Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  “Andie?”

  “I’ll explain, but . . . I have to make a call first.” She desperately needed to talk to Jon.

  Another news van pulled up. A familiar reporter jumped out and immediately homed in on her.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Nathan said, eyeing the growing huddle of reporters.

  Andrea squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, I’m gone.”

  chapter fifteen

  DAVID WOODS WAS A BUST.

  Elizabeth and another agent spent the better part of Sunday staked out in front of the man’s apartment, simply trying to get a look at him. She’d enlarged the surveillance photos showing their un-ID’d bank robber in order to make a comparison. But they’d had nothing to compare.

  After four hours without a hint of movement in the apartment, she’d tracked down the building manager, who’d let her know the tenant had disappeared two weeks ago in the middle of the night. One day the landlord was pounding on the door looking for rent money, next day the apartment was empty. Elizabeth insisted on seeing the place, in case he might have left behind a clue, but the only evidence of Woods was a fist-sized hole in the wall beside the bathroom door.

  Elizabeth dragged herself into the office and tossed her keys onto her desk. This case was exasperating. So far, every lead she’d painstakingly uncovered had turned into a dead end.

  She opened her e-mail and watched a torrent of messages fill the in-box. One was from a lab tech at Quantico. Subject line: “Letter Analysis.”

  According to the message, the letter from the bank robbery had yielded no fingerprints or DNA. Big shocker. The paper was twenty-pound multipurpose stock, common at any office-supply store. The ink was from an HP printer, nothing unusual. But the technician did want to discuss “one more observation.”

  Elizabeth stared at the message, irritated. Why hadn’t he simply told her the observation right there in the e-mail? He’d provided his cell-phone number beneath his name.

  Elizabeth recalled the technician. She’d met him briefly while touring the Questioned Documents section of the FBI Laboratory with her Academy class. The man had given their group a presentation on check forgery.

  She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock on a Sunday. She pictured the guy at home with his feet up, watching a game and knocking back a few beers. You’d have to be pretty pathetic to willingly spend your entire weekend toiling away at work.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  “This is Elizabeth LeBlanc. I just read your message here about the letter I sent in?”

  “A very interesting letter, I must say.” His voice had a slight lisp, and she remembered wire-rimmed glasses and an underbite.

  “Interesting how?” she asked.

  “Interesting in that I wasn’t able to glean very much from it at all.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Usually, I find something. A watermark, a copy mark, a partial print. So I was very happy to find the indented writing. At least gives you a clue to work with, albeit a small one.”

  “Indented writing?”

  “On the letter. You didn’t notice it? Lower left corner. I attached a PDF for you with the e-mail.”

  She leaned forward and clicked open the file. He’d scanned in a copy of the letter that was all marked up. A red arrow pointed to the lower left corner, where some faint gray numbers were scrawled.

  “How did I not notice that?” she asked, perplexed. She’d examined the thing with a magnifying glass before the CSI sealed it in an evidence bag.

  “It’s almost invisible to the naked eye,” he said. “The writing’s indented into the surface, as the term implies.”

  “You mean like when you write on top of something?”

  “Exactly. I noticed the markings while examining it with oblique light and was able to visualize the numbers using an ESDA.”

  Elizabeth had no idea what that stood for—something she’d studied at the Academy, no doubt. She probably would have retained more information if she hadn’t been dinged up and sleep-deprived throughout most of her training.

  “It looks to me like a three-digit number: five-two-oh,” she said. “Any idea what that is?”

  “Could be a lot of things, depending on whether the last character is a letter O or a zero. Maybe part of a license plate, a serial number, a check number. If I had to guess? It’s a phone number. You’re probably aware the prefix five-two-oh is used in San Antonio.”

  “I was just thinking that,” she said, doing some mental math. “So if it is a San Antonio number, that means it’s seven digits and—”

  “Ten to the fourth,” he said cheerfully. “That’s ten thousand possible combinations. In other words, ten thousand phone numbers for you to investigate.”

  “Great.” Her head was already throbbing. “I can hardly wait.”

  ♦

  Someone pounded on the door, and Jon glanced up.

  “Who the hell’s that?” Torres asked.

  Jon was pretty sure he knew. He crossed the trailer and opened the door.

  “Where have you been?” Andrea stepped past him into the room. “I left three messages.”

  Jon stared down at her. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d looked rested and energized and ready to tackle the world. Now she looked . . . different.

  Her gaze skimmed over the boxes blanketing the floor and came to rest on the coil of extension cord in his hand. “What are you doing?” She glanced up at him.

  “Packing up.”

  “What?”

  “We’re shut down.”

  “Since when?” She shot a look to Torres, then back to Jon. “I thought you got more time. I thought—”

  “Guess you haven’t seen the news lately.”

  “What news?”

  Jon looked at her for a long moment, trying to read the strange expression on her face.

  He stepped over to the plywood table and tapped the keyboard of one of the laptop computers. The screen came to life. He navigated to CNN and clicked open the video clip he’d watched less than an hour ago. It showed footage of a bearded man in a turban flanked by FBI agents. The man wore a Kevlar vest over his gray robes, and his hands were cuffed in front of him.

