Jon leaned his shoulder against the wall and watched Andrea. She looked nervous, but he didn’t think it was because she’d bullied her way in under false pretenses and was about to interview a sitting U.S. senator. This place reeked of privilege, and he could tell it made her uncomfortable.
She continued to surprise him, and he wasn’t easily surprised by people. She was a mix of contradictions—brusque and sensitive, determined and hesitant, alluring and prickly—all at the same time.
He felt drawn to her, even though he knew he should keep his distance. He should have left her in Maverick, but he’d been strangely excited by the prospect of spending more time with her, so he’d given into impulse and let her come.
He’d probably regret it later, but for now, he was enjoying her company. Not to mention her unorthodox investigation methods.
“You notice the weapon on that guard?” She nodded at the doorway.
“An FN Five-seveN,” he said. “Standard-issue sidearm for Secret Service agents.”
“They’re a step above rent-a-cops, I’d say. Guy told me he’s with Wolfe Security. You heard of it?”
“Private firm from Texas, right?”
“I’ve run across them before,” she said. “They’ve got a good reputation.”
A commotion in the next room, followed by a frantic exchange in hushed tones, signaled the arrival of Someone Important. A moment later, Kirsten was back, clutching a leather folio to her chest.
“The senator will see you now.”
Jon pushed away from the wall. Andrea clasped her hands behind her back. But the man who entered the suite didn’t look senatorial. He had a shaved head, a thick neck, and a clear plastic radio receiver clipped to his ear. His gaze promptly zeroed in on Jon.
Jon knew the drill. He lifted his arms and allowed the guy to frisk him. Andrea did the same. He came up with nothing, because they’d surrendered their weapons to the man stationed at the door to the suite. Jon didn’t like being separated from his gun, but since they hadn’t gone through any formal screening process to get this meeting, he figured it was fair.
The guard gave them a brief assessing look before going to the door and giving a nod.
The blonde from the lobby was back, followed by Richard Kirby.
The junior senator from Texas carried himself like a cattleman—broad shoulders, straight posture, a hefty gut that spilled over his belt buckle. He wore suits most of the time but loved to be photographed at his ranch in jeans and his favorite Lucchese cowboy boots.
At the moment, he wore golf shoes, khakis, and a sky-blue polo. A white golf glove hung from his back pocket.
“North, is it?” He cast a look in Jon’s direction as he walked straight to the bar.
“Special Agent Jon North, San Antonio field office.” Jon didn’t offer a hand, as the senator was tied up making a drink.
Kirby got out a highball glass, dropped in a few ice cubes, and filled it halfway with vodka. “And you are?” He nodded at Andrea.
“Detective Andrea Finch, sir. Austin PD.”
He took a jar of onions from the fridge. “You like a drink, Detective?”
“No, thank you.”
“Agent?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
A splash of vermouth. Four pearl onions on a toothpick. He took a gulp and plunked the glass on the granite counter.
Then he eyed Jon with the stern look he was known for.
“The task force is out of Philadelphia.”
“That’s correct.”
“You’re not on it.”
“That’s correct.”
“Mr. Spillman called to check.” He nodded at the bodyguard, who now stood beside the doorway like a sentry. “That’s why I’m paying the big bucks, right, Spillman? So someone can pick up the goddamn telephone.”
Spillman gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Jon looked him over. He had a relaxed but superalert look that Jon had seen before. The two other guys he’d seen with that expression were both former SEALs.
The senator stayed behind the bar, staring him down as if they were having a contest. “So you’re out of San Antone. And you’re not on the task force.” He jerked a head in Andrea’s direction. “She’s not even a fed. Why are you here?”
“We have some news,” Jon said. “Carmen Pena was killed early this morning in a gas explosion.”
Kirby didn’t blink. He just stared at Jon. Then his gaze shifted to Spillman. “Close the door.”
Spillman closed the door—with himself inside the room—and took on the there-but-not-really-there look of a professional bodyguard.
“I heard about Carmen.” The senator’s voice had softened.
“Her son was badly injured, too. Lukas Pena.” Jon paused. “He’s in ICU.”
Kirby looked him directly in the eye for a drawn-out moment. Jon saw a sheen of tears as he picked up his drink and took a swill.
“Sir, we need to ask you,” Andrea said, stepping closer. “Are you aware of who Ms. Pena listed on her son’s birth certificate as the baby’s father?”
It was a bold move, Jon thought. But it was artful, too—asking the question without really asking it. If he knew anything at all about Lukas Pena’s birth certificate, that told them what they wanted to know.
Kirby knew this, which was why he was eyeing Andrea sharply. He looked at Jon. “It’s blank.” Another swill of vodka.
No one spoke for several seconds.
“Sir, have you made the agents investigating your daughter’s death aware of this situation?” Andrea asked.
“What situation is that?” His tone had an edge now as he emptied his glass.
Andrea darted a look at Jon.
“That baby’s not mine. Far as anyone knows, he’s got no daddy, just like it says on the birth certificate.”
