Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  “You want to explain that?”

  “His name keeps cropping up,” he said. “He’s a person of interest in the judge’s death, he’s in a white supremacist group.”

  “But he was in the military,” she said. “I think he even earned a medal or something.” She was being deliberately obtuse. He’d earned a Bronze Star in Operation Iraqi Freedom. He’d been a war hero. But then he’d dropped out. Why? She didn’t know. And as a city homicide cop, she had no easy way of finding out. But Jon probably knew.

  She sipped her beer and waited, hoping he’d answer the unasked question.

  “Someone like him can be a problem,” Jon said. “The military training, expert marksman. Great if he’s on your side. But what if he decides to switch teams?”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’m saying, here’s a guy who goes from sending letters to the newspaper and intimidating a federal judge to quiet. Not earning any money—at least, not that he’s reporting. Living in the middle of nowhere. Even by West Texas standards, the place is remote.”

  “You think it’s a front? That he’s keeping a low profile?”

  It seemed like a reach to her, but he wasn’t sharing everything he knew.

  He watched her, and she felt her skin heat as she imagined being alone with him—far away from a crowded bar. The look in his eyes shifted, and she knew he’d read her mind.

  “Come on.” He plunked his beer on the table and stood up.

  “Come where?”

  “Let’s play some pool.”

  “How do you know I play?”

  “Because you do.” His look pinned her. Resisting would only make her seem insecure.

  “Fine.” She shrugged, making it no big deal. She grabbed her jacket and her beer and followed him.

  The previous players were filing out as Jon walked over to the rack of cues on the wall.

  “This one looks about your size.” He handed it to her.

  “It’s been a while for me.” She tested the cue’s weight in her hand as Jon flipped back the cuffs of his shirt.

  “Same here.”

  She smiled. “Why don’t I believe that?”

  He racked the balls with the snap of his wrist. “Eight ball. Loser buys the other one dinner.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. She’d expected him to bet cash or maybe a round of drinks. No matter the outcome, he was locking in a date with her.

  Was this part of his information-gathering mission, or did he really want to take her out? She still didn’t trust his motives.

  “Ladies first.” He handed her the cue ball.

  “That’s your first mistake. Making assumptions.” She lined up her break shot, conscious of his gaze on her body as she leaned over the table.

  Despite being rusty, she managed to sink a couple of solids. He followed up with a few impressive bank shots. After a five-ball run, he missed a curve shot and turned it over to her.

  Another mistake.

  She got down to business, nailing a long-rail bank shot. She studied the layout and planned her next move.

  “Who taught you to play?” he asked.

  “My granddad.” She leaned over the felt and sent him a sharp look. “He never let me win, though. I had to earn it.”

  Jon watched her from the corner. Something in his gaze reminded her of the night at the Broken Spoke. She shouldn’t be getting so comfortable, not with the fed investigating her brother. But she had that flutter in the pit of her stomach, and she felt the alcohol kicking in.

  She sank another solid before tapping one of his stripes.

  “Oops.”

  Jon chalked his cue, watching her. She reached for her beer, used it to cool her throat as he mulled his strategy. The next shot was all power. It made a sharp crack that sent a jolt of heat from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

  He studied the table for his final shot. “Corner pocket,” he said, leaning over.

  He killed it. Then he looked up at her.

  He didn’t gloat. But the look on his face told her she would have been much, much better off if she’d stayed in her motel room pecking away at her computer.

  He took her cue and replaced it on the rack. He replaced the chalk and watched her as he dusted his hands.

  “I owe you dinner.” She shrugged into her jacket, putting an end to the evening.

  They drove back to Maverick without talking. Tension hummed in the truck cab between them, and she spent the drive gazing out at the inky desert. Clouds were out tonight, so there was little to see besides a few ranch houses here and there.

  He pulled into the pitted parking lot and slid into the space beside her Cherokee. Without a word, he came around to her door.

  She was out before he reached it, digging through her purse for the keycard.

  “Thanks for the drinks,” she said.

  He looked down at her, and her skin tingled in response. She read his intentions right there on his face—he wasn’t shy about it—and her heart started drumming as his palm slid under her jacket and came to rest at her hip. She took a step back, but his grip tightened. His other hand came up and cupped the side of her face, and she held her breath as his thumb grazed the corner of her lip.

  His gaze met hers. “What really happened here?”

  “I bit it.”

  He dipped his head down and his breath was warm against her temple. “You’re lying.”

  Her heart skittered, and then his mouth was on hers, warm and stinging against her swollen lip. The heat of him surrounded her. He smelled faintly of the desert air and the beer they’d been drinking, and she felt the warm slide of his hands as they splayed over her back beneath the jacket to pull her against the firm wall of his body. So much power, right there for her to touch. She let herself melt into him, knowing it was a bad idea, knowing she should step away, but she didn’t want to yet. She combed her fingers into his hair and kissed him with the same pent-up longing she felt coming from him, and the thrill of knowing he wanted her spread through her body like fire. The night air was cold against her cheeks, but his arms were warm and strong, and his hot mouth melted away all her resistance, all logical thought. He pulled her up on tiptoe, and she strained against him, tasting him, giving herself a last heady moment of intoxication before she loosened her arms and forced herself to step back.

