The Cooper Affair (A James Flynn Thriller Book 3)

by Jack Patterson

  “Thanks, but I’m just a man on a mission,” Copperfield said.

  “Aren’t we all?” Jones said.

  Flynn shook his head and looked back at Copperfield. “It’s a shame to waste your Van Halen reference on such a simpleton.”

  “Where have all the good times gone?” Copperfield said.

  Flynn laughed and backed out of the room, pointing at Copperfield. “You’re good. I’m sure we’ll see you soon.”

  ***

  WHEN FLYNN ENTERED Go Ahead, Jump, he was mesmerized by the stunning photography on the wall. Pictures of jumpers soaring over scenic vistas filled every space on the wall not covered by a product display shelf.

  Banks nudged Flynn. “Makes you wanna jump out of an airplane, doesn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve done that plenty of times before, but rarely on my own volition.”

  She shot him a look. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Flynn said nothing.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Flynn nodded. “So, do you like to hurl yourself toward the ground at ridiculous speeds for fun?”

  “Did it once. Wasn’t a fan.”

  “That fun, huh?”

  She smiled. “So, what do you think shopping here says about our thief?”

  Flynn shrugged. “Not sure yet, but it’s not a place an amateur would go, that’s for sure. Anyone wanting to remain anonymous wouldn’t come in here and start asking for equipment like a newbie to the hobby. That’d make the person memorable.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Why don’t you join me and Jones while we question the owner?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Jones introduced himself to the store owner, Dell Young. The two men shook hands as Jones introduced Flynn and Banks.

  “So, Mr. Young, are you here all the time?”

  “Only when I’m not jumping out of airplanes,” he said in a raspy voice. He reached for a bottle of water and took a swig. “What’s this about, anyway?”

  Banks laid a few pictures out on the counter. “Do you recognize this parachute?”

  Young leaned over and squinted at the pictures before nodding. “It’s a common chute, more for intermediate jumpers. We sell quite a few of those.”

  “And do you sew your company’s tag into all of your chutes?” Jones asked.

  Young nodded. “Every last one of them. We want them to see it every time they pack their chute. It’s a marketing thing. You know how marketing experts say a person has to see something seven times before they take action? That’s our way of putting our name out in front of people at least seven times to make sure they come back here and shop again.”

  “But you’re the only parachute shop in Tacoma,” Jones said.

  Young took another drink of water. “Seattle’s got several of them, too. When you’re not the only game in town, you have to be proactive or you’ll become irrelevant.”

  “So would it be safe to say you’re here quite a bit?” Banks asked.

  “Ask my ex-wife that question,” he quipped. “She might’ve believed me when I told her I wasn’t cheating on her if I hadn’t been at this store practically every moment it was open.” He paused. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  Banks sighed. “Did you see the news about the guy who tried to copycat D.B. Cooper?”

  “Of course.” He gasped. “Did he use one of our parachutes?”

  Jones pointed at him. “You’re quick.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Young said. “I can’t imagine who this could be. We sell so many of this model—both new and used.”

  “Perhaps I can help narrow it down for you,” Banks said, sliding the pictures to him again. “We couldn’t find a single hair or identifying mark of any kind that would point us to who might have used this chute.”

  “And you’re hoping I can help you?” Young asked in a mocking tone.

  “Think, Mr. Young,” Flynn said. “Not a single fingerprint. Do you remember anyone who came in here wearing gloves?”

  Young furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. “Well, there was this one guy who came in a few months ago who was memorable, if only for the fact that he was dressed like a horse jockey. Problem was he looked to be nearly six feet tall. I thought all those guys who raced horses were short and tiny.”

  “Would you happen to remember when?” Banks asked.

  “Hmm. Maybe three or four months ago.”

  Jones looked up and pointed at the security camera. “Do you still have the footage?”

  Young shook his head. “We recycle those tapes every thirty days. You won’t find him on there, I guarantee you that.”

  “Think, Mr. Young,” Banks said. “This is extremely important. Do you remember any other details about him? Did he perhaps pay with a credit card?”

  Young shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he paid with cash, which is also an oddity around here, especially considering all the high-dollar items we sell.” He paused. “But I think I know where he worked.”

  “And where’s that?”

  Young closed his eyes and banged his fist on the counter. “Oh, where was it?” He threw his head back. “He was a banker somewhere.” He snapped his fingers. “It was—it was—oh, yes—Bank of Olympia.” He held up his index finger. “He mentioned he was in finance and I remember seeing a credit card with Bank of Olympia on it when he put the change back in his wallet.”

  “So you’re not sure that’s where he worked?” Jones asked.

  “Well, the large number of crisp $100 bills seemed a bit unusual to me. It’s not like ATMs spit out crisp bills every time—or maybe he was stealing money back then.”

  Banks shook her head. “Doubtful.” She offered her hand to Mr. Young. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  The trio exited the shop and got into Banks’ car.