“You can’t be—”
“Lukas Pena’s parentage is critical to the investigation,” Jon said, cutting her off. “The lead investigator needs to know about it.”
“About what?” He came around the bar now, a slight swagger in his step, and Jon realized they’d played this wrong. He’d shifted from barely cooperative to defiant.
“Sir, the situation is obvious to anyone who looks,” Andrea said bluntly. “There have been four deposits of fifty thousand dollars made to Ms. Pena’s bank account over the last year. From some of your biggest campaign contributors.”
“That’s her business.”
Jon looked at Andrea. This wasn’t going anywhere. “Senator, we’ve been investigating a man in West Texas by the name of Shay Hardin.”
He frowned at Jon. “Never heard of him.”
“We think he’s heard of you. We think he’s particularly familiar with your stance on gun control.”
Kirby muttered a curse. He refilled his drink, not bothering with vermouth this time, and crossed the room to sink into an armchair. “You’re telling me some gun kook’s responsible for Julia?”
“We’re investigating that. We’re also investigating the possibility that he may be responsible for the explosion that killed Carmen Pena.” Jon paused to see if he was following, now that he’d knocked back about five shots of vodka.
Kirby gazed past Andrea, at the giant window facing out over the golf course and the desert beyond. His look turned wistful.
Andrea approached him, pulling his attention back to the conversation. She handed him a stack of photographs of Shay Hardin. They were good shots, all taken in Maverick over the past week. She’d shown them to Jon on the plane and didn’t seem particularly concerned when he shared his opinion of her going around photographing a suspected murderer.
She didn’t seem particularly concerned by his opinion on anything she did.
Jon watched the senator flip through Andrea’s shots.
“Never seen him.” He passed them back.
“Are you sure? Not at a stump speech? A campaign rally?”
“I’ve got a memory for faces.” He gave a wry smile. “Comes in hand
y.”
Jon was getting pissed off. “Shay Hardin has a history with antigovernment groups,” he said pointedly. “A few of his friends are affiliated with the state’s most outspoken militia and white-supremacy orgs.”
“Is this supposed to scare me?”
“Senator, you need to be candid with investigators about your relationship to Carmen Pena.”
“What relationship?” His gaze narrowed. “If one word about that baby leaks to the media, I will have your job, Agent. And yours, too.”
Jon shot Andrea a look. Then he looked at the senator, whose cheeks were flushed now from both emotion and alcohol. They were on the brink of losing what little cooperation they’d had just a few minutes ago.
“Senator,” Jon said levelly, “most of the investigation is focused on Islamic radicals on the East Coast. If it turns out that Shay Hardin is behind these crimes, then we have a potentially bigger problem. April nineteenth is only five days away.”
Kirby scowled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s the anniversary of Waco, the Oklahoma City bombing, and the opening battle of the American Revolution—the ‘shot heard round the world.’ April nineteenth is of critical importance to the antigovernment movement.”
“So?”
“So it could be Hardin and whoever’s working with him are planning something more in just a few days. Until we know for sure who is behind these attacks, you should cancel all your public appearances.”
A chilling smile spread across his face. “You think I should just what? Go home? Pull the covers over my head?”
“Sir.” Andrea crossed her arms. “With all due respect, you don’t seem to be taking this seriously.”
He jabbed a finger at her, and the ice cubes in his glass rattled. “I buried my daughter on Saturday, Detective. Don’t tell me I don’t take this seriously.” The last word came out choked, and he bent forward. He tucked his head down, and his shoulders shook.
Jon glanced at Andrea. She seemed taken aback. He nodded at her, and she gave him a Who, me? look.
Jon nodded again. Yes, it was sexist, but she needed to do something. Comfort the man. Something.
Andrea stepped closer and lowered herself into a crouch beside the chair. “Listen, Senator Kirby.” Her voice was softer.
“Julia was everything.” His words sounded strangled. “Everything.”
“Sir, investigators need information that only you have to find out who is hurting your loved ones.”
His head snapped up, and his eyes were pink and watery. “I know how this works. You think I don’t know? Leak on top of leak on top of leak. It would ruin me.”
Andrea glanced at Jon.
The senator bowed his head again.
“If you don’t help the investigation,” Jon said, “you could end up dead.”
Kirby rubbed his forehead with his hand. He looked up again and smiled through the tears. “I lose the election, I’m dead anyway.” He stood up and walked back to the bar as Andrea gaped at him.
She rose to her feet. “What about your wife?”
Jon heard the derision in her voice.
“What about her?” Kirby poured another drink.
“Do you mind if I ask where she is? What sort of security you have in place?”
“She’s home in Dallas.” He nodded at Spillman, who’d been standing like a statue for the entire conversation. “I’ve got another team of these guys with her.”
“Around the clock?” Jon asked, and the senator nodded.
His shoulders were slumped now, and he didn’t look senatorial anymore. He looked haggard.
“And exactly when did you hire this team?”
Kirby sighed heavily and looked away.
“Senator?” Jon persisted, knowing he was about to get his question answered and that their trip out here had not been a waste. Had he hired them before or after he found out about Carmen?