  He looked down at her, breathing hard, just as she was, and she could hear the pounding of her own heart as she retreated farther and his hands dropped away. He searched her face as she leaned against the door, feeling cold.

  She didn’t say anything. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she’d invite him inside. He watched her steadily.

  “Good night, Andrea.”

  She nodded, still not trusting herself. And then he turned and walked back to his truck.

  She went into her room. As she locked the door and secured the latch, she listened for the smooth catch of his engine, the throaty moan as the truck backed out. She closed her eyes and pictured him on that long, empty road as he drove away.

  Switching on a lamp, she glanced around. The digital clock said 12:02. Her computer was still on the bed, waiting for her amid a sea of candy wrappers. Still feeling off-balance from the kiss, she simply stood there a moment and let her heart rate come down. Then she walked into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, piling them in the sink with the ankle holster on top.

  She stared at her reflection under the harsh fluorescent light, imagining how he’d seen her tonight. She looked . . . terrible. The makeup she’d hurriedly applied didn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes. She ignored the cut on her just-kissed lip and looked at her torso, where a pair of rainbow bruises decorated her right side.

  When she was a police cadet, her instructors had talked about muscle memory, that automatic reflex born of hours and hours of training that kicked in during pressure situations. Muscle memory was your friend. It could save your life. But pain had a memory, too, and it was stronger. Andre
a remembered getting the wind knocked out of her at the academy. She remembered the sting of her mother’s palm. She remembered her first sex. She stepped closer to the mirror, and the tendons in her shoulders tightened as she surveyed her bruises and relived the two sharp jolts of pain.

  She turned on the shower and climbed in while the water was still cold. Closing her eyes, she stood still until the spray grew tepid, then warm, then scalding, and then she turned her back on it and let it pelt her neck until her muscles relaxed.

  Why had he kissed her? Was it just some bullshit manipulation, or had he simply wanted to, a man kissing a woman?

  Whenever she’d dealt with federal agents, they’d been tough, territorial, arrogant. Jon North was all those things, and it should have bothered her, but instead, it pulled her in. She’d catch him looking at her the way he had that first night, and the intensity in his gaze made her swallow, hard.

  She didn’t need this right now. She needed to be thinking about her brother and how to help him. She was in a unique position to reach out to him and maybe save him from something—save him from himself. Gavin had a habit of making self-destructive choices, and becoming friends with Shay Hardin was clearly one of them.

  When the water turned cool again, she climbed out and slipped into a tank top and sweatpants and placed her pistol on the nightstand before sliding into bed. She squirmed into the valley of the sagging mattress and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. She listened to the sounds around her—the distant hum of a TV, cars whisking down the highway, the deep echo of a long-haul rig. But no F-150 pulling into the lot. No determined man retracing his steps to her door.

  She closed her eyes and willed her muscles to relax. She let her mind drift and tried not to think about the hard wall of his body and the taste of his mouth.

  Her eyes flew open. She sat up and glanced at the clock: 2:16. Why had she—

  Her skin chilled as she registered a change in the air, a tangible shift in the darkness that alerted all her senses.

  A draft tickled her skin.

  Rolling out of bed, she grabbed her pistol and padded silently to the front door. It wasn’t latched. She stood motionless as the meaning sank in.

  She checked her weapon before easing open the door and peering outside. Nothing, not even a passing car. The highway was deserted.

  Gripping her pistol, she stepped into the chilly air and looked around. She spied two minivans down the way—the families from Oklahoma who had been checking in earlier. The front-desk clerk’s car was gone. She surveyed the parking lot, and her gaze landed on an unfamiliar pickup beside the Dumpster.

  Andrea ventured out, skimming her gaze over every shadow. Dropping to a crouch, she checked for anyone hiding low between the cars. Nothing. She crept across the pavement and calmly surveyed the area as she placed her hand on the pickup’s hood.

  Stone cold.

  Her gaze went across the vacant lot to the nearby strip center that abutted the highway and harbored countless hiding places. Scanning for threats, she walked back across the pavement, pausing to check her Jeep and grab a flashlight. He’d been inside when she came home.

  Her heart pounded. Her gut tightened. Maybe she was being paranoid.

  You latched that door, and you damn well know it.

  She returned to her room and kept the lamp off as she shone the flashlight around, searching the bathroom, the closet, under the bed. She went down a mental checklist. How many times had she done this in strangers’ homes, responding to a call? She checked behind the curtains, even checked the vents in the ceiling. No sign of forced entry. Still, her heart thudded. Her mind raced.

  He watched you shower.

  She secured the door again and swept the light around the room, over the bed, the dresser, the chair, then over the closet and back again.

  Something glinted on the dresser. She stepped closer, aiming the flashlight at the lone bullet with the black tip.

  A thirty-aught-six. An armor-piercing round, left like an offering.

  A cop killer.

  chapter seven

  JON GLANCED UP FROM the array of surveillance photos as Torres stepped into the trailer.