  “Who’s that?” Andrea asked.

  “Muhammad Samhat. This is his perp walk. They’ve been running it all morning.”

  A headline scrolled beneath the footage: SENIOR CLERIC, TWO OTHERS ARRESTED IN FBI RAID.

  Andrea’s gaze snapped to his. “So that’s it? Case closed?”

  Jon didn’t say anything.

  “We’re due back in San Antonio tomorrow,” Torres told her.

  “But . . .” She looked at Jon. “But what about your theory? Your evidence? What about Shay Hardin?”

  A week ago, she would have been elated to find out his theory had been discredited. Now she looked outraged.

  “The DNA results came in,” he told her. “The remains of Khalil Abbas, a leader at a Philadelphia mosque, were at the scene of the truck bombing. Philadelphia guys executed search warrants on three different homes this morning, all high-level members of the same mosque. Word is they found guns, computers, anti-U.S. propaganda. Looks like a terrorist cell.”

  “So you’re saying you were wrong?”

  “Looks that way.” Jon tossed the extension cord into a box brimming with equipment.

  “Carmen Pena is dead.”

  He looked at her. It took him a full three seconds to process the words. “She’s—”

  “She was killed in an explosion last night at her home,” she said. “There was a gas leak involved, and investigators also found evidence of a pipe bomb.”

  “The house on Cherry Knoll,” Jon stated.

  “The one where we just were, yes.” Andrea stepped closer. “And she wasn’t the only victim. Her ten-month-old child is in intensive care.”

  Jon stared at her. There was a sudden absence of air, like when he’d fallen out of a tree as a kid and landed flat on his back.

  S
he gripped his arm, and her eyes looked anguished. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I don’t.” This from Torres. “Who’s Carmen Pena?”

  “One of Kirby’s staffers,” Jon said numbly. “We went to visit her yesterday.”

  “Not just any staffer,” Andrea added. “I think that rumor was true. I think she was having an affair with him.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up.” Torres stepped over a file box and stared down at Andrea, hands on hips. “You’re saying Kirby’s mistress is dead?”

  “I’m saying the mother of his child is dead. They were over, but I think he was paying her hush money.” She looked at Jon. “Think about it. The Jag, the house, the designer clothes. The detective on the case tells me she was making forty grand a year working for the mayor’s office.”

  “I thought she was divorced.”

  “She was,” Andrea said. “As of three years ago.”

  Jon felt as if a cold fist was gripping his stomach. Andrea met his gaze, and he now understood the look in her eyes.

  “I think you were right,” she said. “The senator is the target. And Shay Hardin is terrorizing him by going after his children. Even the ones no one knows about.”

  The room went silent, and the words seemed to hover. Torres muttered something in Spanish.

  Jon stepped away. He raked a hand through his hair.

  “Where is Hardin?” Andrea asked. “Anyone seen him the last twenty-four hours?”

  “His truck is at the ranch,” Jon said.

  “That’s according to the latest flyover,” Torres added. “But he could have left the property in a different vehicle, maybe someone else driving.”

  “I thought you had the place under surveillance.”

  “It’s ninety acres, with six people and five vehicles,” Torres said defensively.

  “When was the last time you talked to Gavin?” Jon asked Andrea.

  She tensed, but he could tell she’d expected the question. “We exchanged e-mails last night.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he’s fine, same as last time I bugged him. He wants me to get off his case about going back to school.”

  “I saw the kid this morning,” Torres told her.

  “Where?”

  “Tailed him from the ranch to the grocery store in town. He bought a few things, picked up some burgers, went right back. He was in his little blue car.”

  Jon stepped away from them. He turned to the map on the wall, tuning them out as different scenarios raced through his mind. “You have this relationship confirmed?” He turned to Andrea. “About Carmen Pena and the senator?”

  “Not yet, but I will soon.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got two tickets to Phoenix,” she said.

  “What’s in Phoenix?” Torres asked.

  “Senator Kirby.”

  ♦

  Andrea could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in an airplane, but Jon was obviously a frequent flyer. A frequent armed flyer—he whisked them and their weapons through security in no time. They made a brief hop over New Mexico, and shortly after landing at Sky Harbor, he had them in a rental sedan, with their destination programmed into the navigation system.

  “Black Hawk Resort and Spa, eleven miles,” Andrea said. She glanced around, trying to gauge the traffic. “Think we’ll make it in ten minutes?”

  “Doubtful,” he said, cutting into the left lane. “You made an appointment?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “I’m surprised he agreed to see us on such short notice.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “He agreed to see us, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He cut a glance at her. “What’s that mean?”

  “I might have been a little vague. He agreed to see you. And FYI, you’re part of the task force investigating the university bombing.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What? You’re on a task force, aren’t you? And your investigation is possibly linked to the university attack.”

  “The real task force is working out of Philadelphia. And I’m sure whoever they’ve got covering the senator has never heard of me.”

  “So we’ll wing it. I do it all the time.”

