Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  “Sixteen.”

  “They let a sixteen-year-old into a bar?”

  “I was tall.”

  “I bet you were.” She smiled, and for the first time all night, it seemed genuine.

  He looked around at all the people talking and drinking and enjoying the music. He looked at Andrea, at the dark swing of her hair and the smooth line of her neck. Her lips were soft and lush, and he thought about taking her home.

  She slid him a look. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were thinking something.”

  “I’m trying to picture you growing up in Pearl Springs.”

  “God, don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wasn’t pretty.” Her expression clouded, and he knew she was thinking of her brother. “That’s one of the reasons I am the way I am. About Gavin.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She poked at her ice cubes, and he waited, watching her. He’d been steering the conversation to Gavin for days, but now he felt a stab of guilt. He’d been manipulating her, and she knew it, and he wished they’d met under different circumstances.

  “It wasn’t always easy for him, being my brother.” Her gaze lifted. “Especially when I hit high school.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I cut my hair short. Wore black lipstick. Didn’t lust after the football team. They didn’t know what to think of me, so they called me a dyke, which by some twisted logic made Gavin a fag, so . . . he was pretty much doomed from the get-go because of me.”

  Jon watched her, trying to visualize the misfit teen. He could picture the lipstick and the attitude but not the insecurity. She seemed so confident now.

  She glanced around. “I should come here more.”

  “It’s right next door. I don’t know how you stay away.”

  “I never think about it. I mean, it’s here. All I have to do is open a window.”

  He shook his head, and she smiled.

  “Oh, like what? You’d be down here every night if you lived in the neighborhood?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’re a workaholic like I am.” She grinned and sipped her drink.

  An ego-driven workaholic who is destined to end up alone.

  Jon tried not to think about it. He tipped back his glass, and for a while, they listened. Without drinking, without talking. Without even moving—just letting the music flow around them and fill the space. It was nice listening with someone who didn’t feel compelled to talk.

  When the waiter came by again, she shook her head tiredly.

  “You look beat,” Jon said.

  “I feel like roadkill. Too much driving.”

  As much as he didn’t want to, he stood up and peeled off some bills. He held her jacket as she slipped into it.

  “You don’t need to walk me home,” she told him.

  “I still need that report.”

  The night was cold and clear, and the sidewalks were crowded with Friday-night traffic. She took out her purse as they neared her building.

  “The letter’s just a copy. No prints or anything.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Take a look. Run it through our anonymous-threat-letter file.”

  “I already thought of that.” She trudged up the stairs. “I submitted it today, but you should follow up. I’m sure you’ll get a quicker response.”

  She unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. He followed her but waited near the door. Her place smelled good, something distinctly feminine but not overwhelming like perfume. He remembered the scent from his first trip over here.

  “It’s all yours,” she said, bringing the folder. She propped her shoulder against the doorframe.

  He glanced up from the paperwork as she stifled a yawn. Her eyes looked glassy. “Go to bed, Finch.”

  “What about you?”

  He stared down at her. No, that hadn’t been innuendo. She was that exhausted. “Back to work,” he said.

  “Tonight? You’re going back to the office?”

  “I have to take care of some things.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “Sorry about Copeland. I should have vetted him first and not wasted your time.”

  She hadn’t wasted it. But he didn’t tell her that. “It’s okay.” He stepped outside. “The jazz made up for it.”

  chapter twelve

  SHAY LAY IN THE bed of Lost Creek and peered through the scope. He pressed his cheek against the stock and forced all of his muscles to relax. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to fill his lungs, and slowly exhaled as he looked through the crosshairs. He felt relaxed. One with the rifle. It was an extension of his body, his mind, his thoughts.

  He pulled the trigger and heard the distinctive sucking sound as the bullet traveled through the suppressor and found the target.

  Dead on.

  He’d developed a taste for killing in the desert. He liked the efficiency of it. Men in suits could argue all day long, negotiate all day long. But war required action. Blow a man’s head apart like a melon, and the debate was over. End of discussion.

  Gravel crunched, and he turned around to see Mark walking up the creek bed. The morning sun cast his long shadow over the rocks.

  “Live fire, huh? Thought you were doing dry training.”

  “Shooting is a perishable skill.” Shay shifted into sitting position, feet apart, digging his heels into the ground as he rested his arm on his knee. He positioned the rifle and got on target again.

  Mark spit on the rocks. He shifted the chaw in his mouth and looked out at the canyon.

  “What’s on your mind, Mark?”

  “I’m worried about the girl.”

  “Don’t be.” Shay glanced at the makeshift range flag—a bandanna duct-taped to a tree branch.

  “Shouldn’t we take care of her?”

  He peered through the scope. “We’ll play with her awhile first. Plus, we don’t want Gavin to lose focus if his pain-in-the-ass sister suddenly goes missing.”

  A wind kicked up. He glanced at the flag again and made adjustments mentally as he gazed through the crosshairs. He relaxed, took a breath, and blocked out all distractions. Conditions were never perfect.

  He sent another round downrange. Again, it hit the target pinned to the berm a hundred yards away.

