Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

chapter ten

  THE GUARD NOTED ANDREA’S badge number on his clipboard before raising the electronic arm and waving her through. She wended her way up the driveway, not sure why she felt nervous. She’d been here many times before. This time it seemed different, though. She took a deep breath and tried to settle the butterflies in her stomach.

  Through a line of oak trees, she glimpsed the tall white columns of the Delphi Center. The sight was imposing, but the gleaming building atop the hill was just the tip of the iceberg. Besides the upper floors, the Delphi Center included a multilevel basement that housed a firing range, the Bones Unit, and a complex warren of research labs.

  Andrea hiked up the wide marble steps and produced her ID for the receptionist just as the person she’d come to see strode into the lobby.

  “Hey, you’re back.” Alex Devereaux changed directions and came to meet her. In her hand was a paper bag from the on-site coffee shop.

  “Got in this morning,” Andrea said.

  “Nathan’s going to be surprised.”

  Andrea was surprised, too. She’d fully intended to cancel another shrink appointment, but at the last minute, she’d decided to suck it up and go since she was in town. It had been every bit as miserable as the last one.

  Nathan’s wife was watching her, her expression unreadable. Despite her petite stature and cute pixie cut, the brunette was known to be a ball buster. Before coming to the Delphi Center, she’d been a PI helping women in abusive relationships who wanted to disappear. Alex was highly skilled at both finding and losing people in cyberspace.

  “Sorry to show up like this, but I have a request for you,” Andrea said.

  “I thought you were on leave still.”

  “It’s personal.”

  As she said it, Andrea pinpointed the source of her nerves. All her other trips to Delphi had been work-related. She hated asking people for favors, especially personal ones.

  Alex waited for her to collect a visitor’s badge and then led her to the elevator. “How was your trip to Marfa?” she asked as they zipped to the top floor.

  “Maverick. Not great, which is why I’m here.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and they were faced with a long wall of windows. Andrea stepped up to the glass and gazed out over the treetops. After days in the desert, everything looked so green. The view was beautiful except for the trio of turkey vultures circling above some low bushes. Besides being a world-renowned crime lab, the Delphi Center was also home to one of the nation’s largest decomposition research centers.

  Alex led her past the DNA laboratory and ushered her into a dim room filled with glowing computer monitors, most piloted by scruffy twentysomethings. Action figures and bobblehead dolls perched on some of the cubicle dividers.

  Alex took her to a corner cube.

  “Then I’m guessing this is about your brother. How is he?”

  “I’m not sure.” Andrea took a seat. “He recently dropped out of school to become a ranch hand.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you’d ever met my brother, you’d know how improbable that is.” She pictured him back at the Dairy Queen, with his pasty skin and his delicate fingers. “He’s working for some people I don’t trust, and I think they hired him for his technical skills, maybe setting up some sort of communications for them. But law enforcement’s got an eye on this group, and they say there’s not even any phone service out there.”

  “Landlines or cell phones?”

  “Neither. Cell coverage is spotty in the area anyway, but they haven’t come up with much, and they’ve been paying attention.”

  “That kind of surveillance—you’re not talking some hayseed sheriff.”

  “FBI.”

  Her eyes widened. “Damn, Andrea.”

  “I know.”

  Alex didn’t say anything right away, and Andrea could tell she was now carefully choosing her questions. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need to know if they have it right. I can’t swallow it. I think the FBI’s missing something.”

  Alex gave her a pensive look. “So surveillance. I’m not as current in that area as I used to be. I’ve been spending most of my time lately on SpiderNet—that’s our new software program that traces pedophiles who troll the Web for kids.”

  “I see.” Andrea tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. It sounded like an excuse, and she didn’t want to strong-arm Nathan’s wife into helping her if she wasn’t comfortable.

  Alex stood up and craned her neck over the cubes. “Hey, Ben.”

  “Yo.”

  “Can you pull up that activity map?” She looked at Andrea. “This is more Ben’s thing right now.”

  They moved to a spacious double cubicle with no fewer than four monitors going. The man in the chair appeared about Gavin’s age, but he had a mature look in his eyes that said he’d seen a thing or two—maybe tracking down some of the trolls Alex mentioned.

  He tipped back his chair and looked at Alex. “Wazzup?”

  “Andrea, Ben.” She didn’t waste words. “Andrea’s with Austin PD. She’s looking at a subject who’s also being investigated by the feds. They’re coming up with two different profiles, and she thinks the FBI’s missing something.”

  “You can count on it,” Ben said.

  “You mind taking a look? She’s interested in Internet or phone activity at a certain location.”

  “They’re saying there’s nothing there, but I don’t see how that can be true,” Andrea said.

  “Well, if they’re just using Stingray, they’re probably missing something,” Ben said.

  “Stingray?”

  “It’s a cell-site simulator.”

  At her blank look, he continued.

  “A surveillance device. It secretly dupes phones within a certain area into jumping on a fake network. The feds don’t like to talk about it because it’s controversial for a lot of reasons, partly because it scoops up data about innocent people who aren’t even being investigated.”

