The Cooper Affair

by Jack Patterson

  “Are you in the hospital?”

  “No, but I do have more pressing matters tonight.”

  “What could be more pressing than watching the Apple Cup?”

  Coleman sighed. “There’s more to life than football.”

  “Harold, I’m worried about you. Did you fall and hit your head?”

  Coleman chuckled. “I’m fine. And I’ll see you soon, don’t you worry. Just don’t let them lose tonight, okay?”

  He turned off his phone and placed it in the cup holder next to him.

  Coleman smiled as he pulled out of the driveway. It’d been a long time since he was on a stakeout.

  ***

  COLEMAN TURNED THE RADIO on to listen to the game. And while he knew a stakeout required great vigilance, it also required a strong distraction. When men tend to sit alone and think by themselves for too long, they lose touch with reality. They either start to think that the world’s problems are easily solvable—or they conclude there is no hope. Partners often helped mitigate this dangerous death spiral of a man left to his thoughts, but Coleman preferred being alone tonight.

  Truth be told, he would rather be sitting at Husky Stadium, doing his best to urge on his alma mater to victory with his feeble voice. But sometimes there are things a man just has to do.

  Naturally, Coleman’s thoughts drifted back to 1971 when he was still a young agent in every way possible. Not two years out of Quantico, he was working on a case that had gripped the nation. While he couldn’t discuss the investigation with anyone, the fact that he was on it—and all his friends knew it—became a source of pride. That pride soured over time, turning into shame. Instead of his friends bragging to others at parties and pointing in his direction that they knew the guy trying to catch D.B. Cooper, they eventually began to ask him privately in hushed whispers, “When are you ever gonna catch that guy?”

  After all these years, Coleman had to answer that question truthfully: Never. D.B. Cooper was gone forever. Conspiracy theorists presented him with plausible ideas as to who the criminal was and how he pulled off the skyjacking, but they all lacked one thing—the confession of a living person. Deathbed confessions held little weight for Coleman, especially pertaining to a case so old that it would be difficult to verify it. Over the years, he’d heard about so many of them that he stopped paying attention. Only one man knew the truth—and that man was Dan Cooper. Whoever he was, he’d pulled a fast one on the FBI and became a celebrated cultural icon in the process.

  And now there was another man attempting to do the same thing, but with far less success. So far, he’d flummoxed the Bureau’s pursuit.. Coleman didn’t want to see a second man celebrated for the same crime, even if the public’s general feeling toward the criminal seemed to be more disdain than admiration.

  He peered through his binoculars, following the shadows dancing in front of Gordon’s window on the second floor of his condominium. So far, nothing.

  As the night wore on, Coleman wondered if he’d become too obsessed with the case, to the point that he couldn’t pick his way through this investigation. While he was no longer a paid professional, there was nothing amateur about what he was doing, except for the fact that he lacked the Bureau’s funds and resources. Instead of a wiretap on Gordon, he had to sit outside and hope he went somewhere—someplace that would raise an eyebrow or two.

  He looked at his clock. It was already nine o’clock and the second half of the game was about to kick off. Washington clung to a 17-14 lead, though he was convinced they’d blow it based on how the team’s defense had been playing in the second half of its past few games.

  He bit into an apple he’d brought. The sound of his teeth grinding up the moist fruit momentarily distracted him from the conversation playing in his head since he pulled out of his driveway.

  Coleman was only three bites into his apple when he nearly dropped it.

  Tap! Tap! Tap!

  Startled, Coleman glanced out his window to see an unexpected face.

  “Edith! What in the world are you doing here?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I think that’s a far more appropriate question for you than me.”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like—and I’m here to help,” she said, holding up a brown paper bag. “I’ve got some goodies inside—white chocolate macadamia nut cookies, your favorite.”

  He unlocked the door and she hustled around to the passenger side.

  “Edith, I’m really—”

  “Save your apology for someone who wants one,” she said. “I knew you weren’t about to give up so easily on this case.”

  “What gave it away?”

  “I was suspicious when you didn’t take your hat, because you never forget that. But it was Oscar’s call at halftime that sealed it for me.”

  Coleman moaned. “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar.”

  “And it only took me two minutes to open your desk up and find an address written down with Carlton Gordon’s name at the top, so I took a wild shot in the dark that I’d find you here. Plus, I’ve always wanted to go on a stakeout.”

  “You read too many mystery novels.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps I do, but here I am.” She paused. “So, what do we do now?”

  Coleman pulled his wife closer and kissed her on the forehead. “You keep me company. That’s what you do.”

  She laughed. “And here I was having sympathy for you all these years for having to go on a stakeout. I had no idea it was this easy.”

  “Or boring. Just give it a couple of hours and you’ll be wishing you were home reading another Karin Slaughter book.”

  “But until that moment comes—”

  Coleman held up his hand. “Hush, honey. Look there. He’s coming out of his condo.”

  She pressed her hands together and rubbed them. “Excellent. Now what do we do?”

  Coleman fired up his engine and his lights flickered on.

  He looked at her and flashed a toothy grin. “We’re gonna go for a little ride.”

