Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  He didn’t smile back.

  “Thank you,” she told him. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  ♦

  Andrea was downtown when her phone buzzed, and she recognized the number of a cop she knew from her patrol days.

  “Hey, Andie. I got that info you wanted,” she said. “She’s at an address over on Cherry Knoll.”

  “In Pemberton Heights?”

  “That’s right.”

  Andrea veered into the turn lane. “Wants or warrants?”

  “Negative. Clean as a whistle. You need me to text this over?”

  “Thanks, that’s a big help. I owe you.”

  “Forget it. Hope to see you back soon.”

  Andrea pulled an illegal U-turn and headed north. As she turned onto Cherry Knoll she surveyed the charming old bungalows and towering new McMansions. The neighborhood was expensive. Not her usual stomping grounds, either on or off the job. Almost every driveway seemed to have a BMW or a Saab, with the occasional Volkswagen thrown in. Just keeping it real.

  Andrea scanned the street numbers and spotted the house she wanted—a white clapboard one-story with black window shutters and a red front door. There was a Kia parked out front—with a crumpled bumper, no less. Andrea noted the other cars up and down the block as she rolled to a stop.

  Instead of approaching the door, she walked up to the gray sedan on the opposite side of the street. She pulled open the passenger door and slid inside.

  “Hi.”

  Jon checked his side mirror. “What are you doing here?” he asked flatly.

  “Same thing you are. I take it she’s not home?”

  “Woman who answered the door said she’s due back any minute.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Didn’t ask. Sister, roommate, maid—she could be anybody.”

  Andrea pulled a notepad from her jacket and took down the Kia’s license plate. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

  Jon watched without comment, and she figured he was a step ahead of her.

  “So.” She tucked the notepad away. “How’s your day going?”

  “Busy.”

  “Me, too. Went for a jog. Hit the gym. Ate a big lunch. I feel like a million bucks.”

  He looked at her.

  “You, on the other hand, look pissy.”

  He glanced at the side mirror. He was in a suit and tie again, with his badge clipped to his belt alongside his gun. She remembered him at the bar last night, with his tie gone and his sleeves rolled up, watching her with that dark, steady gaze that made her heart thud.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

  He checked the mirror again. “I met with Maxwell this morning. He gave us one more week.”

  “Okay.” She paused. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “I wanted three. And more resources. It’s impossible to monitor six different subjects with the team we have now.”

  “I assume you asked for all that?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Well, that explained his sour mood. She doubted he was used to losing an argument.

  They sat in the tense silence. The street was empty of people. She glanced at Jon staring a hole in that red door.

  She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a bullet.

  “What’s that?” He frowned at her open palm.

  “A thirty-aught-six.”

  “I know what it is. Why’s it in your pocket?”

  “Someone left it in my room Thursday.”

  He stared at her. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  His face hardened as he looked at the bullet. She placed it on the dash, where it gleamed in the sunlight—except for the black tip.

  “You dust it for prints?”

  “None. Big surprise. Anyway, I know who left it. It’s like you said, he hates law enforcement. He’s playing games.”

  “Games?” He leaned closer. “Do you realize how dangerous he is?”

  “If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could have. Instead, he’s taunting me because he knows I’ve been asking about him.”

  “That’s just—” He shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  A flash of movement pulled their attention to a sleek black Jaguar turning into the driveway. A woman got out: slender brunette, black pants, black heels, black sunglasses. A shimmery white blouse balanced out all the dark.

  Andrea slipped the bullet back into her pocket as she looked the woman over.

  “You know if she’s married?” she asked.

  “Divorced.”

  “Looks like the mayor’s gig pays pretty well.” She glanced at Jon. “You want to do this together?”

  “No.” He shoved open the door. “This time, I do the talking.”

  They approached the woman as she strode toward her front door, clearly in a hurry.

  “Ms. Pena?”

  She halted on the front step and turned to look at them.

  “I’m Special Agent Jon North.” He flashed his ID. “This is Detective Finch. Are you Carmen Pena?”

  “I can’t talk right now,” she said briskly. “I’m late for an appointment.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  She shoved a small Chanel handbag under her arm. “What is this about?”

  “Would you mind if we come inside for a moment?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrea cut a glance at Jon, but he looked unfazed.

  “I understand you used to work for Senator Richard Kirby’s campaign,” he said.

  “I have no comment about Senator Kirby.”

  “Did you work for his campaign?”

  “I said I have no comment.”

  Andrea folded her arms over her chest. “Ms. Pena, we hear you had a confrontation with a man outside Kirby’s campaign headquarters about eighteen months ago.”

  She peeled off the sunglasses, and Andrea got hit with a blast of hostility. “What part of ‘no comment’ do you not understand, Detective?”

  “Ma’am, we’d just like to ask you a few simple questions,” Jon said.

  “And I’d just like you to listen to a simple answer: No comment.” She headed for the door.