  “Do they need a warrant?” Andrea asked.

  “That’s up for grabs,” Alex said. “The courts haven’t really caught up with a lot of the new surveillance techniques.”

  “They’re probably using everything they have,” Ben said, “but there are plenty of ways around a system like this. What I’m working on is a program that picks up cell-phone plus Internet activity, without having to trick devices into using a fake network.”

  “How does it work?” Andrea asked.

  He sighed. “I could explain it all, but . . . why don’t I just show you what it does? Give me a zip code, and we’ll take it for a spin.” He closed out of what he’d been doing and clicked open a new program as Andrea rattled off the zip code of Lost Creek Ranch.

  “Hmm . . . that’s a new one. Whoa.” His screen had turned white. He looked at her. “That’s another planet. Where exactly is this?” He zoomed out on a map until the screen showed Interstate 10 cutting through the outskirts of Fort Stockton. The edge of the city was covered with yellow and orange dots.

  “What are those?” Andrea leaned in.

  “Hot spots,” he said. “Internet or cell-phone activity. In the more populated areas”—he zoomed out until all of Fort Stockton appeared on the screen—“we break down the spectrum. Yellow, light activity. Purple, lots of usage. This town’s yellow-orange. This zip code here”—he zoomed back to the original area—“no hot spots. Practically a glacier.”

  Andrea felt a ripple of relief. But she didn’t trust it. Her instincts told her something was up. She felt apprehensive as she looked at the screen. Did she really want the answers to these questions? Would she have the guts to act on the information if she got it?

  “Of course, this is all real-time.” Ben checked his watch. “Peak Internet hours are early to mid-morning and nine P.M. to one A.M. I’d have to monitor it for a few cycles to really get a true read.”

  “Cycles?”

  “Days,” he translated. “The inf
o you’re after could take a while.”

  “What if I narrow it down?” Andrea took out her phone. “I brought GPS coordinates.”

  Ben looked at Alex and grinned. “She brought GPS coordinates. A woman after my own heart.”

  Andrea’s phone chimed, and she read the number with surprise. She hadn’t expected him to return her message. “Sorry, I have to take this.” She ducked into an empty cubicle and answered the call.

  “I’m looking for Detective Finch?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Ryan Copeland in the governor’s office. I had a message you called?”

  ♦

  Government buildings had a sameness about them, but the FBI field office in San Antonio bore very little resemblance to the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. This was by design. In the immediate aftermath of the attack that killed 168 people, including nineteen children under the age of six, the U.S. government launched an effort to reexamine federal buildings across the country to determine which were most vulnerable to attack.

  San Antonio ranked high on the list. Located in the city’s densely populated downtown near the Alamo, the River Walk, and other tourist attractions, the FBI field office ticked off more than a few criteria for a soft target. It was decided it was time to relocate.

  Jon passed through the security gate leading to the new building, a marvel of American engineering in the terrorist age. It was on the outskirts of San Antonio, with deep setbacks from other structures and roads. The facility had a state-of-the-art surveillance system and an external security checkpoint, complete with metal detectors and X-ray machines for visitors. The building’s outer shell was made of bomb-resistant material and specialty glass that—unlike the glass in Oklahoma City—wouldn’t shatter into deadly shards in the event of an explosion.

  What was most notable to Jon, though, was what the building lacked: children. Because when Timothy McVeigh parked his yellow Ryder truck in the Murrah Building’s drop-off area beneath the America’s Kids day-care center, he introduced the public to a whole new type of horror.

  Jon had been sixteen at the time of the attack, and he’d watched the coverage from a television in his American history class at New Trier High School north of Chicago. Earlier that morning, his life’s ambitions had included college and med school. But by sundown on April 19, all that had changed.

  Jon passed through another gate and pulled into the bunker-like parking garage. He’d always been uneasy with the knowledge that he worked in one of the most secure buildings in the nation. Most Americans weren’t so lucky. Most Americans lived and worked in places that would be classified by engineers or terrorists or anyone else as soft targets. Just yesterday, Jon had read a news story about the hardening of America in which the reporter suggested that security needed to be beefed up at every school and church in the nation.

  The article had depressed him. It had also driven him to squeeze in yet another trip to San Antonio so he could try to persuade his boss not to yank his team out of West Texas.

  Jon headed for the door, catching some curious looks from colleagues who were shedding jackets and loosening ties as they hurried for their cars. The dusty ICE-agent attire, which was practically invisible in Maverick, made him stand out here. And maybe the leg holster was a little much, but Jon had gotten used to it.

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t his clothes that were causing the funny looks but the fact that he was going into the office at five on a Friday while everyone else was streaming out.

  His phone vibrated. He pulled it out and was surprised by the number. He’d thought he was at the very top of Andrea’s shit list.

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  He considered lying, but then he thought of her laptop and the bedspread littered with candy wrappers. She was a workaholic, too.

  “Heading into work. Why?”

  “Maverick or San Antonio?”

  “San Antonio.” He stepped through the door and slipped out of the traffic flow. “Torres and I have a meeting with our SAC tomorrow.”