  CHAPTER 26

  GORDON LOOKED AROUND THE STREET and exhaled. For the first time in a few days, he could see life returning to normal again. His crime spree was fun, but he was done skydiving from airplanes and living in fear that at any moment the feds would charge into his condo and arrest him.

  Despite being told he was no longer a suspect, Gordon suspected that wasn’t really the case. He guessed that they were baiting him, telling him he was free so they could track his movements. The feds always assumed that guilty suspects will return to their wicked ways. And most of the time they were right. But not this time. Gordon was done living under the guise of suspicion. He was also done with sneaking around and planning every last detail to ensure he didn’t get caught. It was an exhausting chore, one that required vigilance and diligence, a keen eye for details. Though he was confident he’d taken care of all the minutiae that often determine the difference between getting caught and getting away with it, he could never be a hundred percent certain. One overlooked detail could lead to his arrest.

  Gordon adjusted his rearview mirror, trying to suppress the growing uneasiness he felt that someone was watching him. And that someone was a federal agent. But perhaps he was wrong—it wouldn’t be the first time.

  He concentrated on his driving, checking his mirrors periodically. Everything seemed fine for a while and fears unfounded, until it came time to make a turn onto a dirt road. He was going to visit a pilot, someone he’d have to persuade to take him up in the afternoon for a brief stint.

  Then he looked again.

  Okay, I’m pretty sure that car is following me.

  He approached a private dirt road and turned the steering wheel violently to the right without the use of his blinker. The car behind him followed suit.

  It only meant one of two things to Gordon. Either he was being followed or someone else was going to the same place he was. And neither one of those outcomes g
ave him much reason to be hopeful.

  Hang on, ladies and gentlemen. I’m about to show you how it’s done.

  With that, Gordon jumped a small rise and then jerked his wheel hard to the right. In a matter of seconds he’d know if he was being tailed or simply being paranoid.

  The car behind him still followed.

  Tailed!

  “I swear if that’s Harold Coleman, I’m going to beat him to death and bury his dead body out here in the middle of nowhere,” Gordon growled.

  He jumped another rise and then saw his opportunity to shake him for good. Up ahead, the road narrowed to essentially one lane, thanks to a boulder that had tumbled off the side of the mountain a few years ago. If he slowed down enough to let the tail catch up with him, he could jerk his car to the left at the last moment and cause the car behind him to collide with the rock. It was the best idea he came up with on the spot.

  As he slowed down, the car behind him sped up and nearly caught up to him. Gordon eased back onto the gas.

  Excellent!

  “In 3-2-1-” Gordon jerked the wheel at the last second to avoid the boulder. But the car behind him wasn’t so lucky. The small rocks pinging around inside his wheel well as he hummed down the washboard dirt road were overwhelmed by the sound of metal colliding with rock—if only for a second.

  Gordon smiled to himself and stopped his car. He wanted to admire his work. The air was filled with dust, smoke, and the hissing from a busted engine. The red glow of flashing hazard lights from behind the boulder indicated they’d survived, but they likely wouldn’t be tailing him again, whoever they were.

  As he walked back to his car, he felt a twinge in his stomach again. He tried to suppress the cough welling up in him, but he couldn’t. More blood mixed with mucus spewed from his mouth and onto the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and climbed behind the wheel.

  ***

  FIVE MILES FARTHER DOWN the road, Gordon pulled into Northwest Aerial Services run by former crop duster Tommy Spurlock. Gordon knew about Spurlock’s business from his bank. The Bank of Olympia had loaned Spurlock the money to buy a used Cessna 210 five years ago. And while Spurlock kept his account in good standing for the most part, he’d fallen behind for the past few months. His wife’s sciatica reached a point that she could no longer function—or care for their four young children—if she didn’t get surgery. And while they had insurance, the $12,000 deductible forced Spurlock to come up with a solution to pay for her surgery. His solution was to forego payments on his plane and beg for mercy. Oddly enough, he’d only received one call from the bank after ignoring the note for three months.

  Gordon looked at Spurlock’s file one last time and adjusted his fake goatee before knocking on the door.

  The door creaked open with Spurlock standing there to greet him. He wore a pair of torn jeans and a faded Seahawks t-shirt.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Gordon took a deep breath and offered his hand. “As a matter of fact you can. My name is William McDonald, manager of the Bank of Olympia. I believe we have some business to discuss.”

  “Can’t this wait? My wife is still laid up from surgery and I’ve got four little ones running wild right now who I need to get to bed.”

  Gordon stepped inside. “I’ll wait.” He hated lying to such a hard-working man living under tenuous circumstances, but he needed to coerce the man into helping him.

  Spurlock sighed. He gestured toward the couch, covered in crumbs. “Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”

  Gordon chose to investigate the haphazardly arranged family pictures on the wall as opposed to taking a seat on the couch and getting his butt covered in crumbled Doritos. With his head itching, he adjusted his scalp cap. After a few minutes of gazing at the Spurlock’s family picture album plastered to the wall, Gordon resorted to surfing the web on his cell phone until Spurlock returned.