  “You know she’s a cop, right?”

  Shay glanced at him. The comment didn’t merit a response. He’d known she was a cop when she came out here last summer. He made it his business to know. But he wasn’t worried. Gavin’s sister didn’t have a federal badge. She presented an obstacle, but one that was easily dealt with at the right time.

  This op was all about timing.

  Shay checked his watch and loaded another round. He lined up the shot. Glanced at the range flag. Took another breath.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Mark whistled. “Damn.”

  Shay stood up. “We need to go.”

  Mark glanced at the sky. He fell in beside him as they trekked back toward the house. He didn’t say anything, and the only sound was the crunch of gravel under their boots.

  Shay looked at him. “Everything in place for later?”

  “Just about.”

  “We leave at oh-nine-hundred.”

  They neared the barn, and a faint noise droned overhead. Mark glanced up. “Uncle Sammy, right on time.” He looked at Shay. “How did you know?”

  “I make it my business to know. You should, too.” He stepped into the barn’s cool shade. “ ‘Those who understand the enemy never suffer defeat.’ ”

  ♦

  There were numerous ways to ID someone who’d fled a crime scene: eyewitness accounts, fingerprints, DNA, vehicle. Elizabeth’s top choice was vehicle, every time.

  She had a thing for cars, which made her unusual among female agents, particularly in the South. Elizabeth chalked up her interest to the summer
she’d turned seventeen, when she’d worked at her uncle Gary’s Toyota dealership. As a minimum-wage file clerk, she’d spent her days getting griped at or getting her ass pinched by Gary’s more senior employees, which was pretty much everyone.

  By her second week on the job, she’d picked up a few survival skills. She’d learned to file with lightning speed in order to minimize her time in the hallway beside the break room, a high-traffic area for ass pinchers. She’d learned to alphabetize backward. She’d also learned to classify the men at the dealership into three categories: Touchers, Talkers, and Gawkers.

  Today had been packed with Talkers, but none of them had provided any useful leads. Elizabeth turned into the lot of Moore’s Pre-Owned Vehicles—GET MORE FOR YOUR MONEY AT MOORE’S!—feeling deflated. She was now down to the tenth dealership on her target list, and she’d made absolutely no progress in her quest to find the getaway car used in Wednesday’s bank robbery.

  The problem wasn’t her strategy—at least, she didn’t think so. She’d based her list on logical assumptions. One, that because all three San Antonio robberies had occurred within one hundred feet of Interstate 10, the perp was using I-10 as his route to and from the crime scenes. Two, that because each robbery had been committed by what appeared to be the same unidentified man using different vehicles, he was most likely getting rid of the vehicles shortly after committing the crimes. And three, that a robber hitting banks for relatively small amounts of cash would be more likely to sell or trade a vehicle than to ditch it outright. And car dealerships kept records.

  So to find her perp, Elizabeth simply had to find one of his vehicles. And to find a vehicle, she simply had to check car dealerships along I-10 in and around San Antonio. Easy peasy. Except that it wasn’t.

  Elizabeth whipped into a front-row space near Moore’s showroom. She freshened her lipstick and smoothed her long blond ponytail, well aware that her arrival had already been registered by the men loitering around the sales floor.

  She got out of her little white Honda, and before her feet even touched the sidewalk, a burly man in a dress shirt and tie swooped in to nab her.

  “Afternoon.” He smiled and thrust out a hand, textbook Talker.

  “Good afternoon.”

  He gave her a quick once-over, only lingering a moment on her breasts before turning his attention to her Honda. “Looking for a car today? Maybe something a little roomier?”

  “Actually, I am. But not for myself.” She flashed her creds. “Mind if I speak with a manager?”

  The smile faltered briefly, but he managed to hold it. “That’d be me. I’m Jack Moore.”

  Elizabeth glanced around at the sea of cars. “So this is your place?”

  “It’s a family shop.”

  She took that to mean it belonged to his father.

  “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for a car that might have come in last week, probably Wednesday or Thursday. A ninety-six Pontiac Grand Am, teal green.”

  His brow furrowed. “We don’t acquire stolen vehicles. I can tell you that right now.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” She smiled. “This isn’t about a stolen car. The car doesn’t even matter, really. We’re looking for the person driving it.”

  “Well, either way,” he said, “it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  She glanced out at the expanse of automobiles. “Looks like you all do a lot of business. Would you mind checking your records?”

  “Believe me, we got a Pontiac like that on the lot last week, I’d have noticed it. That color green’s a tough sell.”

  She tugged a list from her purse. “I’ve got several others I’d like to check on. Maybe these would ring a bell?”

  He stepped closer and scanned the list, which included makes, models, and approximate dates for the three other vehicles used in the robberies.

  “Those are from the fall.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’d have to check the files.” He looked behind him at the glass building. “We’ve got a girl that handles all that, but she won’t be here till Monday.”

  “Would you mind if I check? I’ve been doing this for days, so I’m quite familiar with the filing system.”

  He frowned skeptically.

  “It would just take a minute, and I could cross you guys off my list. I’ve got four more dealerships to visit this afternoon.”