  “Can you get to Austin tonight? Come by my apartment at eight, and we’ll go from there.”

  She wanted him to come over. On a Friday night. He pictured her in his house last night, with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing. He’d thought about her today through those long stretches of highway.

  But something in her tone told him she wasn’t inviting him over to finish what they’d started in the parking lot of her motel.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a new angle for you. Investigation-wise.”

  “I didn’t know you were helping me.”

  Silence on the other end. He’d bet money this new angle had nothing to do with her brother.

  “What’s the catch?” he asked.

  “No catch.”

  He didn’t believe her.

  “I’ll explain when you come,” she said. “Be here at eight.”

  ♦

  Jon’s F-150 showed every sign of a recent road trip: dusty running boards, bugs on the windshield, empty cups in the console.

  “It’s eight fifteen,” Andrea said as she slid inside.

  “Had to go home and change.”

  She checked him out. “You look like an agent again.”

  He wore a dark suit with a blue silk tie, and his clothes looked fresh and unwrinkled.

  “Where to?” he asked

  “The Four Seasons on Cesar Chavez.”

  He swung into the Friday-night traffic headed for the bridge.

  “What’s at the hotel?”

  “Ryan Copeland,” she said. “He works in the governor’s office.

  Jon looked at her.

  “He used to work for Kirby’s reelection campaign.”

  “Inside dirt. Not a bad idea.”

  “Believe it or not, I actually am a detective.” She looked at him and noticed a few details she hadn’t taken in at first glance. He hadn’t just changed clothes; he’d showered, and he was wearing aftershave—something subtle and masculine that she was going to have to try hard to ignore. Had he done that for her? Would it matter if he had?

  Andrea looked away. There was more going on here than two cops working a case together. She needed to remember that they were coming from totally different places and had conflicting agendas.

  He wanted to solve his case, period. She had to keep in mind that as attractive as he was, as helpful as he was, his primary motive was to achieve his objective. He didn’t give a damn about Gavin except as a means to an end.

  A few minutes later, Jon held the door open as she stepped into a hotel that looked nothing like the Lazy Dayz Inn. Polished floors, huge fireplace, oversize leather club chairs. A ridiculously tall flower arrangement dominated the lobby, and piano music drifted from the bar.

  Andrea spotted their contact. He stood beside a staircase, talking on his phone and checking his watch. His attention landed on Andrea, and he tucked the phone into the pocket of his pin-striped suit as she walked over to make introductions. The man’s expression sharpened when she mentioned that Jon was with the FBI.

  “I thought you all were with the police?” He looked at Andrea.

  “I am. Austin PD. Listen, I know you don’t have much time. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Jon’s badge seemed to be making the man antsy. He glanced over his shoulder to where people in cocktail attire were milling around outside a ballroom. Tonight’s event was a high-dollar fund-raiser benefiting the governor’s reelection campaign.

  “Let’s step outdoors,” Copeland said, leading them onto a patio.

  The weather was cool, and Andrea stuffed her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. Copeland lit a cigarette and looked Jon up and down as he took a drag.

  “I assume you work with McMurphy?” Copeland asked.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Philadelphia office. I returned his call. Twice.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Guy never got back to me.”
/>
  Jon looked at Andrea.

  “When you were with Senator Kirby’s election campaign,” she said, “you filed a complaint with Dallas PD about someone harassing the senator and his staff.”

  “It was the staff, mostly.” He flicked his ash onto the patio. “I’m not sure Kirby even knew he existed.”

  “You didn’t inform him?”

  “We can’t tell him about every wing nut who shows up to complain.” He looked at Jon. “Especially a guy like Kirby. The minute he put his name on that gun bill, he had people coming out of the woodwork. We were getting calls, letters, people showing up in person to rant.”

  “What sort of security does the senator have?” Andrea asked.

  “In Washington, the Capitol Police,” Copeland said. “But everywhere else, it’s thin—just some private bodyguards. We’re not talking Secret Service caliber or anything. They’re a step up from rent-a-cops.”

  “So he was getting lots of threats,” Andrea said. “What was different about this guy?”

  Copeland leaned back against a wrought-iron banister separating the patio from some manicured flower beds. She watched him through the veil of smoke.

  “He was different.”

  “How?”

  “Persistent, for one. And smart.” He tossed his cigarette butt onto the concrete and crossed his arms. “Frankly, he scared the shit out of me.”

  “You met him?” Jon asked.

  “Just the once. At least, I might have met him. I don’t even know his name, just that he liked to call and lurk around the campaign headquarters. I talked to him on the phone one time, too. At first, I thought he was a donor, but then he roped me into a debate about civil liberties and the theft of democracy.”

  “Was this before or after the confrontation?” Andrea asked.

  Jon cut a glance at her, clearly annoyed to be playing catch-up. She had a copy of the police report, but there hadn’t been time to show it to him.

  “Before,” Copeland said. “The confrontation came later, maybe a few weeks. I was leaving the office, and he was waiting in the alley between the building and the parking garage.”

  “So no name,” she said. “How can you be sure it was the guy from the phone and the letters?”