  “Ma’am.” Andrea used her cop voice, and she turned around. The curtain in one of the windows shifted, suggesting that someone was watching them from inside the house. A dog walker had stopped in front of the neighbors’ place, ostensibly to admire the landscaping. “We just need a moment of your time.”

  “Do you have a warrant of some sort?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you step off my property. If you’d like to talk to me, discuss it with my attorney. He’s at Biskell and Klein downtown.”

  She strode into the house and slammed the door.

  Andrea looked at Jon. “And I thought I was a bitch.”

  He walked back to the car.

  “So what now?” she asked his back.

  He pulled open the door and rested his elbow on the window as he looked at her. “I’ve got to go home. Change. I have a five-hour drive ahead of me.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “I’ve only got seven days left, Andrea. I don’t intend to waste them.”

  chapter thirteen

  TORRES STRODE ACROSS THE parking lot, feeling more energized than he had in weeks. It was good to be home—only for a few nights, yeah, but that was better than nothing. He’d missed San Antonio. He’d missed the green. He’d missed the lights. He’d missed the restaurants and bars and even the traffic. Most of all, he’d missed the women.

  He held the door for a young agent juggling an armload of files. Saturday-night case work. The life of a rookie. Torres flashed her a smile, but she didn’t return it as she squeezed through the exit and hustled toward her car.

  Undaunted, he made his way upstairs to the desk he hadn’t seen in weeks. The bullpen was deserted tonight, except for a few wrung-out agents talking on the phone. Tor
res booted up his computer to check e-mail before thumbing through the paperwork crowding his in-box.

  Across the room someone slammed down a phone receiver. Torres glanced over his cube and spotted a blonde hunched over her desk, squeezing the bridge of her nose as if she was fighting off a headache.

  Elizabeth LeBlanc. She hadn’t been around that long—just long enough to raise a few eyebrows.

  No one could figure LeBlanc out. She was hot, but she didn’t date. Guys asked her out—nothing, not even a drink after work. Some people thought she had a secret boyfriend in the Bureau, maybe someone married. Some people thought she had a secret girlfriend. But Torres didn’t get that vibe.

  He’d observed her on more than one occasion. He’d noticed the way she listened in meetings and took copious notes. He’d noticed her habit of arriving early and leaving late. If she was having a love affair, it was with her job.

  She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her neck tiredly.

  So much for paperwork.

  “Long day?” he asked, sauntering over. It was a lame opener, but he was out of practice.

  “Long week. Long, crappy week, if you want to know the truth.” She frowned. “I thought you were in Maverick.”

  He rested an arm on the wall of her cubicle. “Headed back tomorrow.”

  “Any chance you guys might make an arrest soon? Put me out of my misery?”

  “You’re working on our case?”

  “Evidently.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  She sighed and glanced down at a stack of files on her desk. “The Del Rio bank robbery. Someone thinks it’s connected to what you’re doing.”

  “It is.”

  “You want to tell me how?”

  Torres hesitated. He probably shouldn’t share too much. But on the other hand, if she was working it—

  “That’s what I thought.” She had an edge in her voice. “Slaving away all weekend still doesn’t put me in the inner circle.”

  “Slaving?” He smiled down at her.

  “Sorry. I’m throwing myself a pity party. I spent my day interviewing used-car dealers, trying to track down your getaway vehicle.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No. I thought I had a lead, but”—she lifted her arms to tighten her ponytail, and Torres’s heart stuttered—“it’s not panning out. At least, not tonight.”

  He gazed down at her. Wisps of hair curled around her neck, and her eyes were pale blue, almost gray. She really was pretty.

  She glanced at her watch and started stacking files.

  The blue eyes looked up at him. “You want to have dinner?”

  Torres stared at her. Holy shit, was she . . . ?

  “O-kay, forget I asked. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

  “No. I mean—you’re not. I was just thinking, it’s pretty late, right? I’m not sure what’s open.”

  She stood up and glanced at her watch again. “Well, it’s only eleven. Luv’s is open.”

  “Luv’s?”

  “The truck stop. On I-35?”

  He tried to picture her dining at a truck stop and drew a complete blank.

  “I drop in there sometimes after working late.” She stuffed some files into a computer bag and hitched it onto her shoulder. “It’s not bad, actually.” She hesitated a beat. “You want to join me?”

  Fifteen minutes later, he slid into a parking space between Elizabeth’s Honda and a pickup with oversize tires. The separate cars had been her idea, which didn’t really bode well for his chances of taking her home. Didn’t rule it out, though. Torres was an optimist.

  They took a corner booth with a view of the whole restaurant, and a waitress stopped by right away to take their orders.

  “Hot chocolate?” Elizabeth smiled at him.

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I figured you for beer, but I guess that goes to show how little I know about you, right?” She folded her hands in front of her. “Such as what’s this case you’re working on out in the middle of nowhere?”

  That was it, then. She’d invited him here for scoop, not because she wanted to jump his bones. It was a setback but nothing major.

  He debated how much to tell her. He was pretty sure he trusted her, but he wasn’t used to talking about this case. At least, not with anyone besides North and their team.

