“He talked to a lot of us. Kirby’s staffers. He had certain phrases he used over and over.”
Andrea glanced at Jon, who was intent on their interview subject now. She took out a notepad and reviewed what she’d written.
“In the report, you describe him as six-two, goatee, shaved head, jeans, and a bomber jacket?”
She looked up, but he didn’t confirm.
“You also mention an eagle tattoo on the side of his neck.”
Again, no comment.
“How did he threaten you, exactly?” she asked.
“He showed up, ranting about the usual antigovernment stuff. But the whole time, he’s holding his jacket open, showing me his holster. ‘Give Kirby a message. Tell him I’m watching him.’ ”
“What kind of gun was it?” Andrea asked.
“What’s in the report?”
“A black handgun.”
He nodded. “That sounds right.”
Andrea glanced at Jon, whose steely look told her she was botching this interview. She took an envelope from her jacket pocket and pulled out a five-by-seven photo.
Copeland stiffened.
“Does this look like the man you saw?”
He flicked a glance at it. “I don’t know.”
“You didn’t even look at it.”
Copeland returned her gaze coolly.
“Mr. Copeland,” she said, “why do I get the feeling you’re not being entirely straight with us here?”
He looked at Jon, then back to her again.
She shook her head. “Lying to the police, Mr. Copeland. Never a good idea.”
He sighed. “Fine, all right? It wasn’t actually me in the alley.”
God damn it, she knew she should have vetted this witness. But she hadn’t had time.
“Who exactly—”
“Carmen Pena.” He folded his arms over his chest, wrinkling his nice pinstripes. “She didn’t want her name on the police report.”
“Why?” Jon asked.
“The beat reporters read those things. She’d already been in the news that week. Someone started a rumor that she was having an affair with the senator.”
“Was she?” Andrea asked.
“Of course not. Those rumors are a dime a dozen for any politician. But this one came at a sensitive time, and we needed it to die down. I told her I’d put my name on the report, but we should at least get it on record. You know, that this guy showed up with a gun and everything.”
“Filing a false police report is a serious offense,” Andrea said.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You going to arrest me?”
“What happened with the report?” Jon asked, picking up the slack now because Andrea was busy being ticked off.
She was mad at herself for not seeing through this. And she was embarrassed that she’d called Jon all the way up here to interview this man.
“I’m not sure. I would guess Dallas PD referred it to the local FBI, but we didn’t have a name or anything, just a description. And we’re not even sure it’s the same guy who sent the letter and called—that’s just a guess. So what can they really do with that?”
“Where’s Carmen now?” Jon asked.
“She left right after I did. Last I heard, she was working for the mayor.”
“Did she leave on her own or get fired?” Andrea asked.
“She was let go.”
“Fired?”
“People come and go on campaigns. There’s a lot of turnover.”
“What about you?” Jon asked. “Why’d you leave?”
Copeland tapped his breast pocket. She could tell he was battling the urge for another cigarette, but the urge to wrap up this interview was stronger.
“Look, I need to get back in there. I’m on meet-and-greet tonight.”
“Last question,” Jon said. “Why’d you leave the campaign?”
He sighed. He tucked his hands in his pockets and met Jon’s gaze. “I worked for Kirby five years. We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”
“Didn’t like his ideology?”
He sniffed. “Nothing that noble. The governor’s camp offered me more money.”
♦
Andrea seemed oblivious to his anger as they returned to his truck. He squeezed back into traffic and cut her a glance.
“Where’d you get that photograph?”
She looked at him. “What, of Hardin?”
“Yes, of Shay Hardin, a suspected murderer.”
“Truck stop in Maverick.”
Jon shook his head.
“What?”
“He see you take it?”
“I was careful.”
Jon didn’t believe her. If she really wanted to be careful, she’d stay the hell away from Maverick. Despite going to the effort to hide her license plates, she’d still been attracting too much attention to herself and asking too many questions.
“We’re not the only ones who turned up that report,” she said now.
“We?”
“Okay, me. Whatever. Your friends in Philly had it, too.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t they follow up?”
Jon turned onto the bridge leading back to the south side of town. “Our team there’s inundated. They’re following up on thousands of tips and leads. And as of this week, they’re pushing harder on the foreign-terrorist angle.”
“But you still don’t believe it.”
“No.”
She turned to face him. “See, that’s what I don’t get. You seem like a decent investigator.”
He shot her a look.
“So explain it to me. If this Shay Hardin theory’s so plausible, why are you and Torres the only ones buying it?”
Jon didn’t want to explain.
But part of him did. It bothered him that she obviously thought he was way off-base.
He glanced at her across the truck. She was watching him with those clear blue eyes, waiting for an explanation.
“Look at everything the senator stands for,” he said. “He’s become hated by antigovernment orgs. Militia groups believe he betrayed them. They think he’s a traitor, and they haven’t been shy about making it known. Surf the Internet if you don’t believe me. A lot of these websites are packed with thinly disguised threats against Kirby. Some even posted stuff celebrating the death of his only daughter.”