  Banks sighed before turning the ignition. “Well, that was a positive development. Now we only have to sift through the hundred or so Bank of Olympia personnel files to figure out who the mystery man was that purchased the parachute—and it still may not be him.”

  Flynn snickered. “That’ll take far too long.”

  “And you have another idea?” Jones asked.

  Flynn nodded. “Where can you play polo around here?”

  CHAPTER 12

  HAROLD COLEMAN PULLED off the highway and onto the long cobblestone driveway that led to the Victorian-style clubhouse situated atop a small hill overlooking a large swath of private property. To the left, a slew of properly attired golfers hacked at balls on the driving range. To the right, several fields of manicured grass sprawled up to a line of stables. Along the road, ornate lampposts situated about every twenty yards apart added to the otherworldly charm of the surroundings.

  This wasn’t the first time Coleman had been on the premises of the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club, but he hoped it was the last.

  He stopped his modest silver Toyota Camry just in front of the valet podium outside the clubhouse.

  “Joining us for lunch?” asked a young man wearing a polo shirt with the club’s insignia.

  “Depends on how things go,” Coleman answered as he stood up.

  The young man tore a receipt off the claim ticket and handed it to Coleman. “Enjoy your time here, sir.”

  Coleman climbed the steps of the clubhouse and put his hands on his hips. He glanced around at the beautiful scenery, Mount Rainier ascending to glorious heights in the distance. It wasn’t as green as he’d remembered, but it was still picturesque.

  Damn rich people.

  He reversed course and struck out toward the polo fields, heading straight for the stables. It took him a few minutes to reach the structure tucked neatly against the tree line. Once there, he stopped for a few moments to catch his breath.

  I’ve gotta stop smoking.

  While obviously out of place, his presence near the stables didn’t seem to alarm anyone. Several stable hands nodded politely at
him as they led horses down the stable or carted buckets of water around the building. But Coleman knew they couldn’t show they were leery of him, even if they were. The hired hands were trained to respect everyone and be polite in every circumstance—that’s how you got fat tips and stomached working around such pompous blowhards. At least, that’s how Coleman perceived things.

  After he caught his breath, he grabbed one of the stable hands as he walked by.

  “I was wondering if you could help me,” Coleman said. “I’m trying to find one of your polo players.”

  “There are plenty of them milling around on the field still,” the young man said.

  “I mean a specific one.”

  “Gotta name? I know almost all of them.”

  “Actually, a name is what I’m looking for.”

  The stable hand cocked his head to one side and stared at Coleman. “Are you supposed to be back here?”

  “Look, I know you’re busy. Just carry on.”

  The young man shook his head and walked off. He glanced back over his shoulder at Coleman.

  Coleman walked around the corner and found another young man pushing a wheelbarrow full of hay toward the entrance of the stable.

  “Excuse me, young man. May I have a moment of your time?” Coleman asked.

  The man stopped and dropped the wheelbarrow handles. “What can I help you with, sir?”

  “I’m trying to locate one of your polo players.”

  “If you’ve got a name, I could point him out to you.”

  Coleman took a deep breath. “You see, that’s just it. I don’t know his name and I’m trying to find him.”

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “That’s the other thing.”

  The stable hand picked up the wheelbarrow handles. “Sir, you’re going to be difficult to help and I’ve got work to do. Wish I could help.” He scurried off around the corner, disappearing into the stable.

  Coleman closed his eyes, made a fist and repeatedly tapped his forehead with it.

  Think, Coleman. Think.

  Another young man came by with a horse in tow. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Coleman opened his eyes and looked up. “I hope so. I’m looking for someone who plays polo here at the club.”

  “Does this person have a name? I know everyone here.”

  “Not a name that I know—but a personality, a reckless personality.”

  The stable hand furrowed his brow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, mister. Most people here like to live on the edge.”

  “I’m not talking about reckless as in driving fast Italian sports car—I’m talking about wild and crazy, unpredictable even. The kind of person who seems erratic and you never know what they’re going to do from one day to the next. Maybe even the kind who jumps out of airplanes one day and plays polo the next.”

  The stable hand laughed and nodded. “I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  “And who exactly is that?”

  The stable hand didn’t open his mouth or even move. His eyebrows shot upward, giving a knowing look to Coleman, who took a few seconds to figure out what was happening. Coleman dug into his pocket and jammed a $20 bill into the man’s hand.

  “As I was saying, the man you’re looking for is Carlton Gordon. He’s a bit of an enigma around here. He works at a bank, but nobody knows where his real money comes from. Sometimes, he can be quite the—”

  “What’s going on here?” an older gentleman snapped as he walked up on Coleman and the young man talking. “Mr. Hunter, this is your place of employment, not a social club. I suggest you put up Mr. Gordon’s horse and be about your business.”

  The stable hand’s head dropped as he shuffled off with the horse.