Kirby looked him in the eye. “This morning.” He took another gulp and set the glass down with a clink. “I hired them this morning.”
♦
Jon spent half an hour on his phone in the parking lot while Andrea waited in the front seat, getting angrier by the minute as she watched him in a heated conversation with someone. Finally, he slid behind the wheel.
“Okay, no more crap.” He turned to face her.
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“Call your brother. Now. Come up with a ruse—an emergency, a death in the family, whatever you want—but we need him interviewed ASAP.”
“Don’t you mean ‘interrogated’?”
“Andrea”—his jaw tensed—“I’m done fooling around.” He pushed his phone at her, but she waved it off.
“Even if I wanted to, I can’t call him,” she said. “He doesn’t have a phone.”
“Bullshit.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“How can he not have a phone?”
“Because he doesn’t have one. I checked. They shut off his account when he didn’t pay his bill.”
He muttered something and shook his head, then put the car into gear and shot backward out of the space. He gave her a hot look as he zipped past a row of golf carts and turned out of the parking lot. “You really want to get pulled into this as a material witness? Is that what you want?” He sped down the private drive leading back to the highway. “Philadelphia’s sending a team down. They’re going to want to talk to you. I can guarantee you that.”
“That’s good, right?” she asked, refusing to be intimidated. She didn’t give a damn if they called her in. She hadn’t witnessed anything, and she didn’t believe Gavin had, either.
“How many are they sending?”
He didn’t respond.
“Jon?”
“Two.”
“Two agents? That’s it?” It was a token effort, nothing more. Someone was covering his ass, not taking this case theory seriously.
“The perp walk didn’t help,” Jon said. “Not to mention the press conference this afternoon. The director has us boxed in—unless something new breaks.” He shot her a look. “You want to help us with that?”
“I’m not the problem here. I’ve been helping you since the beginning.”
He turned onto the highway and punched the gas, and Andrea’s temper flared.
“Lose the attitude, North. You’re the one who’s been lying.”
“When did I lie?” He looked offended.
“April nineteenth. What is that about? You ever think to mention we had a deadline here? You ever think that might be relevant?”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“By omission—yes, you did.”
“You’re the one holding out,” he countered. “Don’t think I don’t know that. If you really wanted to help—”
“I am helping!”
“—you’d have found a way to get your brother in a week ago.”
“You’re not being straight with me, and you want me to trust you with my brother’s future? With his life?”
“I’m not responsible for your brother’s life, Andrea! And neither are you. Get that through your head! He’s an adult, and if he fucked up and robbed a bank and helped kill innocent people, he’s going to be held accountable.”
Andrea’s heart clenched. “He didn’t help kill anyone.”
“How can you say that? Jesus Christ, open your eyes. He’s living there. He’s involved.”
“He’s not involved. He wouldn’t do this.” Andrea stared straight ahead. She couldn’t look at him.
“You’re a smart woman, Andrea. You’re a goddamn detective, but you’ve got blinders on.”
She slapped the door. “I know I’ve got blinders on, all right? He’s my kid brother! And he can be selfish and stupid and infuriating sometimes, but he’s my brother, and he’s not a murderer! He wouldn’t do it. You don’t know him like I do.” Her chest squeezed painfully. She turned away and had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming. Da
mn it, she was angry. She was angry at Jon for pushing her buttons. And at herself for letting him.
Most of all, she was angry at Gavin for making her doubt him, even for an instant. Hot tears burned her eyes, but she forced them back. She couldn’t lose it in front of him. He’d see it as a confirmation of everything he’d said.
Jon didn’t talk. He drove silently, navigating a river of taillights on the highway. She could feel the tension coming off him.
It was the phone call. Whoever it was he’d been talking to at the Bureau, it hadn’t gone well. No matter how much circumstantial evidence he pulled together, they still weren’t supporting his theory, and now they’d very publicly pointed the finger at Islamic terrorists through today’s arrests. Typically, when investigators made a bold move like that, only concrete physical evidence could make them change course.
And such evidence would be hard to come by with everyone looking in a different direction.
Jon cut into the right-hand lane and swung into a parking lot. Andrea glanced around, alarmed, as he rolled to a stop beside a sign: PARADISE VALLEY INN.
“What are we doing?”
He thrust the car into park. “The last flight to El Paso left ten minutes ago. There are two in the morning.”
“So we’re spending the night?”
“I am.”
She eyed the keys in the ignition, which seemed to tick him off more. Not that she cared.
“You want to spend your night driving, that’s up to you.”
“Fine,” she snapped.
“Fine.”
They stared at each other, gazes locked, and she felt the frustration of the day boiling up again. She turned and looked out the window as he got out and slammed the door.
chapter seventeen
TORRES CALLED ELIZABETH FROM his truck.
“Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”
Pause. “Who is this?”
“Jimmy Torres. You said you were working our getaway vehicles.”
“Yeah?”
He adjusted the binoculars, focusing on the door of the Broken Spoke as several men exited the bar. One pulled on a helmet and climbed onto the back of a motorcycle, while the others walked toward a pickup.
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