The Cooper Affair (A James Flynn Thriller Book 3)

by Jack Patterson

  “Fair enough,” Flynn said as he reached across and put his hand on Banks’ knee. “Don’t get so defensive. Besides, we’ve got an investigation to do.”

  Banks pulled her door handle and put her shoulder into the window, flinging the door open.

  The valet hustled toward her and held out his hand for the key. She handed it to him and didn’t look back as she strode toward the clubhouse door.

  Flynn punched Jones in the arm and said in a low voice, “Go easy on her. People can’t help where they’re from.”

  Jones rolled his eyes and scampered up the steps after Banks.

  Flynn stopped at the top step and paused before entering the building. He looked once more at the squad car that was now leaving the premises. Whoever was inside would remain a mystery to him. He spun on his heels and opened the door.

  He hustled to catch up with Banks, who’d already located someone to help her. She appeared animated as she put one hand on her hips and the other she used to gesture wildly.

  Note to self: Don’t make clichéd jokes about Mississippi to Banks.

  As he neared Banks and Jones, Flynn caught enough of the tail end of the conversation to learn that a manager was being contacted to help them.

  Flynn decided to make small talk while they waited. “So, what happened to your accent?”

  Banks laughed and shook her head. “It vanished a long time ago, mostly by my own doing.”

  “Why’s that?” Flynn asked.

  “Do you ever take a woman serious who speaks with a slow Southern drawl?”

  Jones launched into a story. “I met a girl from Jackson once and—”

  “Enough with you and your Mississippi stories, Jones,” Banks snapped. “I’m not taking them serious at all, not to mention I have a hard time believing any girl from Jackson would give you the time of day.”

  “Someone did not get enough sleep last night,” Jones shot back.

  “I’m gonna give you a big piece of my mind accompanied by my fist if you keep this up,” she said.

  Jones put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll leave you and lover boy in peace. Besides, I don’t even know what he’s doing here or why anyone ever approved him.”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “Just keep talkin’ if you want to find out what I’m capable of.”

  Banks scowled but flashed a quick wink at Flynn. “Let’s focus on the case, fellas.”

  A few awkward moments of silence followed until a club manager approached.

  “Henry Elberton,” he said, offering his hand. He exchanged names with each one as they shook his hand. “Welcome to the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club, though I doubt you ever expected to be here under such circumstances.”

  “I never expected to be here at all,” Jones said.

  Elberton forced a smile. “Very well, then. How can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for a suspect—a male in his mid-40s, dark hair, a bit of a receding hairline on top, about five-ten or five-eleven, maybe six feet tall. Know of anyone like this?”

  Elberton laughed and clasped his hands together. “I’m afraid you’re going to need to be more specific than that if you want my help. That description matches about thirty percent of the men here.” He paused. “May I ask what this is concerning?”

  “It’s concerning a crime,” Banks said.

  “What kind of crime? The clientele here isn’t exactly a group of hardened criminals.”

  “More specifically, a robbery,” Banks answered.

  “A robbery? Now I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong location. If any crimes are committed here, it’s of the white collar variety.”

  “Are you sure?” Jones said. “This is the kind of robbery where you strap a million dollars to you and jump out of an airplane.”

  Elberton shook his head emphatically. “Definitely not here.”

  “Definitely? You sound so sure,” Jones said.

  “Agent Jones, this is not the kind of establishment for men who commit such shenanigans—or women, for that matter. Most members here make more in one week than you make in a year. They have no desire to risk their wealth on such frivolity, much less their lives. I can assure you that whatever pointed you in this direction is mistaken.”

  Elberton stopped and took a deep breath. He stared at all of them cautiously, eyeing each one with suspicion.

  “Can I see your badges?” he asked.

  Banks nodded and flipped open the small wallet containing her FBI identification. Jones did the same.

  “And you sir?” Elberton asked as he looked at Flynn.

  “I’m consulting on this case,” Flynn said.

  Banks nodded. “Yes, I’ll vouch for him. He’s a consultant.”

  “I wish I could be of more help to you, but I’m afraid I simply can’t.” Elberton said. “You’re just not going to find that type of person around here.”

  “What about the guy getting shoved into a police car when we drove up?” Flynn said. “He’s exactly the kind of person.”

  “That guy? You must not have taken a good look at his face,” Elberton answered.

  “His face was shielded a bit.”

  “If you’d seen his face, you would’ve known he was an elderly gentleman, who’d clearly began his morning without taking his meds. He even claimed to be FBI as well.” Elberton bowed his head and clapped his hands together. “Now, if you don’t have anything further, I need to be going. We have a big dinner tonight to prepare for.”

  Banks handed him her card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Will do.” Elberton spun and walked swiftly down the hall.

  “Well, that got us nowhere,” Jones said.

  “We need to come back,” Flynn said. “Maybe when there’s someone else on staff a little more willing to help us—and perhaps a little more open minded as to the criminal potential of the clients here.”

  “Agreed,” Banks said. “But let’s get outta here for now.”

  Outside, the valet jogged up to Banks and handed a set of keys to her. “I’ve never driven a federal agents’ car before.”