  “Some light reading.” Torres dropped a stack of files onto the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fleshed out the employment histories with the help of our IRS contact. I got everyone at the ranch: Shay Hardin, Ross and Vicky Leeland, Mark and Olivia Driscoll, and Gavin Finch.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to read through it all. Figured you could help.”

  Jon opened the top file, which contained a thin sheaf of papers held together with a binder clip. A handwritten sticky note on top said “Vicky Leeland.” Info on the two wives had been hard to come by.

  Torres sank into a chair, and Jon felt a stab of guilt. The man hadn’t had a break in days. While Jon had been putting away beers with Andrea, Torres had been stuck here working.

  So much of this case was about digging. Since coming out here, Jon had culled through thousands of details searching for the one that mattered.

  “Didn’t find much we didn’t already know about Hardin,” Torres said.

  “Still gaps?”

  “Yep.  After leaving the Army, he framed houses for a year, then stopped, although it isn’t clear if he got another job. His records are still patchy, so if he worked, it was off the books. Same goes for Ross Leeland. He was at a brake-repair shop for a few months, then a lumberyard. He worked construction a couple years ago, but I couldn’t find anything recent.”

  Jon pulled out another file, this one for Gavin Finch. “Texas Instruments, SoftSolutions.” He glanced up. “I’m guessing that’s software?”

  “Yeah, they’re out of Lubbock. He had an internship his freshman year of college. Unpaid, so there’s not much record of it. We wouldn’t even know about it if he hadn’t listed it on another job application.”

  “Any three-oh-twos?” Jon asked.

  “Yeah, the interview form’s clipped there. Someone talked to his supervisor.”

  Jon flipped to the form and frowned as he read it. “Guy says he’s a ‘maestro on anything with a motherboard.’ So looks like he’s the resident expert on computers.”

  “That was my take, too.”

  Jon reached the bottom file in the stack and glanced up, startled. “Andrea Finch?”

  Torres looked at him. “Wanted to make sure she wasn’t bent.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing stands out.”

  Jon opened the folder and skimmed the first page, which was her employment history.

  “Currently on the beach, like you said,” Torres reported. “This is her second time to be reviewed for possible excessive force. Last time was during her rookie year when she responded to a domestic, ended up Tasing the guy three times. He wound up in the hospital, along with his kid.”

  “She Tased his kid?”

  “No, the kid had a broken arm. Dad went after him with a baseball bat.”

  Jon flipped to the second page and then closed it, feeling guilty for reading about her behind her back.

  Not a good sign. Lines were starting to blur. From the look on his face, Torres knew it, too.

  Jon had taken Andrea out last night to soften her up, get to know her better, maybe learn more about her background and consequently more about her brother. But by the end of the night, his goals had shifted, and Gavin Finch was the farthest thing from his mind. Andrea Finch intrigued him. Not just her family—her.  And since the night he’d met her, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head.

  Torres stood up and grabbed his keys. “I’m out, man. I need to grab some food before we head to Stockton.”

  “Thanks for getting this,” Jon said. “I’ll comb through all of it, but what’s your takeaway?”

  “My takeaway?” He snorted. “Next time, you’re on file duty, and I get to take a girl for beers.”

  ♦

  You c
ould tell a lot about a person by who bailed him out of jail, which was why Andrea had called Nathan. Now she sat in her Jeep, shivering and hungry, as she waited to hear the details of Shay Hardin’s most recent arrest. Specifically, she wanted any information he could run down on the lucky recipient of Hardin’s one phone call.

  “Ross Leeland,” Nathan said over the phone. “He’s a real winner. I assume you already knew he had a sheet?”

  “Just a guess. What’s on it?”

  “A pair of domestic disturbances. A DUI. A public intox,” Nathan reported. “Leeland was arrested for assault up in Dallas but got it knocked down to disorderly conduct.”

  “Charming.” Andrea watched the door to the restaurant. She checked her mirrors, but so far, no sign of Gavin’s car.

  “You should see his mug shot. He’s got a swastika on his forehead like he’s Charles Manson. Oh, and get this—he used to be the webmaster of a site called TKB. Triple K Brotherhood.”

  “That’s on his arrest record?”

  “Alex turned that up,” Nathan said. His wife worked in the Cyber Crimes Unit at the Delphi Center, a world-renowned forensic lab. “She had her laptop out when I called in the request, so she offered to take a crack at this guy.”

  “I’ve never heard of TKB,” Andrea said. “You’re talking about Texas?”

  “They have ties to Killeen, which is up by Fort Hood. But doesn’t sound like they’re exactly Aryan Nation. Maybe a few dozen members, from what Alex could tell. Their site’s not up anymore, but she found some references here and there. Logo’s a couple of crossed pistols and a skull. Highly original.”

  “So they’re what, a neo-Nazi org? A militia group?”

  “Could be both.”

  If Hardin had ties to a group like that, it would further explain the FBI’s interest in him. They’d been keeping close tabs on those organizations since Oklahoma City.

  “Alex might have more by tomorrow, though. She said she was going to look into it at work.”

  “Tell her thanks.” Andrea checked her watch. She craned her neck around, but still no sign of Gavin’s car.