  “I’m sorry about that, Mr. McDonald—I truly am,” Spurlock said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Gordon shook his head. “No, thank you. This won’t take long.”

  Spurlock directed his guest toward his dining room table. “What’s this all about?”

  “I think you know.”

  Spurlock looked down and scratched at the table in front of him. “I’ve been trying to keep up with my payments—I really have. But when Linda got sick, I didn’t know what to do. Business has been slow lately—and I just had to choose between paying the mortgage note on the plane and feeding my kids.”

  “I understand,” Gordon said. “Surely you also must understand that our employees have kids to feed as well. And whenever someone defaults on a loan, we lose money—money we could use to pay our employees more fair wages.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I really am.” He paused. “Does this mean you’re going to take my plane away from me?”

  Gordon opened the folder and flipped through it, glancing at the papers inside. “I don’t believe in kicking a man when he’s down—but I do believe in a level of personal responsibility. You’re responsible for this payment every month and you need to find a way to make sure this isn’t late again. However, I can issue you a reprieve.”

  Relieved, Spurlock let out a long breath. “Thank you, Mr. McDoanld. I’ll figure out something moving forward. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Gordon nodded and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “As a matter of fact there is. What’s your flight schedule look like tomorrow?”

  “Even if it was full, I’d clear it for you,” Spurlock said with a smile.

  “That’s what I like to hear. I’ve got a very special assignment for you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 27

  BANKS RAPPED ON THE SCREEN DOOR of the apartment belonging to Felicia Davis. She turned her back to the door and closed her eyes, letting the Sunday morning sun warm her face and offset the brisk San Francisco breeze.

  “This is not how I’d want to start my Sunday morning,” Flynn said.

  “Based on how long it’s taking her to answer the door, my knock may have indeed started it.”

  After a few more moments, clinking of bottles and heavy footsteps could be heard coming from inside.

  “Somebody’s movin’ around in there,” Banks said.

  “I don’t want any,” a woman’s voice yelled followed by a prolonged coughing fit.

  “Miss Davis, my name is Agent Banks with the FBI, and I have a few questions for you.”

  Flynn chuckled at the string of expletives Davis ripped off while walking toward the door.

  “Just a minute,” she said.

  When the door swung open, Flynn and Banks were greeted by a woman who appeared to have rolled out of bed only minutes before. With frizzy hair, Davis wore a fuzzy pink bathrobe and had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She leaned against the doorway on her left shoulder, refusing to open the screen door.

  “What do you want?” Davis asked.

  “We have a few questions for you, Miss Davis,” Banks said as she held up her badge. “Mind if we come in?”

  Davis opened the screen door and pointed toward the small table in the cramped apartment’s kitchenette. “I’m gonna make some coffee so I can make some sense. Either of you want any?”

  Banks and Flynn declined.

  Davis tapped some ashes into the sink and took another long drag on her cigarette. “So, what’d Tim do this time?”

  “Tim?” Banks asked.

  “Yeah, my brother. I suppose this is about him, right? He’s only been in and out of federal prison a half dozen times at least for robbing banks.”

  “Where does Tim live?” Flynn asked.

  Davis shrugged. “Nebraska or Iowa—I don’t know. Somewhere where they grow a lot of corn and he can distill his moonshine in peace.”

  “No, this isn’t about Tim,” Banks said.

  Davis poured the water into the coffee pot. “Really? So, what’s this fun little Sunday mornin’ house call all about?”

&n
bsp; Banks shook her head. “It’s actually about you and—”

  “Look, if this is about that bar fight last night, I didn’t start anything. It just sort of happened. When that woman insulted my tattoo by calling it ‘amateur hour,’ I had to defend my honor. I know I hit her pretty hard. Is she okay?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Davis.”

  Davis mimed zipping her lips. “I’ll stop guessing and just let you tell me why you’re here.”

  Banks forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  Davis slumped down into a chair at the table and tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray located in the center of the table. She exhaled, blowing her smoke upward and away from her guests.

  “Do you work at the airport, Miss Davis?” Banks asked.

  She nodded. “Goin’ on three years now, slingin’ luggage for United.”

  “So, that’s why my luggage always gets damaged when I fly United,” Flynn said.

  Davis snickered and shook her head. “Naw, that’s just what we call it. We treat every bag with respect, as if it were our own.”

  Flynn glanced around at her apartment, quickly surmising that he and Davis had vastly different standards as it pertained to their personal belongings.

  “I know this may sound like a silly question, but have you loaned your security badge to anyone lately?” Banks asked.

  Davis laughed. “Lord, no. This is the most stable job I’ve had in ten years—I wouldn’t do somethin’ that stupid. Why do you ask?”

  Banks leaned forward with her hands clasped. “It’s the purpose for our visit, actually.” She paused. “Have you heard anything about the Cooper Copycat case?”

  “The guy who jumped out of a plane with a million dollars?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about it?”

  “We got a tip yesterday that whoever this was may have used your badge to access the security area.”

  Davis dismissed the statement with a wave. “That’s crazy. I keep my badge with me at all times.”

  “Even when you’re out on the town drinking?” Flynn chimed in.