The perky blonde on ABC narrowed her eyes and leaned forward for her final question. “So, Mr. Flynn, is this guy going to be the second coming of D.B. Cooper or is the FBI going to catch him?”
Flynn shrugged. “I’m a reporter, not a prophet. But what I can tell you is the FBI isn’t going to leave a stone unturned. If he makes a mistake, it’ll be the last one he makes as a free man. That much you can bet on.”
“Chilling words,” she said with a wink before introducing another hard news feature about the security at the U.S. Federal Reserve printing locations.
Flynn left the ABC affiliate studio at KOMO and proceeded to the FBI field office a few miles away. Banks awaited him with a cup of coffee.
“What’s this?” Flynn asked as he looked at the cup she offered him.
“A small token of gratitude for your help on this case,” she said, releasing the cup into his hand. “You’ve been more helpful than you know—and I saw you on television this morning. I figured you might need a jolt to get you going.”
He smiled. “How thoughtful.” A short pause. “I guess you haven’t read what I wrote this morning.”
Her eyes widened and she drew back. “No, I must’ve missed it.”
Flynn refused to take his joke any further. “Don’t worry. I haven’t written a word. I’m hoping to write a wrap-up today recounting everything that’s happened in this case so readers can see that this isn’t the same as D.B. Cooper—and that this is no government conspiracy or inside job.”
“I hope you get to write that today as well, but something tells me we’ve still got a long way to go.”
Flynn checked his watch. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock.
“Where’s Jones?” he asked.
“He’s testifying in court this morning,” she said.
“Which case?”
“Some witness protection case.”
“And who’s that?”
She eyed Flynn closely. “Are you testing me? You know I can’t talk about that—and I wouldn’t, even if I could.”
“Fair enough. Got any other news?”
Before she could answer, her desk phone buzzed.
“This is Banks.”
“Agent Banks, this is Copperfield. We need you to come down here to forensics as soon as possible. There’s something you need to see.”
She hung up and turned to Flynn. “Come with me. Forensics has something.”
***
IN THE FORENSICS LAB, Copperfield greeted Banks at the door with a printout on top of a manila folder.
“What am I looking at here?” she asked.
“Something far more than a coincidence.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said, pointing at two boxes next to each other. “I analyzed the cigarettes you gave me yesterday with the ones we collected from the original plane.”
“And?”
“And the DNA left behind proves to be a perfect match.”
She nodded. “Anything in the database?”
He took the folder from her and opened it up. “Apparently, it’s from this guy.”
Banks stared at the picture of an African-American man. She held it up so Flynn could see it. “Look familiar?”
“Doc?”
She bobbed her head up and down. “The one and only.”
“So, the man with Stallion cologne is our guy.”
She stuffed all the papers inside the folder and slapped it against her leg. “We need to talk to Thurston.”
Flynn’s imagination ran wild as he tried to imagine how Gordon could’ve committed such a crime and coerced so many people into lying for him. The truth is that couldn’t be the case. With as many people as they talked to, someone was bound to snitch. The amount of vitriol hurled at the Cooper Copycat by the general public made it difficult to believe at least one person wouldn’t renege on their earlier confession of seeing him. Chances are somebody would do it. Something about it all now felt so rehearsed and perfect.
“He’s been playing us this whole time,” Flynn said.
Banks squinted as she looked at Flynn. “But how? It just doesn’t make sense. How could he have pulled this all off? Even if he did it, I’m not sure this case would ever hold up in court. And Thurston won’t let us prosecute unless we’ve got a rock solid case against him.”
“He’s bound to slip up sooner or later.”
She held up her index finger. “If he keeps going—and I’m not so sure he’s done. We’ve practically recouped all the money already.”
“But the FBI isn’t as concerned with the money as they are with their image. Catching the criminal on such a high profile case like this will put Thurston in line for a promotion. If he thinks this guy is the one, he’ll risk it to prove it one way or another.”
“Perhaps, but he’s a dedicated rule follower. He’s not going to jeopardize his current standing with the Bureau just to earn a cushier job.”
The elevator dinged, alerting them that they had arrived at the proper floor.
“I guess we’re about to find out.”
Flynn followed Banks down the hall until they arrived at Thurston’s office.
“Come in,” Thurston said, acknowledging Banks’ firm knock.
They both entered his office and sat down across from him.
“I hope you’ve got some good news, Banks,” he said. “So far, Monday has been a crap fest.”
She tossed the folder onto his desk. “Read this.”
Thurston opened the folder. “What am I looking at here?”
“Forensics’ analysis of the cigarettes found on the plane on Monday and the cigarettes we collected from a man named Doc on a street corner in San Francisco, near the apartment of the woman whose access card was used to bypass security.”
“And?”
“They’re a match.”
Thurston slammed the folder shut. “Geez, Banks. Can’t you get me anything useful? Did you tell me yesterday this old guy was blind?”
