Far Gone Read online

  Yeah, right. If regular guys were built like action heroes.

  But something about the running shoes got to her. They had some miles on them. They made him seem more human, less threatening. Although that was an illusion. Her brother was a key to his case, and she knew full well he’d come here because he wanted something.

  Still, the drink offer was tempting. Better than staying holed up in her motel room with Mr. Goodbar, at least. She glanced down at her faded T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  He gave her that slow smile that made her heart beat faster. “Five.”

  chapter five

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, THEY pulled into a crowded parking lot on the outskirts of Fort Stockton. They were in Jon’s personal vehicle, a gray F-150 with oversize tires. They walked to the bar entrance without comment, and he held the door open for her—more of those old-fashioned manners that seemed second nature.

  Country music drifted from a jukebox. She’d expected to grab a seat at the bar, but he steered her toward a table in the back beside the pool room. Andrea poked her head in. Judging by the intense look of the men gathered around the table, there was some money riding on the game.

  She stripped off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair, and Jon’s gaze lingered on her stretchy black top. The Kimber was in her ankle holster tonight.

  “They have food here if you’re hungry,” he said as she sat down. “The wings aren’t bad.”

  A waitress stopped by to take their drink orders. When she was gone, Andrea leaned forward on her elbows. “Look, I should tell you right off, so there’s no misunderstanding. I’m not going to get my brother to wear a wire for you.”

  “You mentioned that already.”

  He seemed totally relaxed. She hadn’t known him long, but she knew relaxed wasn’t his natural state. He was trying to get her to let her guard down so he could pump her for information.

  But two could play at that game, and she liked a challenge.

  Their beers arrived, and he looked at her over his bottle as he took a sip. “You talk to your brother yet?”

  “I’m seeing him tomorrow.” She hoped.

  “Let me know how it goes.”

  She kept her expression neutral as she glanced around the bar. Not a bad crowd for a Wednesday night. There were some golf shirts and khakis mixed in with the jeans and cowboy boots, probably tourists en route to Big Bend National Park.

  “So.” He leaned back in his chair, as if he was settling in for a story. “Tell me about Pearl Springs.”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “What was it like for you two growing up there?”

  She held his gaze. “I’ve got a question first.”

  “Uh-oh. Sounds like a test.”

  “It is. How’d you find me in Austin?”

  The side of his mouth curved in what might have been a smile. She waited. If he gave the bullshit story about running her plate again, she was officially done giving him information.

  She should be done anyway, and yet here she was, having a drink with him. She was in a reckless mood.

  “I ran your prints.”

  She blinked at him. Her mind scrolled back through their encounter at the Broken Spoke.

  “You took the glass?” she asked.

  “The twenty.”

  “You stole my twenty?”

  “Don’t worry, I replaced it. And then some.”

  She leaned back in her chair, annoyed. And maybe a little impressed.

  “I knew you were a cop,” he said. “I didn’t know what kind. Once I ran it down, I called up your department, thinking maybe I’d chat up your supervisor, find out what you were doing out here.”

  “And?”

  “And I didn’t get a supervisor. They patched me through to some public-information officer, and I got a canned statement about your being on leave.”

  Which had probably piqued his curiosity. Which had probably led him to Google. Which had no doubt provided him with a slew of headlines about her killing a teenager.

  She watched his eyes, trying to read them.

  “Then I guess you know.”

  He nodded.

  “Good.” She picked up her beer and took a cold gulp. She didn’t want to talk through it again. She’d been debriefed so many times she could recite it by rote now, and there was something terribly wrong with that.

  “Are you all right?”

  The way he said it caught her off guard. His look was so direct, as if he expected a straight answer.

  “Flashbacks?”

  She nodded.

  He didn’t say anything, but it seemed like he was waiting for something. His hazel eyes were calm and patient.

  And it hit her, as it did sometimes. The stark finality of what she’d done. Because of her, a young man would never fully experience life. His family would never stop grieving. What she’d done had saved lives, but it had ruined lives, too. And she couldn’t get away from it.

  She glanced down at her beer bottle as she thought about what to say.

  “You spend so much time training.” She looked at him. “But when it really happens, it’s different. I don’t know. I’d thought about it, but I’d always envisioned some drug dealer drawing down on me in an alley or something. I never pictured a freckle-faced kid in a crowded restaurant.”

  He watched her intently. “They get you an attorney right away?”

  He meant the officers union. She nodded.

  “That’s good.”

  She thrust her chin out. “I’m going to need it. I’ve already heard rumors about problems with my review.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she said, hating the way she sounded, like a lawyer or someone covering her ass.

  “Are you going to leave?”

  “No way.”

  He watched her.

  “They can fire me, but I’m sure as hell not quitting.”

  “Good.” He covered her hand and squeezed it, and she immediately tensed. She wanted to pull away, but his palm was heavy and warm, and she liked the way it felt.

  “You were telling me about Pearl Springs,” he said, changing the subject.

  She tugged her hand into her lap. “Not much to tell. It’s a pretty small town, like Maverick. I moved there in middle school.”

  “From?”

