“I hate to break up this little fan boy moment, Mr. Gordon, but we didn’t make this visit simply to arrange a meeting with your favorite author,” Banks said.
“No, of course you didn’t,” Gordon said. “I think I know what this is about.” Gordon gestured for them to sit down, and they complied. “I feel horrible about how I treated you yesterday and there’s simply no excuse for it. I’ve decided to donate a large sum of money to the Seattle Area Homeless Shelter.”
“Hopefully not $1.2 million,” Jones said.
“I beg your pardon,” Gordon said.
Banks scowled at Jones. “Actually, this isn’t about yesterday either—well, at least not about Mr. Flynn and myself waking up on the steps of your bank like a pair of vagrants.”
Gordon turned toward Flynn. “Was that you yesterday?”
Flynn smiled and nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, I’m doubly embarrassed now. I didn’t even recognize you then.”
Flynn took a deep breath. “It’s okay. We looked like hell and had been through it, too.”
“My goodness. What happened?”
Banks leaned forward from her seat on the couch directly across from Gordon. “We’re not here to talk about that either.”
“So what does bring you here today?” Gordon asked.
“This is routine for us, but we feel the need to rule out all suspects, even ones who have been accused by a former FBI agent.”
Gordon closed his eyes and shook his head as if he were shivering. “Harold Coleman.” He opened his eyes. “That man belongs in a psyche ward somewhere. He won’t leave me alone.”
Banks forced a smile. “Hopefully, your answer to this question will change all that.”
“Fire away.”
“Where were you on Saturday?”
“This Saturday?”
She nodded.
“Well, let’s see. I left work early in the afternoon. Ate a late lunch at the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club, played polo, came home and then went out to dinner.”
“Did you dine alone or meet someone?”
“I ate by myself, but I can show you the receipt if you like.”
“That’d be great.”
After a few minutes of opening and shutting drawers in the kitchen, Gordon returned empty handed. “I seem to have misplaced it.”
“Don’t worry about it right now. How long did you play polo?”
“We quit right around five o’clock.”
Banks stood up and offered her hand to Gordon. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gordon.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“We’ll have to corroborate your story with people at the club,” Jones said. “But based on your story, it would rule you out as a suspect.”
Gordon laughed. “Just the idea that I would jump out of an airplane with thousands of dollars strapped to me is ridiculous. As you can see from my place, I do pretty well financially. What the Cooper Copycat took was pocket change for me.”
“Again, just doing our due diligence, Mr. Gordon,” Banks said.
“Once I’m ruled out, will you let Mr. Coleman know? Quite frankly I’m tired of being harassed by him and it’s beginning to test my patience.”
“I’ll call him for you myself,” Jones said.
“Fantastic. Thank you for stopping by—especially you, Mr. Flynn.”
“I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances,” Flynn said. “Perhaps next time it won’t be this way.”
Gordon shook his hand. “Hopefully, it’ll be very different.”
Once they exited, no one said a word until they reached their car.
“What do you think?” Jones asked.
“I think we’re all heading over to Ridgeline to check out his alibi before I draw any conclusions.” She paused. “But something in my gut tells me he’s lying.”
Jones shook his head and laughed. “In your gut? You’re starting to sound like Coleman.”
Banks twisted the key in the ignition and her car roared to life. “Maybe Coleman’s not as crazy as we think he is.”
***
THE SUN SAT JUST ABOVE the pines surrounding Ridgeline’s grounds. Flynn swore if it ever snowed there, it’d be a dead ringer for a scene from the Swiss Alps. Banks’ car bumped over the cobblestone driveway again, while Flynn stared intently at the polo game unfolding across the field.
Banks parked her car and left the door open for the valet, who rushed over with a claim check. The trio went inside and requested Henry Elberton. A few moments later, he arrived wearing a scowl on his face.
“What brings you back to Ridgeline, Agent Banks?” he asked, dispensing of any formalities.
“We need to ask around the polo grounds about a member of yours, a Mr. Carlton Gordon.”
Elberton nodded. “Mr. Gordon is an exemplary member of the club and a sporting polo player.”
“We’re not here to inquire about his polo skills, but if he was here playing on Saturday.”
“Indeed he was,” Elberton said with a smile. “I play myself sometimes when a member can’t make it, and we were teammates on Saturday.”
Banks sighed. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Elberton, I’d like to ask a few other players as well.”
“Very well. Have it your way.” He signaled for the attention of another attendant. “Would you take these three down to the polo field? It shouldn’t take long.”
“Thank you, Mr. Elberton. Have a nice day,” Banks said before falling in line behind the attendant.
“That guy gives me the creeps,” Jones said.
Flynn looked at him with an inquisitive look on his face. “You know him?”
Jones shook his head. “No, but just the way he acts is so smarmy and fake. It just makes me uneasy.”
Banks turned around. “That’s why we’re going to talk to some other players,” she said softly.
After a short walk, they arrived at the field and began milling around. “Let’s split up,” Banks said.
Following several minutes of questioning, they regrouped.