“That’s sick.”
“That’s free speech.”
“Why’d he switch sides on the gun thing?” she asked.
“Who knows? Maybe he took a poll. Or conducted a focus group. Maybe he had a genuine change of heart.”
Andrea sneered. She was a cynic like he was.
“Maybe he’s fickle,” Jon said.
“But I still don’t get the tunnel vision. If that agent in Philly—what was his name, McMurphy?—if he knows about this possible suspect, why wouldn’t he follow up? Even if they’ve got a good case coming along with the Al Qaeda angle, it’s only logical to develop other solid leads.”
Jon slowed as he neared her street. “Yeah, well, the Bureau doesn’t always do what’s logical.” He glanced at her. “You want to get dinner?”
She looked startled. Then wary.
Jon glanced away and waited for an answer. Damned if he was going to beg her to have dinner with him. But he wasn’t ready to take her home yet. Even when she pissed him off, he still liked her company.
“You a fan of Tex-Mex?” she asked.
“No.”
“How about barbecue?”
“Fine. Where to?”
“Just pull in up here on the left.”
He turned into a large parking lot that had been converted to a food court. About a dozen mobile trailers of different shapes and sizes were set up in rows facing the street. He found a parking space beside a bike rack, then stripped off his jacket and tie and tossed them into the backseat. He unbuttoned his cuffs and flipped his sleeves back as Andrea stood off to the side and pretended not to notice.
/>
The air smelled like grilling meat and funnel cakes, and he realized he was starving. Andrea stepped up to a silver Airstream with an inflatable pink pig perched on top.
“Bubba’s BBQ.” He looked at her. “Nice.”
“Everyone calls it the Pig. Don’t worry, it’s good. Think I’d take you to a dump?”
“Maybe.”
She smiled slyly and they placed their orders. She insisted on paying, and he let her. Then they staked out a graffiti-covered picnic table and waited for their number to be called.
Jon glanced around. It was a typical Austin crowd of college kids, musician types, and aging hippies. Andrea looked right at home in her leather jacket and faded jeans, with all the extra metal in her ears.
He glanced over her shoulder at the redbrick apartment complex across the street. Interesting that she’d picked a busy dinner spot just footsteps from where she lived as the place to settle their bet. Not really what he’d wanted. She could walk home, no need for him to drive her.
This woman was an expert at keeping him at arm’s length. He was going to have to change that. Soon. Her mouth had healed up, and he’d spent the last two days thinking about it.
“What?” She tipped back her beer. He’d been staring.
“I need a copy of that police report,” he said. “Particularly if there’s a letter with it.”
“There is. I’ve got it at home.”
Their number was called, and Jon got up to get their food. They’d both ordered pulled-pork sandwiches and beer-battered French fries, Andrea’s with an extra side of mustard. Jon slid her basket in front of her, and she plunged right in.
“You read the letter?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, it’s not signed, so we don’t really know who sent it.” She dipped a fry in mustard. “I think it’s a man, though.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. The tone? Sounded masculine. Sort of military. And he quotes the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, some Supreme Court justice.”
Jon narrowed his gaze at her. “Brandeis?”
“Yeah.”
“You remember the quote?”
She hesitated. “Something about ‘if the government becomes a lawbreaker’—”
“—‘it breeds contempt for the law; it invites every man to become a law unto himself; it invites anarchy.’ ”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Someone paid attention in law school.”
He took a sip of his beer. That wasn’t why he knew the quote, but he didn’t want to discuss it. Instead, he changed the subject. “You always eat like this?” he asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
“You’re pretty little for that appetite.”
She shrugged. “I run a lot.”
“You run in college?”
He already knew that she had. He’d done a preliminary background check after their first meeting. He’d intended to go deeper, but now their relationship had shifted, and it felt like cheating.
“High school, college.” She popped another fry into her mouth. “Running’s a poor kid’s sport. You just need shoes.”
He watched her eat and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a meal with a woman who actually seemed to enjoy food. It was refreshing, sort of like the way she wasn’t falling all over herself flirting with him because he was an FBI agent.
Then again, he wouldn’t have minded a little flirting. She seemed intent on keeping her distance. Every time he started to draw her out, she seemed to pull back again. She had trust issues—not surprising for someone who’d essentially been orphaned as a kid. But he wanted her to let him in. He wanted her to see him as more than an FBI agent investigating her brother.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Back to the letter. It was long and well written. Whoever wrote it seems very articulate.”
Jon took a sip of beer and rested his bottle on the table. “You think he’s smart?”
“I think he has a point.”
He didn’t mask his surprise.
“Obviously, I don’t agree with killing people to make it—if that’s what he’s doing—but I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who sympathize with his views. I mean, even if Shay Hardin didn’t kill that judge or target the senator’s daughter, someone else could have done it for all the same reasons.”
