Jones shrugged. “Maybe. Time will tell.”
Banks led the way as they ambled down a dirt path where a Bureau forensics team was already at work.
“Over here, Agent Banks,” one of the forensics team members said.
She hustled toward the team with Flynn and Jones in tow.
Oswald Copperfield worked a quarter through his fingers, muttering something unintelligible.
“Oswald?” Banks said.
He snapped out of his stupor. “Oh, yes, Agent Banks. Sorry. The only thing we’ve been able to find is what we believe are the suspect’s boot prints. These prints begin right here after what appears to be a hard landing over here. And then there are these marks in the mud that would be consistent with a parachute getting drug along the ground.” He stood up and walked a few feet. “From all indications, it looks like he gathered up his parachute about right here.” He pointed at a spot on the ground where the drag marks vanished.
“Good work, Copperfield” Banks said. “Keep me posted if you find anything else. I’m going to canvas the area.”
Flynn surveyed the scene. The selection of Nisqually as a landing spot seemed odd as well as dangerous in the dark.
“Why here?” Flynn asked aloud.
“Low visibility, easy access to public transportation.”
Then a train whistle echoed across the water.
Flynn pointed at the train. “Forget public transportation when you can take a train.”
The train crawled along, running parallel to the refuge’s shoreline for a short distance.
“That’s where I’d go,” Flynn said.
“Well, that line doesn’t leave the country,” Banks said. “It ends in Seattle.”
Flynn punched Jones playfully. “I guess that destroys your international fugitive idea.”
“Maybe,” Jones said. “There are plenty of ways to get out of the country without getting detected.”
“But not that many so quickly,” Banks said. “By air is the only way and we’ve got agents already looking over flight manifests for international flights originating out of Seattle. Besides, if he wanted to fly out of here, he’d have to leave most of his money behind.”
Flynn nodded. “He’s still in the area. I’m sure of it.”
They continued to talk about the possible exit points and the reason why the suspect chose this landing site over others. While they were discussing this, a plane soared overhead.
“Well, that plane is below ten thousand feet,” Flynn said, pointing upward. “That’s one reason why this would be a great place to land.”
Before anyone could respond, Copperfield yelled for Banks. “We’ve got something you need to see,” he said.
“What is it?” Banks asked as she ran toward him.
“We found his parachute.”
CHAPTER 9
THE SEATTLE-TACOMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT hummed with the usual level of activity, so much so that nobody noticed the hangar cordoned off and surrounded by FBI forensics vans. Coleman flashed the FBI badge he’d lifted from the field office to the officer at the gate entrance. The guard waved him through and directed him to a nearby parking lot for employees. Coleman parked and headed straight for the crime scene.
Memories flooded him as he strode across the tarmac toward the hangar—and most of them weren’t good feelings. Failing to find Cooper’s body hindered his career advancement. He should’ve been a Division Chief or Section Chief, but he could never rise above Special Agent in Charge. No matter where he went, he could hear the whispers behind his back. He’d catch people staring at him then looking away.
This must be how people with disabilities feel.
It served as a constant source of pain, but one he learned to live with. As he looked at the gray Seattle sky, he smiled. He was going to put this debacle behind him once and for all—even if he never got a single mention of credit. The Bureau would know. He would know.
Once he arrived on site, one of the agents put his hand up. “Sir, you can’t come in here.”
Coleman shoved his hand in his pocket to fish out his badge, thinking up a plausible lie quickly. Then he saw an old friend.
“Steve? Steve Watson? Is that you?” he called.
Steve Watson was a rookie agent during Coleman’s final year with the Bureau, an agent with whom Coleman had some rapport.
“Harold? What in the world are you doing out here?” he said, gesturing for the agent to let him through.
Coleman waddled toward Watson. “Well, I wanted to see if I could lend a hand to the investigation.”
“And Thurston said it was okay?”
Coleman waved dismissively. “Oh, you know Thurston. He’s not big on outside help.”
“Well, you’re certainly not outside help on this case.”
“I guess it depends on how you look at it.”
“Why don’t you come take a look and tell me what you see? You were always good at inspecting a scene a second time and finding something I missed.”
A grin crept across Coleman’s face. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
Coleman headed toward the plane with an extra pep in his step; Watson hustled to keep up.
“So, what are we looking at here?” Coleman asked.
“From what we can tell, this guy basically stowed away in the aft cargo hold of this jet and leapt out right as the plane was making its approach into Sea-Tac.”
“Obviously, he had to know about the money beforehand?”
“Absolutely. This wasn’t dumb luck, that’s for sure.”
“A precision strike from someone with the know-how, the means, and the brazenness to pull it off.”
“Exactly.” Watson paused. “But not a trace of DNA.”
“Which means you’ve got no suspect?”
“Sounds familiar, huh?”
“Well, would I enjoy watching a new team of Bureau agents being saddled with solving an unsolvable crime just like I was more than forty years ago? I’m not exactly wired that way. I want to see justice, just like I wanted with D.B. Cooper—though I’m sure Mother Nature exacted her justice on him.” He took a deep breath and climbed the ladder leading into the aft cargo hold. “But this guy? I’m betting he got away.”