“What did you guys hear?” she asked.
“They all said the same as Elberton, basically,” Flynn said. “That they were playing polo together until a little after five in the afternoon.”
“Jones?” Banks said.
“Same here. And based on those people verifying his alibi, there’s no way he could make it to San Francisco, slip through security, and jump out of a plane in less than six hours.”
Banks nodded. “I agree. He’s got to be ruled out as a suspect. Jones, let Harold Coleman know that his gut was wrong—and tell him to leave Gordon alone.”
“You got it.” He pulled out his phone and started dialing a number.
While Jones was doing that, Banks’ phone rang.
“Agent Banks,” she said as she answered.
“Yes, this is Alicia Armstrong with the FBI tip line. We just received a call that I wanted to let you know about immediately.”
“Go on.”
“One of the security operators at the San Francisco airport called to tell me that they found a work uniform of a Miss Felicia Davis stuffed in a trash bin. The operator checked with her employer to see if she’d been scheduled to work that day but didn’t show up. She wasn’t. And then here’s where it gets crazy—the operator reviewed the security footage and found where Miss Davis apparently went into a family bathroom at the airport and changed. But only a man exited. The operator did some amateur sleuthing before he called the FBI and said it appears as though the man in the footage is also seen in pictures with Miss Davis on her social media sites.”
“Thank you for passing this information along to me directly. Can you please forward it all to me in an email as well?”
“Will do.”
Banks hung up and smiled as she looked at Flynn. “We might have just caught a big break in this case.”
“Excellent,” Flynn said. “Let’s talk more about what this means in a moment
. But first I need to use the restroom.”
“I’ll be here.”
In the restroom, after Flynn had finished and was washing his hands, a young man approached him.
“Did I hear correctly that you were asking about Mr. Gordon?” the man said.
Flynn nodded. “And who are you?”
“I work here in the stables and watch all the polo games—and I have to say that Mr. Gordon looked a little off the last couple of times he’s played.”
Flynn furrowed his brow. “What do you mean by ‘off’?”
“He wasn’t playing like himself, like he’d almost never played the game before.”
“But you saw him here on Saturday?”
The young man nodded.
“Unfortunately, we weren’t here to rate his polo playing skills, just to verify if he was indeed present at the club on Saturday afternoon.”
“If by present you mean physically here—yes, it looked like him. If by present in the context of a sound mind—no. He played like a rookie. And let me assure you that Mr. Gordon is no rookie. He’s one of our better players.”
Flynn rubbed his chin. “I see.”
“I just wanted to make sure you knew that, for what it’s worth.”
Flynn thanked him and exited the restroom.
***
AT THE SEATTLE FIELD OFFICE, Banks went alone into Thurston’s office and closed the door.
“Did you see the email I forwarded to you?” she asked.
He nodded. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
“Authorize travel for me to go to San Francisco.”
He sighed. “Come on, Banks. The San Francisco office should be checking this out, not you.”
“Yeah, but even so, I need to go there. I want to get a feel for how this seems to be happening with such ease at the airport.”
He stood up and started to pace around his office. “You know DHS won’t like this if you start snooping around the airport. We’ll get mired in a territorial clash and lose valuable time and energy on finding the suspect.”
“Finding the suspect? We haven’t even identified him yet—and this is our best lead. You really want to turn this over to the San Francisco office or DHS, for that matter?”
“Fine. Make it seem like you’re just going to their office to collaborate on the case. If they find out you were there but didn’t connect with them, I’ll definitely get my ass chewed out.”
“Thanks. I don’t think you’ll regret this.”
“And, Banks, leave Jones here with me. I’ve got a few other things I want him to run down.”
“Can Flynn accompany me?”
“As long as its on his own dime.” He paused. “And don’t get too cozy with him. Journalists have a way of sticking around just long enough to get what they want and then leaving you high and dry.”
She shook her head. “We’re way past that point, sir. Just trust me, okay? He’s proven to be a valuable asset on this case.”
“Don’t disappoint me, Banks.”
She walked back to her desk where Flynn was waiting for her.
“Well?” Flynn said.
“Go grab a change of clothes. We’re going to San Francisco.”
***
JONES DIDN’T LIKE THE FACT that Thurston let his partner head to San Francisco without him. It just didn’t sit well with him for some reason. Something was going on.
“Jones, make yourself useful,” Thurston said when he came out of his office and found Jones staring at a blank computer screen. “We’re getting hundreds of calls each hour on the tip line. They’re swamped. And while Banks is gone, I want you sorting through some of these. Maybe you’ll get lucky and a credible tip will come directly to you.”
Jones turned his back and rolled his eyes. “And I could win the lottery tomorrow as well.”
“Then I guess it’d be a fine day all around if both those things happen.” Thurston returned to his office, shooting Jones one more glance before he closed the door.
After sifting through note after note of tips that were less helpful and more like a waste of time, Jones’ phone rang.
“Agent Jones.”
“Yes, Agent Jones, this is Malinda from the tip line. I tried to reach Agent Banks but her phone goes straight to voicemail.”