  “You know much about OKBOMB?” he asked.

  “Just what they presented at the Academy, really. Why?”

  “You probably know, right, that some people think there might have been others involved? Not just individuals but groups.”

  “The mysterious John Doe Number Two,” she said. “I thought all those accounts were conflicting. Different physical descriptions.”

  “Could be,” he said. “Or could be there was more than one John Doe Number Two. You heard of the Aryan Republican Army?”

  “Vaguely.”

  The waitress dropped off their drinks, and Torres stirred his cocoa.

  “In the nineties, they pulled off a string of bank robberies,” he said. “They saw the crimes as both symbolic and practical: rip off a government-backed institution, and use the money to fund an insurgency. Kind of a double ‘eff you’ to the feds. Some people think they funneled some of the money to Tim McVeigh to subsidize his plot.”

  Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward on her elbows. “Are you telling me . . . what I think you’re telling me? You think these robberies might be connected to what just happened in Philadelphia?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You think Shay Hardin is the connection?”

  “We’re looking into it. He has a documented history of making threats against the government, and Senator Kirby in particular.”

  She leaned back against the seat, clearly shocked, which was good news and bad. Good news because Maxwell evidently had managed to keep a lid on what their team was up to out in Maverick. But bad news because it demonstrated just how little credibility their boss had given this theory.

  The Philly case involved more than two hundred agents, and yet only a few were working the Shay Hardin angle. Obviously, no one at the top took him seriously as a suspect. Maxwell had emphasized that fact just this morning by giving them a one-week deadline before he pulled the plug.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “That’s . . . wow. That’s quite a theory.”

  “You don’t buy it.”

  She gave him a level look. “I think it sounds complicated.”

  “So?”

  Elizabeth played with her straw and seemed to choose her words carefully.

  “It’s been my experience that when one explanation for something is complicated, and one explanation is straightforward, the straightforward one is more likely true.”

  Torres didn’t say anything. He’d walked through the same logic a few hundred times during the course of this investigation. North was convinced they were on the right track with this thing, while Torres often thought they were in the weeds. Not just the weeds, the freaking wilderness.

  North looked at Shay Hardin and saw parallels with OKBOMB. He saw a homegrown terrorist who was about to strike again, big.

  Torres looked at the man and saw a possible suspect for the judge’s murder and maybe the bank robberies. But the rest of it? The rest seemed fuzzy. Vague.

  Like his commitment to his job lately. Torres sometimes had a hard time scrounging up the motivation to really tackle this case.

  North felt something for this case that Torres could see but didn’t really understand. He felt a passion about it, a determination that they were going to get the guy and bring him to justice. Not just any guy, but this guy, Shay Hardin, someone who had—literally—gotten away with murder years ago and needed to be held to account.

  Their food arrived. Elizabeth picked up her club sandwich and looked at him. “I heard the bomb in Philadelphia was made with fertilizer, right?”

  “Ammonium nitrate and racing fuel, which is highly flam
mable,” Torres said. “They make it for cars, motorcycles, powerboats.”

  “Any evidence Hardin bought those materials?”

  “Nope.” He chomped into his burger.

  “Any evidence he was in Philadelphia at the time of the crime?”

  “Nope.”

  She sighed. “You guys are way out on a limb here.”

  “I know.”

  For a while, they ate in silence. Torres knew what she was telling him, underneath the tact. If they blew it with this thing, it could affect their careers permanently. North had a law degree to fall back on, but Torres didn’t.

  “Why are you so convinced?” She watched him closely.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.”

  He sighed. “North has a gut instinct about the guy. He believes he got away with something, and now he’s trying to do it again, on a much larger scale.”

  “What about your gut instinct?”

  Torres looked at her, surprised she’d asked. The answer that popped into his mind didn’t come from North but from his own legwork.

  He stirred his cocoa. “You know Hardin made it into Ranger school? Washed out after the first week.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He’d been in Iraq for a few years leading up to that, managed to get pretty out of shape. He’d trained at Fort Benning, and they really kick your ass while you’re there, but once you’re overseas, it can get pretty calm. There’s a lot of sitting around, lot of people lose their edge. That’s what happened to him.

  “So all his life, he had this dream he wanted to be a Ranger, be part of this elite group. Then he finally gets his shot, and he botches it.” He looked at her. “You ever met one of those guys who’s obsessed with black ops—the toys, the lingo, the secrecy? Thinks he’s Jason Bourne or someone?”

  “Had a few in my Academy class,” she said drily.

  “Same here. Thing I noticed, they’re arrogant. Think they’re smarter than everyone. They give off the attitude with anyone they ever meet. Shay Hardin’s like that. I’ve turned the guy’s life inside out looking for stuff, and that’s what keeps coming up.”

  “So you do believe in this.”

  “I do,” he said, surprising himself. Maverick was a pain in the ass, yes, but he didn’t actually believe he’d been wasting his time there. They had some solid leads; they just had to develop them. And they had to do it quickly, because if they were right about it all, then they were dealing with a ticking clock.