  His attention strayed as a minivan pulled onto the lot. When he glanced at her again, she could tell she almost had him.

  “Ten minutes.” She smiled. “That’s all I need.”

  Moore handed her off to a junior salesman, who showed her to a wall of file drawers in the corridor between the repair garage and the vending-machine alcove. It was déjà vu all over again. Elizabeth kept her butt tucked in, half expecting some sweaty mechanic to come along and make a grab.

  The auto world did everything by Vehicle Identification Number, and the seventeen-digit VIN provided a wealth of information. With just a glance at the digits, someone who knew their stuff could tell a car’s make, model, and year and where in the world it was manufactured. Elizabeth knew her stuff. And she’d memorized the prefixes of all four cars on her list. Her fingers combed nimbly through the file drawers as she checked out the sections for all the relevant VIN numbers.

  She found nothing. No invoices that would reflect a trade-in, a sale, or a repair on one of the vehicles she was seeking.

  She noticed that the most recent invoices in the files were from around February.

  “Finding what you need?”

  Junior was back. Another Talker, which was pretty standard for sales guys.

  “Actually, I’m striking out. I need to check something from this week, and these files don’t look updated.”

  “Ah, that’s probably because Jill—the girl who does it—she’s pretty backed up.” He propped a shoulder against the wall. “Anything I can help with?”

  “I’m looking for a green Pontiac Grand Am. A ninety-six.” She pulled a black-and-white surveillance photo from her purse. She’d stopped using the pictures this morning after noticing everyone’s guard went up when they realized they were looking at a surveillance picture. But she was at the end of her rope now, so she handed him the pic.

  “That’s definitely not one of ours,” he said. “Busted taillight, dented quarter-panel. Looks like it was just in a wreck. We wouldn’t touch it.”

  “You’re saying your customers never bring in cars that need body work?”

  “Oh, sure. Happens all the time.” He handed back the photo. “I’m saying we wouldn’t keep it around. We get those in, we send ’em straight across the street.” He nodded at the window.

  Elizabeth followed his gaze. She hadn’t even thought about body shops. How had she missed that? Three of her four vehicles had visible dings or dents.

  She tried to imagine how many body shops were in the San Antonio area. Maybe she should have followed her supervisor’s advice and simply put this case on the back burner until the labs came back on the robbery note.

  But then she thought of Jon North. He’d had that determined gleam in his eye when she’d last seen him. He’d been so certain these bank robberies were connected to something important.

  Elizabeth left Moore’s and motored over to Hill Country Automotive across the street. She passed the repair bays and pulled right up to the front. It was already four o’clock, so she’d keep it quick. As she strode toward the door, her gaze landed on a shiny green Pontiac.

  She halted. A Grand Am. She pulled the photo from her purse and stepped over for a closer look.

  Identical.

  Except for a few key details. This car lacked a broken taillight, a dented quarter-panel, and a license plate obscured by mud.

  She crouched down beside the bumper, which had a scuff mark. She studied it. She studied the photo in her hand.

  Her pulse sped up.

  “Help you with something?”

  She turned around. A man was watchi
ng her from one of the repair bays. Short, beefy, tattooed arms, buzz cut. She walked over and glanced at the name embroidered on his gray coveralls. Randy.

  “Is your manager here?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  She smiled, but it didn’t work this time. He’d made her for a cop the second she pulled out that photograph.

  She went ahead and introduced herself, flashing her badge. His blue eyes turned a few degrees cooler.

  “I’m interested in that Pontiac,” she said. “Would you happen to know who the owner is?”

  “That’d be me, temporarily. It’s on its way to auction.”

  Elizabeth looked him over. He seemed guarded but not uncooperative.

  “I take it you bought it from someone?

  “Couple days ago. Quoted him a price on the body work, and he decided not to bother. We get that sometimes. If it’s worth it, we do the body work here, then bundle a few vehicles together and take them out to auction.”

  Her heart was pounding now. She tried to keep her tone neutral. “Do you remember the day, exactly?”

  He squinted. “Wednesday, I think. I’d have to look to be sure.”

  “Would you mind?”

  Without a word, he led her into a building as a trio of Gawkers watched from the nearest service bay. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of motor oil. A UT basketball game was playing on a TV mounted in the corner. He scooted behind a counter and tapped at a computer.

  Elizabeth held her breath as she watched his hands. The creases of his knuckles were black with grease.

  “Wednesday. Paid fifteen hundred for it.” He gave her a dark look. “I can show you the title, too. We’re not running a chop shop here.”

  Elizabeth pulled out her notebook. “Could I get the name of the person who sold it to you?”

  “David Woods.”

  He rattled off a San Marcos address as she jotted it down.

  “And do you remember what he looked like?” She glanced up, and the manager was watching her. “White, black? Tall, short? Old, young?”

  “He was white.” He had the expression of someone who wasn’t crazy about helping the police but didn’t see a way around it. “Medium build. Maybe late twenties.”

  Elizabeth scribbled it down and felt a surge of excitement. She looked up from her notepad and smiled.