“We’re working closely on this case. What’s going on?”
“Well, I have a gentleman on the line who wants to speak with an agent directly and refuses to tell me anything. It could be nothing, but better safe than sorry, right?”
“Patch him through.”
After a few clicks, Jones knew Malinda was no longer on the line.
“Hello?” Jones said.
“Yes, Agent—”
“Agent Jones.”
“Okay, Agent Jones, I’m calling to tell you that I know who the Cooper Copycat is.”
“And how’s that?”
“I know him.”
“And he confessed to you.”
The man chuckled. “No, of course not. But I know it’s him.”
“Does this man have a name?”
“Yes, his name is Carlton Gordon. And I play polo with him. I’ve long suspected him as someone involved in corporate espionage for several reasons. First, no bank manager makes as much money as he appears to have. And second, I had patents stolen from safety deposit boxes there.”
“Well, your suspicion of him alone doesn’t make him a viable suspect.”
“Exactly. I was only telling you that so I could tell you this—I hired a private investigator a few months back to follow him around. And when I got my weekly report today, I was surprised to see him track Mr. Gordon’s movements to a private airfield at the same time he was playing polo with me.”
“Perhaps your P.I. is fleecing you.”
“I might think the same thing if not for the fact that I noticed something was strange about Gordon this past week when we were playing polo. His game was really off and he seemed to avoid talking to the other players, which isn’t like him. Not every day, but on two specific days—last Saturday and this Friday. And those were the days the Cooper Copycat struck. Plus when I started to think about it some more, I realized he would actually be able to find out when the San Francisco Federal Reserve office was sending money to his bank, probably because he ordered it.”
“Well, Mr.—”
“Goodyear, Edwin Goodyear the Third.”
“Okay, Mr. Goodyear. That sounds well and good, but it’s not exactly an actionable tip.”
“I’m telling you, he’s your guy.”
“Did your P.I. take pictures that were time stamped?”
Goodyear sighed. “No, he said his camera broke last week and he’s still waiting for it to get fixed.”
“There you go, Mr. Goodyear. Problem solved. You need to hire a different P.I. and replace the lazy one you’ve got.”
“But I swear to you, that’s what is going on.”
“And you’re not just saying this because you saw agents milling around Ridgeline this afternoon asking questions about Mr. Gordon?”
“I didn’t even know about that, honest.”
“We’ll take your tip and look into it when we get a chance. Thank you for taking the time to reach out to the FBI.”
“Don’t dismiss me,” Goodyear said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Goodyear.”
Jones hung up—and scratched out a few notes about the call before placing it on Banks’ desk.
CHAPTER 25
HAROLD COLEMAN PULLED his Washington Huskies sweatshirt over his head and grabbed his ticket off his dresser. After he graduated from Washington, he bought season tickets for all the football games. It turned into a fall tradition for the entire family. Once his children were old enough to get on a boat without diving into the water, he bought a sailboat so the family could “sailgate” before all the games. Those days were long gone now, as his children had grown up and moved away. And Edith preferred to ch
urn through the pages of the latest mystery novel atop The New York Times best seller list on her free Saturday evenings.
But not Coleman. He was in the stands in 1975 when Warren Moon’s pass was tipped and landed in the hands of receiver Spider Gaines for a stunning victory over Washington State. He was present in 1992 when the Huskies played Nebraska for the first night game in school history and pulled out a victory to propel the team to the top spot in the polls. He was also there in 2000 when Washington upset No. 4 Miami to ruin the Hurricanes’ national title hopes. And nothing was going to keep him out of the stands for a Huskies’ home game.
Well, almost nothing.
“Good-bye, beautiful,” he said as he kissed Edith on top of the head.
She patted him on the shoulder and turned the page in her book. He was standing at the door when she finally looked up.
“Harold! What are you doing? Are you about to leave the house without your lucky hat?”
He smiled. “A senior moment,” he said, shuffling back toward the closet and fetching his purple and gold baseball cap.
She eyed him closely. “I’m glad you can watch the game in peace tonight, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, since the FBI cleared that banker guy you were so obsessed with you can move on.”
“That doesn’t exactly equate to peace for me. I’ll have peace when the copycat is behind bars—and someone finds Cooper’s remains in the mountains.”
“Either way, have fun. And beat those Cougs!” she said.
Coleman chuckled to himself as he walked out the door and climbed into his car. He wanted to brood over her statement, even though he knew she was right. Agent Jones had called to tell him that they were removing Carlton Gordon from their suspect list. But he wasn’t so sure. But it created the perfect opportunity for him tonight.
His thoughts shifted back toward his sweet wife, who acted like she didn’t care about football yet still knew whom the Huskies were playing. Even several years ago when she decided she didn’t want to attend all the games, she almost always went to the Apple Cup game when Washington squared off with their rivals, the Washington State Cougars. But then she grew tired of the fighting the crowds.
Coleman tossed his hat into the seat next to him and folded up his cane. He dialed his buddy’s number to deliver the news.
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