. Gordon?” asked the smooth voice on the other end.

  “Yes, Doctor Watts. Thank you for taking my call. I didn’t think I’d actually get to speak with you on the phone—just hoping to squeeze in a visit.”

  “It’s very busy today here in the office. What can I do for you?”

  Gordon took a deep breath. “The pain in my stomach is getting worse. I woke up this morning and coughed up a bunch of blood.”

  “More so than usual?”

  “Yes, much more. It feels like I’m walking around with a knife jabbing me in the midsection.”

  Dr. Watts sighed. “I’m afraid there’s not much more I can do for you, Mr. Gordon, other than prescribe a more powerful pain killer.” He paused. “Have you spoken with your next of kin about your condition?”

  “It’s not exactly something I’ve been itching to do.”

  “Don’t put it off until it’s too late.”

  “It’s that bad, huh?”

  “If you’re accurately describing your symptoms, yes.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon. I wish there was more I could do for you at this point. Had we caught it earlier—” He let his words hang in the air.

  “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome. Stay on the line and give our receptionist all your pharmacy information and I’ll get that prescription put in for you.”

  Gordon thanked his doctor and answered all the questions the receptionist had before hanging up.

  He hated Mondays as they were—and starting one off with this kind of news escalated his hatred.

  ***

  WHEN GORDON ENTERED the break room around ten o’clock, he was hoping that he was wrong about his premonitions regarding his stunt the day before.

  The newscasters are just making a bigger deal out of this than it is. They’re looking to blame someone and make us all feel better about the Seahawks’ crumby play yesterday.

  But that wasn’t the case at all. His own employees ditched the Cooper Copycat moniker altogether.

  “They’re calling him the Robin Hood Santa,” one of the men in the break room said.

  “Yeah, well he’s a poor imitation of both,” another woman responded. “Robin Hood at least stole from greedy bastards—and Santa had the decency to slip into your house and leave something, not litter it all over the top of your house.”

  Everyone in the room chuckled. Had it not
been so disturbing, an uproarious laughter might have come from the room. Gordon forced himself to laugh with them.

  “When they catch this guy, I can’t wait to see what they’re going to do to him,” another man quipped just as Gordon stood up.

  “And what are you hoping for, Trent?” Gordon asked the man. “A confession? A televised execution Hunger Games style? A public flogging? A good old-fashioned tarring and feathering? Hot oil?”

  The man, taken aback by Gordon’s harsh tone, stared at his boss with mouth agape.

  “Well, which is it?” Gordon asked again.

  “Geez, lighten up. We’re all just having a little fun here. Nobody is out for blood.”

  Gordon headed toward the exit. “Could’ve fooled me. I’m thinking you’re the one who needs to lighten up. It’s just money. Nobody’s gotten hurt.”

  Back in his office, Gordon seethed again. No amount of goodwill would help him curry favor with a bloodthirsty public. He couldn’t believe he’d been so wrong about how people would react to his stunt—and not only his initial one, but his stunt to smooth things over.

  Yet as he leaned back in his chair and pondered his next move, the good news was that they couldn’t trace the money back to him—not now anyway. There was hardly any of it left and he’d made sure they wouldn’t find it.

  He decided what he would do—and he needed to go home and prepare.

  Exiting his office, he walked past his secretary’s desk before doubling over in pain.

  “Mr. Gordon, are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” she asked as she knelt next to him.

  He motioned for her to hand him the trash can.

  Moments later he spit up more blood and staggered to his feet. “I’ll be all right. I just need to go home and rest a bit. Please cancel all my meetings for the rest of the afternoon.”

  His sickness provided an opportunity to sneak home without appearing suspicious. The last thing he needed was to spend another minute explaining why he felt so awful.

  For his plan to work, it required immediacy—and there wasn’t much more time.

  CHAPTER 33

  BY 5 A.M., FLYNN HAD APPEARED on several morning news programs, including CNN’s New Day and ABC’s Good Morning America. The cable news cycle couldn’t get enough of this story—and neither could network news. What should have been a lazy Monday morning dominated by fluffy holiday segments, was instead overrun by talking heads dissecting the brazen criminal activity of an elusive thief. Flynn treaded carefully, answering what he could with information that was somewhat public while keeping the juiciest portions to himself. At the end of the day, he still had a story to write, and the more exclusive the better for his editor and The National.