Watson gestured toward the plane. “Well have a look inside and tell me what I’m missing.”
Coleman poked his head in and stared at the vast space beneath the plane. It certainly wouldn’t make for the most comfortable ride, but it was manageable, especially on such a short flight from San Francisco.
“And all he took was a million dollars?” Coleman finally asked.
“Yep,” Watson answered. “As far as we can tell.”
Coleman climbed inside and started to feel around. He felt between the crevices—and nothing. He was about to climb out when a glint of something caught his eye.
Wedged into a small crack, he saw something Watson’s team had missed—a golf ball marker. It was small and its coloring looked like that of the silvery floor. It’d be easy to miss, for sure. He reached for it and sprung it free. Watson couldn’t see what he was doing—and he decided against revealing his find to his friend.
“What did you see?” Watson asked.
“Maybe it’s my old age—or maybe you’re just damn good at scouring a crime scene, but I didn’t find anything.” He clenched his fist with the marker in his left hand as he worked the marker between two of his fingers and out of sight.
Watson let out a long breath. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
Coleman climbed out and found his way to the ground. “I appreciate you giving me the chance to poke around.” He offered his hand to Watson. “I just hope you guys catch the bastard.”
“You and me both.”
Coleman bid his friend goodbye and headed back toward the parking lot.
He glanced down at the marker in his hand and read the name stamped on it: “The Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club.”
Finally, he had a promising
lead—and he couldn’t wait to unearth a suspect and rub Thurston’s face in it.
CHAPTER 10
GORDON DUG HIS BOOTS into Champion’s sides and urged his horse forward. “Come on, girl,” he said. “We got this.” He bore down on the ball and struck it with his mallet, sending it flying through the goalposts for a score.
“Nice strike,” Edwin Goodyear said as he galloped by. “Where was that during yesterday’s scrimmage? You looked like a drunk man swatting at flies.”
Gordon rolled his eyes and guided Champion back to his team’s side of the field.
“Really? A drunk man swatting at flies?” Gordon asked as he flitted past Goodyear.
After the throw-in to restart play, Gordon beat everyone to the ball and walloped it through the goal posts again for another score.
He trotted past Goodyear. “Must’ve been an off day,” he quipped. He stopped Champion. “How many goals have you scored again?” He didn’t wait for an answer, digging his heels into the side of Champion and leading her back to the other half of the field with his teammates.
Gordon looked toward the stands and eyed Samantha Preston, a mid-20s debutante who seemed above the spoiled “selfie” culture that permeated most of the younger crowd at the polo cub. He determined she was different—she wouldn’t be caught dead with a cell phone in her hand.
“Too many germs,” she said once to him when he asked her about her aversion to modern technology. “If I wanted to get sick, I’d take my gloves off and open every door in an elementary school.” She shooed him away. “Run along now.”
Undaunted, Gordon held out an open hand, an obvious gesture that he wanted to kiss hers.
“Perhaps you’re denser than you look, though I’m not sure that’s possible.” She forced a smile and returned her gaze to the field, surveying it for a more acceptable suitor.
He eyed her closely. “What? You’re above a kiss on the hand from the best player here at Ridgeline?”
She didn’t acknowledge his comment, holding her gaze onto the field.
Gordon felt out of his league when he was around her. Though he’d amassed a small fortune, he knew it would never be enough to keep Ms. Preston satisfied. He needed a large empire to appease her, if only for a week or two. But it didn’t stop him from dreaming that she’d turn into a down-to-earth woman and decide that she didn’t need a fortune to find love—or a thick tuft of hair either.
What does it matter? I won’t be around much longer anyway.
Goodyear rode up next to him. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “She’s all mine. Besides, she’s not too fond of men who are long in the tooth.”
Gordon glared at Goodyear as he rode away. He felt like mistaking Goodyear’s head for the ball. A quick mallet strike and—
He snapped back to reality and returned to his side of the field.
“Wish you would’ve played like that in the sixth chukker yesterday instead of a ham-fisted rookie,” Goodyear yelled at Gordon.
Gordon’s eyes narrowed. He led Champion close to the ball and drew back to hit the ball, striking it with precision. A few seconds later, he drove the ball through the goal posts for another score.
Gordon pulled up next to Goodyear. “Don’t discount me because of my age, young chap. Rich older men always get the young beautiful women.”
Goodyear laughed. “Not older gentlemen that look like they just walked off the set of Men in Black.” He paused. “Besides, those sun glasses aren’t doing you any favors, unless you prefer to have your giant forehead accentuated.”
Without hesitating, Gordon leapt off his horse and tackled Goodyear. The two men tumbled to the ground. Gordon dished out a few hard licks before several other players broke them apart.
Goodyear scraped away a trickle of blood from around the corner of his mouth. He eyed Gordon. “Where’d you learn to hit like that? Some boarding school for girls?”
Gordon stood up and brushed off the dirt on his pants. “The shiner over your eye suggests I hit plenty hard. Hope you don’t have any speaking engagements this week, pretty boy.”