  The older man turned toward Coleman. “As for you, sir. I’m not sure who you think you are snooping around our stables or what you’re doing here, but these places are off limits to everyone but employees. And last I checked, you weren’t working for me here at Ridgeline.”

  Coleman nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Didn’t mean to what? Interrupt my employees doing their jobs?” He took a deep breath. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I was looking for someone and I—”

  The man stamped his foot. “Do you even belong to the club?”

  “No, I—”

  “And you just thought you could waltz on over here and start interrogating my employees.”

  Coleman dug into his pocket and fished out his badge. “I’m working an undercover sting operation for the FBI, if you must know.”

  The older man put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Who’s your supervisor?”

  “Director Thurston.”

  “Excellent. So, if I call Director Thurston, he’ll vouch for you?”

  “Well, I—”

  The old man pulled a cellphone out of his pocket. “What’s the director’s number?”

  “He’s not in right now.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “He’s attending a conference in D.C. this week.”

  The old man looked back at his phone and started dialing a number.

  “What are you doing?” Coleman demanded.

  “I’m calling the authorities. I’ll let you sort it out with them—but I’m most certainly not going to let you wait around our stables while they do.”

  Coleman shook his head. “Sir, that’s not necessary.”

  “It’s not necessary if I want to remain stupid. But I prefer the truth—and you haven’t been honest with me from the moment we started talking.”

  Coleman decided he didn’t want to wait another minute while his freedom—and credibility—hung in the balance. He started to head off across the polo fields back toward the valet stand.

  “Don’t you walk away from me,” the old man snarled. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  But Coleman was done with him—and everyone else at the club. However, he didn’t get far before the old man hustled up behind him, ordering him to stop.

  “Are you listening to me? I said ‘stop’!”

  Coleman stopped and spun around. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir.” He had what he wanted—no need to be belligerent and draw more attention.

  Just keep walking.

  This time, Coleman increased his pace as much as he could with his cane.

  “Don’t walk away from me, mister.”

  Coleman ignored him, pressing toward his car.

  “Stop, right now!”

  In a matter of seconds, two polo players positioned their horses in front of Coleman and boxed him in. Coleman scuttled to the side in an attempt to get around them, but he couldn’t find an opening as the players directed their horses to stay in front of him.

  For about a minute, this dance continued until Coleman finally threw his hands in the air.

  “Geez. What do you want from me? I’m leaving,” Coleman said.

  “You bet you are,” the old man said. “And you’re leaving in the back of a squad car.” He pointed toward the club’s driveway where a pair of patrol cars roared onto the property.

  The two cars stopped along the edge and sprinted across the field, where the old man was waving his arms up and down.

  Oh, geez. A pair of hotshot uniforms.

  “On the ground, now,” one of the officers yelled as he approached Coleman.

  Coleman complied with their order, but it didn’t stop the men from handling him roughly and slapping a pair of handcuffs on him.

  They dragged Coleman to his feet and pushed him forward toward their patrol car.

  “You realize you’re dealing with an FBI agent, right?” Coleman said.

  “Show me that badge and I’ll cut you loose,” one of the officer’s said.

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  The officer rolled his eyes. “Well, good luck explaining that to the chief—or anyone else. The cl
ub doesn’t take too kindly to people trespassing. This is a private club, you know.”

  Coleman lumbered forward, mostly at the behest of the other officer standing behind him to make sure he kept pace with the fleet-footed man leading the way.

  “You should be scared, old man,” the officer in front said. “Our chief works closely with prosecutors on all cases related to the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club—especially since he’s a member out there.”

  “It was all a big misunderstanding,” Coleman said.

  “Like hell it was. You better be very afraid of what’s coming your way,” the other officer snapped.

  Coleman wasn’t afraid of what they’d do to him.

  If truth be told, he was more afraid his wife would forbid him from working on this case—and solving it was all that mattered to him.

  CHAPTER 13

  FLYNN STARED OUT HIS WINDOW, eyes widening as he surveyed the scene unfolding near the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club clubhouse. The towering beauty of the Northwest Pines went unnoticed due to the flashing lights. Flynn strained to see the perp but couldn’t make out his face.

  “Somebody must’ve forgotten to pay up after losing a bet on the golf course,” Jones quipped from the backseat.

  “I would’ve thought they’d handle such situations far more discreetly here,” Banks said. “My family belonged to a country club once and situations were taken care of in a much more diplomatic manner.”

  Flynn broke his gaze and snapped his head toward Banks. “You? Country club? You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth?”

  “It was Valleydale, Mississippi. If you could rub two nickels together, you could join,” she said.

  “Unless you were black,” Jones said.

  “Valleydale may have been at the center of several historic civil rights moments in the 60s, but that’s not how I remember it,” she said.

  “Of course not,” Jones said. “It’s hard to tell what’s really going on when you’re sitting in a rocking chair on one of those giant plantation home porches.”

  She glared at Jones. “It wasn’t like that—and I certainly didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth—or a bronze-plated one either.”