Jon watched her silently as he ate. She was right, and that’s what bothered him.
“You know, a lot of law-abiding people aren’t crazy about the federal government,” she said. “They remember Ruby Ridge and Waco, and now they look around and see the increasing surveillance, the militarization of police. Rubs a lot of people the wrong way.”
“I’m aware of that. And for the record, I think we took the wrong road at Waco. We should have used less lethal tactics. We were after a cult leader, and we should have arrested him off-site and avoided the whole confrontation.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“Why? It’s the truth. We fucked up. Hopefully, we learned from it.”
She watched him, looking thoughtful. “Copeland called this guy—who we think might be Hardin—just another wing nut.”
“What about it?”
“So why this wing nut? Why do you think Hardin’s the one responsible for this attack? Where would he get the funds? The materials? And I’m still not seeing him behind a Pennsylvania plot. He’s a thousand miles away.”
“I told you, we don’t know his whereabouts at the time of the bombing. We have no evidence that he was at the ranch or even in Texas at that time.”
She dipped a fry in mustard. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t. And anyway, Lost Creek Ranch doesn’t strike me as much of a place to launch a revolution. It’s not exactly a hive of activity. They don’t even have Internet.”
“That’s something that concerns me,” he said.
“Why?”
“A lot of these organizations went underground after OKBOMB.”
“OKBOMB?”
“The Oklahoma City bombing. That’s the case name.” He had to remind himself that not everyone was as fixated on that case as he was. “That was when the FBI really started taking a hard look at homegrown terrorism. We stepped up surveillance, efforts to monitor communications. And then all that increased even more after 9/11.”
“And the Patriot Act.”
He nodded. “In a way, I think that made it harder for us. We drove a lot of groups underground. They started changing tactics. There’s been more focus on decentralization. Instead of having cohesive groups, it’s more of a leaderless resistance.” He paused. “I think the most dangerous players are the ones we don’t even know about. Silent cells. They don’t communicate openly. They’re not on our radar. Most people don’t even know they exist.”
He could have told her more, but she had a guarded expression in her eyes, and he could tell she didn’t want to believe any of this. She was fiercely loyal to her brother. He knew that. He even admired it to an extent, but it could become a problem, too. For both of them.
He glanced at their baskets. They’d put a good dent in the food, despite all the talking. For a long moment, they just looked at each other, and he tried to read what she was thinking.
“It’s late.” She stood. “I was up all night driving. I should get home.”
“I’ll come with you.”
She looked surprised.
“I need that report.”
They crossed the street and walked toward her apartment. Traffic whirred, and the bars were filling up. As they neared her building, the last few bars of a John Coltrane song drifted from a courtyard. Jon stopped and let the music wash over him. A couple emerged from a purple door.
Andrea glanced over at him. “So what time’s your meeting tomorrow?”
“Not so fast.”
“What?”
He took her hand and pulled her towar
d the bar. Before she could come up with an excuse, he led her inside.
chapter eleven
THE INTERIOR WAS DARK and noisy. Jon read a chalkboard sign and handed a twenty to a fedora-wearing man as big as an oak tree.
The club was packed. Jon pulled her past a blue-lit stage, around the bar, and then outside to a brick patio, where he spied an empty table.
Andrea eyed him suspiciously as he pulled a chair out for her.
“Very smooth.”
“What?”
She glanced around and sat down. “The bet was dinner.”
“This part’s on me.”
But that didn’t seem to put her at ease. He flagged a waiter, and she asked for a Jack and Coke. He ordered straight whiskey.
She peeled off her jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Tonight she wore a fitted black T-shirt, and he’d already noted the Kimber tucked into her ankle holster.
Jon liked looking for the Kimber. Whenever he saw her, it was the first thing he noticed, right after her eyes.
Which looked annoyed right now.
“Relax, Finch. It’s just drinks.”
“Ha. Coming from you.”
“What?”
“Not to point out the obvious, but you’re not the most relaxed person in the world.”
He leaned back in his chair, facing the propped-open door. Music drifted through and enveloped the courtyard in a bluesy haze.
He sat back and listened. And watched her.
She scanned the patio, observing, checking, looking for troublemakers. It was a cop’s gaze, and finally, it came to rest on him.
“I wouldn’t have picked you for jazz,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Too free-form?”
Their drinks arrived. She stirred the ice cubes with her straw, and he sipped his whiskey. It was good. Smooth.
“I’m surprised they have jazz here,” he said.
“This is the live-music capital of the world. They have everything.”
The song ended, and applause went up inside the bar.
Jon looked at her. “You like it?”
“It’s okay. I’ve never really listened to it.”
He leaned closer. “I got my first fake ID so I could go to a jazz club in Chicago.”
“Hoodlum. How old were you?”
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