  She laughed. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, is it? No spy gadgets or anything like that.”

  He smiled. “It was a nice break from the European sports cars.”

  She handed him a couple of dollars and refused to dig out any more money despite the disappointed look on his face.

  They all climbed into Banks’ car, Flynn riding shotgun with Jones in the back.

  “Well, that was fun,” Banks said.

  Before anyone could say another word, the sound of glass shattering ripped through the car, along with a bullet that struck the dashboard. Instinctively, they all ducked down as Banks tried to keep her heard just high enough to see the road.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t come back,” Jones shouted.

  “This is exactly why we have to,” Flynn said.

  Crack!

  Another bullet whistled through the car and struck the back of Flynn’s seat.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Flynn yelled.

  Banks jammed her foot on the gas as the car roared toward the exit. The tires squealed as she yanked the steering wheel and pulled back onto the state highway that kept them hidden from most of civilization.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE THICK PINES in the Pacific Northwest served as adequate blinds, something Gordon learned from his father while elk hunting in Idaho as a teenager. He had staked out a position in a tree—similar to the one he was currently in—when he shot his first bull. As he watched the FBI agents swerve onto the state highway and out of sight, a smile crept across his face. He could almost hear his father’s voice.

  When you take to higher ground, son, you can see everything as it is in its place—and you can better anticipate the animal’s next move.

  Gordon knew that wisdom applied to more than animals.

  You can anticipate people’s moves, too, if you have the right perspective.

  For
Gordon, this went beyond simply seeing where someone was physically. This applied to a person’s mental state as well—what are they thinking? Gordon didn’t have to ask. He knew.

  In a way, it wasn’t fair, toying with federal investigators in such a manner. He knew what their next move would be—and he’d already set up a way to ensure they would find nothing against him. But then again, why did everything have to be fair. Even if he wasn’t operating with a healthy understanding of the human—and law enforcement—psyche, he’d still be several steps ahead of them. FBI investigations were rote as much as they were predictable. He wanted to spice things up and make things far more entertaining, if only for his own benefit. It wasn’t exactly how D.B. Cooper went about things, but Gordon didn’t care. He wanted to leave his own mark on this case. Despite what the media inferred, he wasn’t trying to copy Cooper—just experience what it was like to be him. The rush of stealing the money. The thrill of jumping into an unknown area. The satisfaction of watching the years drip past without getting caught as FBI official after FBI official vowed to unmask the criminal hidden in plain sight.

  D.B. Cooper was equally exciting and droll. Exciting because no one had ever baffled the FBI like he did. Droll because he vanished and was never heard from again. America wanted to celebrate this folk hero. People sang songs about him, wrote books about him. Documentaries focused on him. But Cooper was nothing more than an alias, a name ripped from a comic book and used to taunt law enforcement officials from afar.

  The game is afoot.

  He climbed down from the tree and collected all his shell casings. He slipped through the pines to his car and pulled onto the road. If only for a moment, his pride in pulling one over on the feds was abated by the twinge of pain in his stomach.

  Mission accomplished.

  He’d done exactly what he wanted to do—draw interest in his direction but avoid getting caught.

  His phone buzzed with a call from his oncologist. Without answering it, he tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and kept driving. He wasn’t going to let more bad news get him down. This was his moment, the first of many he hoped to see played out in the days ahead.

  But Gordon didn’t dwell on his present victory too long. He had an ending to plan.

  CHAPTER 15

  JAMES FLYNN WINCED as he saw the number pop up on the screen of his phone. Theresa Thompson. He knew exactly what she was going to say to him—and he didn’t want to hear it. Not tonight anyway. He had a quasi date with Jennifer Banks.

  If truth be told, it was simply two colleagues getting together over dinner, but he didn’t exactly see it that way. He saw it as an opportunity to find out more about this woman, who was as mysterious as she was beautiful. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask her, partly because he wanted to learn more about her but also because it would distract her from getting to know the real James Flynn. He wasn’t even sure who he was any more since he’d left the CIA—and he certainly didn’t like the smarmy journalist label. Though it sounded cliché to him, Flynn felt like he was suddenly trying to find himself. Not that he was lost in the world, but he was certainly living a life that appeared to be devoid of purpose. Stopping bad guys seemed like a noble purpose. Writing articles that served as little more than click bait for conspiracy theorist junkies? Where was the purpose in that? He tried not to think about it as he went to sleep each night.

  The phone stopped ringing for a moment. Flynn sighed and smiled.

  Disaster averted.

  Before he could move another muscle, the phone rang again—and again, it was Thompson.

  Can’t a man get a moment of peace?

  “Hi, Theresa,” he said as he answered his phone. “How was your day?”

  “I didn’t call to chit-chat, Flynn,” she snapped. “I want to know when you’re going to file something.”

  “Well, when people stop shooting at me, maybe I can get something together for you.”

  “Geez, Flynn. You’re embedded with the FBI’s lead investigative team but you can’t seem to get us an update on the hottest story in the country right now?”