She nodded. “True. But he also told me whoever handed him the cigarettes wore Stallion cologne.”
“Hell, everybody wears that crap these days.”
“Perhaps, but that’s what Carlton Gordon was wearing when I interviewed him last night and checked out his alibi. An interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Not enough to get a conviction, which is all I care about.” He paused. “Besides, didn’t his alibi check out?”
“It did, but there’s something going on here. I can feel it. It’s more than just a coincidence.”
He stood up and pointed at the door. “Well, go bring him in here and make him sweat so we can get something to put his ass in jail, if he’s the one who’s behind all this.”
She and Flynn stood up and exited.
“And Banks,” Thurston said. “Don’t come back empty handed. We need something actionable—even if it’s not him. We’ve gotta catch this guy like yesterday.”
She nodded. “Do I need to grab another agent since Jones is in court this morning?”
He shook his head. “You and Flynn seem to make a formidable pair.” He flashed a brief smile. “And Flynn, if you ever get tired of waking up before six in the morning and talking to airhead reporters, I think I might be able to find a place for you here.”
“That’s a generous offer, sir. I’ll keep that in mind if things go south in journalism.”
He waved at them. “Good luck.”
As they walked toward her desk, Banks looked at Flynn. “What’s your gut telling you?”
“There’s something else at work here, that’s for sure. Whenever something looks this obvious—but is so obvious it isn’t—I jump to another conclusion.”
“Which is what?”
“That Gordon has help. I feel like he’s behind it, but someone has to be helping him. How else could he do all of this?”
“Think it’s somebody at the club?”
Flynn shrugged. “Could be. It’d make sense
since that’s where he supposedly was during the time of the first crime.”
She stuffed the folder into her bag. “But what about the second crime?”
“Not sure about that—but perhaps his accomplice was the one who committed it.”
“And the cigarettes?”
“I haven’t figured that one out yet, but I suppose there’s an answer.”
As Banks grabbed her keys, her phone rang. “Banks.”
After a few moments, she held the phone away from her. “Speak of the devil,” she whispered to Flynn. “It’s Edwin Goodyear from the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club.”
She turned on the speaker and put the phone in the cradle. “Mr. Goodyear,” she began, “I wanted to let you know you’re on speaker now with me and Mr. James Flynn, who’s consulting on this case.”
“Okay,” he muttered. “Anyway, I was following up from my phone call from a couple of days ago.”
“I apologize, Mr. Goodyear, but you’ll have to refresh my memory since you didn’t speak with me. Who did you talk to?”
“An Agent Jones, I think?”
“He’s not here today, so I’m afraid you’ll have to catch me up to speed on the conversation.”
Goodyear sighed. “I told your agent that Carlton Gordon is the guy. I know it.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I had hired a private investigator to follow Gordon around due to suspicions I had about him in some other areas—and he took pictures of him at an airfield on days he was supposedly playing polo at the club. Your agent said he was going to look into this.”
“Well, perhaps he is, but we’ve had a lot going on here lately and Agent Jones is in court today, testifying in another case. I’ll speak with him about this once I see him later today.”
She hung up and studied her desk. “Why wouldn’t Jones leave me a note about that?”
Flynn scanned her desk. “It seems like he did,” he said, reaching beneath a manual on her desk and dislodging a phone conversation note. “I believe it’s right here.”
She took the note from Flynn and read it. “Okay, so I must’ve missed it.” She flashed a hint of a smile. “Now all we’ve got to do is press him until he gives up his accomplice. This will make Thurston a happy man.”
“And me, too,” Flynn said. “I’ll finally be able to put this story to bed and get onto more sensational conspiracies.”
“What?” Banks asked with an incredulous look on her face. “This isn’t sensational enough for you? The Cooper Copycat or Robin Hood Santa?”
“Nothing beats what I’m looking into next.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, do tell.”
Flynn wagged his finger at her. “Not so fast. This one is top secret.”
“Even for an FBI agent?”
He nodded. “You’ll have to wait like the rest of the world.”
“Well, aren’t you a spoil sport?”
“Let’s go get your man—or should I say, men?” Flynn shot back.
***
THEIR TRIP TO BANK OF OLYMPIA was a short one after learning that Gordon went home early due to an illness.
“Think he’s up to something or really at home?” Banks asked as she drove toward Gordon’s condo.
“You can’t fake spitting up blood,” Flynn said. Then he paused. “Well, you can because I’ve done it, but that’s some serious commitment to the craft. Not sure that he’s there yet.”
“I never underestimate these people,” she said. “They surprise me all the time.”
A few minutes later, they parked in a private garage a block from Gordon’s condo. The stiff breeze nipped at them as they hustled down the street.
“Smells like it’s about to snow,” Flynn said.
“Snow has a distinct smell?”
“Yeah, I know. Everything smells like rain to you people here in Seattle since that’s all you ever get. But I can tell it’s about to snow.”
“It’s still a little early in the season for snow.”
“It’s after Thanksgiving. All bets are off.”