Gordon then spun and walked off the field, leading Champion by the reins. A few yards away, Goodyear shrieked as he realized his face looked like it had been battered. Champion looked behind her at the scene.
“Don’t pay him any attention, girl,” Gordon said as he leaned forward and spoke into Champion’s ear. “He’s just another drama queen.”
As he neared the stands, he noticed Samantha smiling coyly at him. He touched the front of his helmet visor, a tip of a cap to her.
She stood up as he drew closer. “Next time, give him two black eyes,” she said. “And do it for every lady here at the club.”
Gordon nodded and kept walking, trying hard not to let the smile that had swept across his face morph into a goofy grin. He looked down in an effort to keep his countenance from betraying him.
And while it was a nice distraction from all the inner stress he was attempting to manage, Gordon still had business to attend to—business that he hadn’t realized required his attention until his trip to the club.
He handed Champion off to one of the stable hands and slipped a $10 bill into his hand. The kid sneered as he reluctantly pocketed the money.
“Yesterday a $100; today a $10?” the college-aged kid said. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Mind your manners, boy,” Gordon said. He balled up his fist and shook it at him. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll give you a plain old five.”
The stable hand jerked Champions’ reins and led her into the stable, glaring over his shoulder at Gordon.
Gordon took off his gloves and hustled toward the clubhouse where he changed and headed back to his car. He fished a burner cell phone out of his gym bag and dialed a number.
“We need to talk about yesterday.”
CHAPTER 11
WITHOUT PUBLISHING ANY ARTICLE to draw Banks’ ire, Flynn’s Thursday morning got off to a much smoother start—and a promising one at that, moments after entering the FBI’s Seattle field office. He decided to not only bring Banks a latte but also a turkey and cheese croissant from a 24-hour diner near the office. While Flynn wasn’t initially sure if she’d appreciate his gesture, her wide eyes told him all he needed to know.
“You sure do know how to get out of the dog house,” she said as she took his peace offering. She then cocked her head to one side. “But I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Oh?” he said.
“Yeah, the only men I’ve ever met who are so adept at making up for their missteps are the ones who seem to make so many.”
Flynn’s eyebrows shot upward. “No one ever accused me of being smooth.” He paused. “Now handsome, on the other hand—”
She rolled her eyes and slapped him on his left bicep, grabbing hold of it. “Save your charm for the starry-eyed twenty-somethings who’ve been drinking for a few hours. It’s not going to work on me, especially before I’ve had some caffeine and my breakfast.”
Flynn took a deep breath. “Can’t a man do something nice for a woman without it being considered hitting on someone?”
“So you were hitting on me?”
“I didn’t say that. I try to be charming with everyone I meet.”
Before Banks could respond, a woman analyst walked near them in the hall and abruptly stopped. “Aren’t you James Flynn?” she asked.
Flynn smiled and nodded. He offered his hand. “And you are?”
“Priscilla Westover—one of your biggest fans.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Priscilla.”
“I loved your book on the Fort Knox conspiracy.”
Flynn reached inside his bag and pulled out a pad and pen. He handed it to her. “Write down your address and I’ll send you a signed copy.”
He glanced up at Banks in time to see her roll her eyes.
Banks exhaled a long breath. “Hustle it up, Priscilla. We’ve got work to do—and I suppose you do too.”
/> Flynn took back his pad after she finished and stuffed it into his backpack, but not before noticing Priscilla had also included her phone number and a smiley face.
“Don’t think you’re special,” Banks said. “Priscilla gives out her number to every male with a pulse.”
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Agent Banks?”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s go see if forensics has anything for us. Jones said he’d meet us there.”
Flynn followed Banks down the hall and up a stairwell to the Forensics Department.
“So this is where the magic happens,” Flynn said as he entered the double doors.
“I’d hardly call it magic,” Jones said, catching Flynn off guard. “Just because our forensics team leader has the last name of Copperfield doesn’t mean he’s actually a magician.”
Copperfield stepped into the hallway. “Nor does it mean I can make fingerprints appear out of thin air, but I do have some news for you,” he said, garnering the attention of all the agents. “But let’s hurry. Procrastination is the thief of time.”
He spun and headed toward another set of double doors with all the agents trailing behind him. Once inside his lab, he stood behind a table with the parachute laid out on it.
“Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to even glean any touch of DNA off this chute,” Copperfield said.
“Unbelievable,” Jones muttered.
“Truly,” Copperfield said, holding up his index finger. “Which means that our thief used gloves whenever he handled this material.”
Banks’ head dropped. She rubbed her forehead and sighed. “Do you have any good news for us?”
Copperfield smiled. “I’m glad you asked because I did locate a small identifying mark sewn into the parachute itself, a thin strip of cloth with the name of a supply shop on it—Go Ahead, Jump.”
“That’s the name of the store?” Flynn asked.
Copperfield nodded. “And located on Halen Street.” He smiled. “Someone there has a good sense of humor.” He handed Banks a sheet of paper and several photos. “Here’s the address and some pictures to show the store employees.”
“You’re a genius, Copperfield,” Banks said as she headed toward the exit holding the piece of paper in the air.
The Cooper Affair (A James Flynn Thriller Book 3) Page 4