  Jon navigated the Red Mountain Freeway. Out her window, Andrea saw a steady flow of tile rooftops in varying shades of brown and gray. The sun was sinking low over the mountains to the west.

  “I take it you’ve never met Senator Kirby?” Jon said as they neared their destination.

  “No. Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him expectantly. The word had sounded weighted with meaning, but he didn’t explain.

  “You know he got a bounce from this,” Jon said.

  “From his daughter’s death?”

  “His approval numbers are way up. Sympathy effect.”

  Jon turned right at a rock waterfall, and the transmission shifted into lower gear as they made their way up a hill. The driveway wended past a rolling green golf course dotted with palo verdes. Palm trees and saguaros lined the road. Behind all the green loomed a craggy red canyon. Water, no water. She suspected the golf course’s designers had been going for dramatic contrast, but to Andrea, it seemed jarring—just a glaring reminder that the entire place was man-made. An amusement park for the rich.

  The sprawling adobe hotel was situated at the top of a bluff overlooking the golf course. More waterfalls, more saguaros. Jon bypassed the valet and pulled into an empty space beside a line of golf carts.

  “She’s meeting us in the lobby,” Andrea said as they got out.

  “She?”

  “His scheduler. Her name’s Kirsten.”

  Pointy green agaves lined the path. Hot-pink bougainvillea dripped over the adobe walls. Andrea and Jon entered an airy lobby with a giant adobe fireplace in the center. A flame flickered over fake logs.

  Andrea skimmed the clusters of chairs and sofas. She saw plenty of sun-bronzed, silver-haired men lounging with drinks and cigars, fresh off the eighteenth hole. The women were equally sun-kissed. They perched on chairs and ottomans throughout the lobby, like spindly-legged tropical birds in their colorful visors and tennis skirts.

  Andrea and Jon stood out. He was in a charcoal-gray suit with the same blue tie he’d worn yesterday. And she was in her go-to detective’s uniform of black slacks and a blazer. Ignoring the curious glances, Andrea scanned the faces, looking for a twentysomething woman who might be named Kirsten.

  No one even remotely fit the bill, so Andrea made a phone call.

  Ten minutes later, a youngish man in an olive business suit stepped off the elevator and strode toward them. A gatekeeper. Andrea pegged him instantly by his brisk demeanor and the pseudo-concerned frown on his face.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. Agents North and Finch, is it?” He offered Andrea a limp handshake.

  “Detective Finch,” she corrected. “And this is Special Agent Jon North. We’re here to see Senator Kirby.”

  A pained look. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible tonight. The senator is in a meeting.”

  “We have an appointment at six.”

  “I’m sorry.” He clearly wasn’t. “I wasn’t informed of the appointment, and it isn’t going to be possible to work you in tonight.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  He looked at Jon, who stood with his hands tucked casually in his pockets. “Ted Holloran.” He cleared his throat. “I’m the senator’s personal assistant. As such, I can tell you that his schedule is completely booked. I’m not sure who you talked to—”

  “Kirsten,” Andrea said.

  “I see. Well, I’m afraid she wasn’t informed of the senator’s time frame this evening. Excuse me.” He held up an index finger and pressed a cell phone to his ear. “Yes? No, it’s at eight. Okay, call you back.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and continued without missing a beat. “Despite what Kirsten may h
ave communicated, it’s simply not possible for me to squeeze you in—”

  “Try.”

  Andrea glanced at Jon. His razor-sharp tone brokered no argument. She could feel the gatekeeper tensing up beside her.

  “Well.” He took out his phone again. “The best I can do is check tomorrow’s schedule.”

  A blond woman glided up to them and squeezed the man’s arm. “Twenty minutes, Teddy.” Her voice was laced with anxiety, and he waved her off with a shooing motion as he scrolled through his calendar.

  “I have a three forty-five.” He looked up at Jon. “You can do fifteen minutes.”

  Andrea plucked the phone from his hand and dropped it into her pocket.

  He went bug-eyed. “That’s my phone!”

  “Listen up, Teddy, because we seem to be having a failure to communicate,” she said. “We are here to see the senator. Now. Not later. Not tomorrow. Now. And we’re going to need more than fifteen minutes.”

  “But—”

  “You may be aware that the senator’s daughter was killed in an attack recently. Are you aware of that, Teddy?”

  He continued to look apoplectic. His mouth opened, but no actual words came out.

  “We are here to talk to the senator about the investigation into his daughter’s death.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “I am not asking you this, I am telling you. Now, either you get the senator out of his meeting to talk to us, or we will locate him and get him ourselves. Do you understand?”

  His gaze dropped to the bulge in her pocket, and his cheeks reddened. He looked at Jon, who lifted an eyebrow lazily. “Fine.” He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Andrea handed back the phone. “We sure appreciate it.”

  chapter sixteen

  THE SENATOR WAS BOOKED in the Presidential Suite overlooking the golf course. Jon and Andrea waited for him in a spacious sitting room decorated with bronze cowboy statues and Navajo rugs. Teddy had handed them off to Kirsten and promptly disappeared—probably to go vent his indignation to his fellow staffers.