She shook her head and laughed before skipping up the steps and entering Gordon’s condo building. After a deep breath, she knocked on the door.
Several moments of silence preceded heavy and methodical steps across the hardwood floor of Gordon’s apartment. She forced a smile as she glanced at Flynn, whose eyes went back and forth as he waited for the door to open.
The peephole darkened.
“Ah, Detective Banks and Mr. Flynn, how nice of you to drop by,” he said as the door swung open.
“It’s Agent Banks,” she said as she stepped inside.
“And what brings you here today?” he said, slipping past them to shut the door.
“We have a few questions for you,” she said.
“Oh? What kind?”
“For starters, we have physical proof that you were at a regional airstrip when you claimed to be playing polo at the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club on the days the Cooper Copycat struck.”
He gestured for them to sit down as he took a seat directly across from them on a smaller sofa. “Cooper Copycat? Mr. Flynn, certainly doesn’t call the suspect that.”
“You read my stuff?” Flynn asked as he settled onto the couch next to Banks. “I’m honored.”
Gordon straightened several magazines on the coffee table. “It’s not a compliment,” he said, his tone turning harsh.
“Hey, now. No need to get combative,” Flynn said.
“Who’s getting combative?” Gordon said, before he stood up and lunged toward them.
Before Flynn or Banks could move, Gordon pulled a small canister from his pocket and sprayed a liquid in their faces. The pair collapsed to the floor.
CHAPTER 34
GORDON LUGGED THE BODIES of Flynn and Banks into Tommy Spurlock’s plane and climbed inside. He signaled for Spurlock to go.
“Why are you doing this?” Spurlock asked as he eased down the bumpy grass airstrip.
Gordon laughed. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.” He paused. “It’s the same line you’ll use when FBI agents come to your house and ask why you chose to go along with my plan.”
“No, it’s not that complicated—I’m being blackmailed into doing it.”
“You think you don’t have a choice, Tommy? Everybody has a choice. Go ahead turn the plane around. You can do it if you want to. But you made your choice a few months ago when you decided to stiff the bank—and now you’re going to pay.”
Spurlock spun the plane around at the end of the airstrip and opened up the throttle. The plane bounced and bobbed until it lurched upward and soared over the vast green vegetation.
“Please don’t push them out of the plane,” Spurlock begged. “I don’t want to be an accomplice to murder.”
“Where would the fun be in that? I’d never do any such thing.” He reached up and put his hand on Spurlock’s shoulder. “And just remember, Tommy? If you get back here and tell the FBI where I am, our little deal is off. And don’t think I won’t know.”
Gordon withdrew his hand and glanced toward the western horizon. It wasn’t quite four-thirty in the afternoon, but the sun was slipping fast.
Perfect.
He tugged on his straps to make sure they were taut, wincing as he did. Despite the fact that the endorphins coursing through his body had given him a natural high he never expected, it couldn’t offset the pain in his gut. He spit up some more blood before taking a deep breath.
Time to get to work.
He slapped Flynn and Banks in the face a few times each.
“It’s time to wake up!”
Flynn awoke first, squinting at Gordon as he tried to gain his bearings. Banks followed suit a few moments later but appeared to reach a level of awareness much more quickly. Her eyes widened as she glanced out the open door on the plane.
“Welcome back to consciousness, Agent Banks,” Gordon said.
Flynn realized his situation and lunged at Gordon,
only to discover he was handcuffed to an O-ring jutting out from the plane’s cabin wall.
“Are you crazy?” Flynn asked. “What are you doing?”
Gordon chuckled and said, “Maybe you should be asking yourself that question. I’m not the one about to get thrown out of an airplane without a parachute on.”
Flynn glanced down at his chest. No harness was connected to him, though Banks had one on.
“What? You didn’t think I was going to make this too easy on you, now did you?” Gordon said as he chortled at his own comment.
Banks finally got over her initial shock. “You’re insane.”
“Perhaps, but you have to admit this is far more interesting than any other case you’ve had since you’ve been at the Bureau. Right now, you’re probably wondering to yourself: How did Carlton Gordon pull this off? His alibis check out. There was nothing in his past to make us think he would turn into a psychopath. And you’re right to wonder such things. It makes no sense on the surface. But the truth always lies beneath.”
“Spare us the psychological babble. You just lie,” Banks said, seething.
“I’ve answered your questions with candor—”
“And lies.”
“Well, perhaps I may have exaggerated certain truths from time to time, but it was all in good fun to keep you on your toes—which you obviously aren’t now or perhaps never really were. Those cuffs anchoring you to one another and to the plane suggest that you’ve been asleep this whole time—just like Harold Coleman was years ago when he was supposed to be tracking down D.B. Cooper.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Flynn asked. “You paying homage to some ridiculous cult hero by trying to be like him?”
“I found D.B. Cooper’s successful evasion from the FBI to be something of interest, but I’m certainly not celebrating it.”
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