  Flynn sighed. “Look, I don’t want to jeopardize my standing. If I do, I’m out—not just a little bit, but all the way. I haven’t been doing this my whole life, but I know not to torch bridges just for a single story.”

  “Fine. But I need something. I don’t care what it is—a short update, a story that nothing happened today, anything. This is an ongoing investigation and we need more regular updates.”

  “That’s not my regular schtick, but I’ll do my best. You know I’m an investigative reporter, not a news reporter?”

  “I know—and I’m wishing I had someone else there about right now.”

  “I’ll file something shortly, but don’t expect an earth-shaking story, okay?”

  “Just get it to me ASAP.”

  Flynn hung up and threw the phone on his bed. He still needed to take a shower—after he returned several phone calls, which undoubtedly were requests for him to be on radio and television programs discussing the investigation.

  Not tonight. I’ve got a date.

  Technically, it was just dinner with Banks, but he couldn’t help himself. It felt like something more. There was chemistry between them—at least, that’s how he perceived it. And even if he was only imagining it, there was a unique bond they shared by facing life-threatening situations together, something that had become a regular habit.

  Flynn opened his laptop and ripped off a short 300-word update. Nothing new other than to say that the FBI was actively vetting hundreds of tips that had come in on the hotline set up for the case. It was an article that was “mailed in” in more ways than one. It was guaranteed to draw ire from Thompson but keep him in Banks’ good graces for the time being—a necessary compromise.

  ***

  DINNER AT THE PINK DOOR proved to be a strange experience for Flynn. While he’d read that The Pink Door was one of the most unique restaurants in Seattle, he didn’t take the time to investigate what that really meant. Never at any time did he think that meant watching a Ukranian trapeze artist flip around on a swing directly above their table. He simply saw the more than five hundred five-star reviews on Yelp! and decided it must be Seattle’s finest.

  “Have you been here before?” Flynn asked.

  “Once,” Banks answered.

  He didn’t want to dwell on his poor restaurant choice or the obvious implications of her answer. He preferred to stare at the beautiful woman sitting across the table from him and get to know her more. The fact that their lives weren’t on the line was simply a bonus.

  “So, why did you join the FBI?” Flynn asked.

  She took a deep breath and looked down. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time—and no one has me in the sights of their sniper rifle.”

  She forced a smile and cocked her head to one side. “Are you sure about that?”

  He laughed. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, when I was eighteen and a freshman in college, my brother, Will, was murdered. Shot dead in an alley by what the police described as a drug deal gone bad. But I knew my brother. He didn’t do drugs—ever. He was a choirboy, literally. He sang in Mass every Sunday at St. Paul’s Cathedral. And we were close, always hanging out together. I dated several of his friends just so I could spend more time with him. But they were nerds, guys who were into quantum physics and role play video games. I hated it, but I loved Will and would do anything for him.”

  “So you wanted to find out what happened to him?”

  “Since the local cops wouldn’t tell me anything beyond that, I thought it was the only way. I couldn’t fathom that he was involved in anything as nefarious as illegal drug use. But when I went through his personal belongings afterward, I found a notebook with all these strange markings and numbers. It seemed like a system of sorts, with dates, but I couldn’t make any sense out of it.”

  “Did you crack it?”

  “No
t yet, though I’ve spoken with several leading cryptologists at the Bureau to see if they could point me in the right direction. Nothing yet, but I’m not going to stop until I find out what happened to him.”

  “All that just to find out who killed your brother?”

  She nodded. “And I wouldn’t trade a minute of my life since then.”

  “You’re a damn good investigator,” Flynn said. “Just know that. We’re going to catch this phony copycat—and I bet you’ll find out what happened to your brother too. It’s just a matter of time.”

  She smiled again. “Thanks. I appreciate that. My parents think I’m crazy—and I try not to hold it against them that they’re not as desperate to know what happened to Will. Some people seem to accept tragedy easier than others.”

  “Or they deal with it by sticking their head in the sand.”

  “Sometimes, I wish I would do that.”

  Flynn shook his head. “Don’t ever feel that way. That drive to get to the truth is part of what makes you a good agent. Without people like you, the world would be teeming with crooks and criminals.”

  A waiter walked up to their table holding a bottle of wine. Without asking a question, he started to pour Banks a glass.

  She held her hand up. “I don’t think we ordered any wine.”

  The waiter withdrew the bottle and then poured wine in Flynn’s glass. “Right you are, Miss. However, there’s a man behind me who sent over this bottle for you.”

  Banks leaned around the waiter in an effort to see him.

  In a dark corner of the restaurant, a man wearing a fedora and glasses touched the brim of his hat and nodded in her direction.

  “Who is he?” Banks asked.

  The waiter shrugged. “I have no idea. I just do what I’m told, especially when I’m tipped like he tipped me.” A faint smile spread across his face.

  “Well, tell him thank you for us,” Banks said as she raised her glass in a toast.

  Flynn followed suit. “To D.B. Cooper,” he said with a laugh. “May you stop inspiring criminals to follow in your footsteps.”

  “Here, here,” she said, clinking her glass with his.