  “Houston, where we lived with my mom. She died when I was eleven.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “I came home from school one day. Cops were there. Social services. My mom had been in a drunk-driving accident. Single vehicle.”

  She could see the question on his face. Yes, in the middle of the day.

  “She had a drinking problem. When she died, Gavin and I went to live with my grandparents.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Not an option.”

  He turned his beer on the table, watching her.

  “My parents divorced a long time ago,” she explained. “Probably best for everyone. It wasn’t a happy marriage.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Ever been married?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “I was engaged once. She called it off.”

  Andrea looked at him expectantly, but he didn’t elaborate. “Did you love her?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t have proposed if I didn’t.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  The question seemed to make him uncomfortable, and for some reason, she felt glad. He looked down at his beer. “Honestly?”

  “No, make something up.”

  “I haven’t thought much about her in months.” He met her gaze. “When she left, she told me I was an ego-driven workaholic and I was destined to end up alone.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a smooth breakup.” He glanced at his bottle, then at her again. “You ever come close?”

  “God, no.”

  “Why not?”

 
“My job’s hell on marriages. It’s a proven fact.”

  “There are exceptions.”

  “There are.” She shrugged. “But not for me. Relationships need nurturing. I can’t even take care of a houseplant. What would I do with a husband?”

  He laughed, and she felt the mood relax, even though it was a touchy subject for her. She’d been in dozens of relationships, and they were all the same: hot and brief. When she’d first recognized the pattern, it had made her sad and self-conscious, but now she’d accepted it. Mostly.

  Every now and then, she wondered what it would be like to have something steady with someone. Something where she could count on him to be there. She thought of Dee and Bob and how they still went to movies together on Sunday afternoons and how he sometimes brought home a pint of her favorite ice cream just to surprise her. She thought about Dee nagging him to take his heart meds and get off his feet in the heat of the day.

  Of course, they fought, too, and many of their conversations ended with the slam of a screen door. It wasn’t a dream relationship by any stretch, but it was solid.

  “So I’ve been reading about your brother,” Jon said. “National Merit Scholar. Full ride to Tech.”

  She felt a swell of pride.

  “Spent his sophomore year on academic probation.”

  “How’d you know that? That’s part of his private record.”

  “So what’s the deal there?” he asked, glossing over her question.

  The deal with Gavin? Andrea wished she knew. “Gavin is very bright.” She paused. “But it’s a liability sometimes. He doesn’t fit in well.” She ran her thumb over the condensation on her bottle. “He’s a sweet kid. Well, you know. He can be. He’s twenty-two, so sometimes he’s pretty selfish, and I want to strangle him.”

  She glanced up, and he was watching her, clearly waiting for her to say more.

  “You have any siblings?” she asked.

  “Two brothers and a sister. They’re doctors in Chicago, like my dad.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, except my sister. She lives in St. Paul.”

  “But she’s a doctor?”

  “A cardiologist.”

  Wow. Andrea let that sink in, trying not to feel intimidated.

  She picked up her beer. “So why didn’t you follow the family tradition?”

  “I went to law school instead.”

  She put a hand to her chest. “That must have been a shock.”

  He smiled, and she felt a warm rush. God, what was she doing here? She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want to feel this pull of attraction. She definitely didn’t want to help him. But something about him—or maybe everything about him—got to her. He was a man she’d have a hard time refusing, and that was dangerous.

  “So if you went to law school, why aren’t you practicing?” she asked.

  “I did, for a while. Spent some time burning the midnight oil for a bunch of corporate clients. Then decided to apply to the FBI Academy.”

  “How come?”

  He hesitated, and she prepared for a glib answer.

  “Because I believe in accountability.”

  The simplicity of it surprised her. She watched him as she took a swig of beer, wondering if he was being honest here. She decided to push him. “Tell me about your murder case.” She set her beer aside.

  “I did.”

  “You really didn’t. I want to hear about the evidence. Call it professional curiosity.”

  He seemed to consider that. Maybe he thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a homicide cop’s perspective, or maybe he just wanted to keep the conversation flowing. “It had been dormant for a long time,” he said.

  “Six years.”

  “Then Hardin’s name came up in another investigation, and our SAC—that’s the senior agent in charge—”

  “I know.”

  “He asked me to take a look, see what our friend Shay’s been up to the last few years.”

  “And?”

  “And turns out he’s been busy.”

  “Buying up ranches. Doing the gun-show circuit. Does he have a job to pay for all this?”

  He stared at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “What’s he do for money? That’s what I wanted to know, too.”

  “It’s a logical question.” The waitress passed by, and Andrea ordered another round.

  “You’re right.” He paused, and she got the impression he was holding something back. “He didn’t buy Lost Creek Ranch. Not like you’re thinking. He bought the surface rights only. Height of the drought, too. Got it for a steal. The owner kept the mineral rights, which is where the real value is.”

  “So what’s with the gun shows? Is he a licensed dealer?”

  “Only thing he’s licensed to do is drive a car,” he said. “We see it a lot with these antigovernment types. They don’t like their names in databases. Don’t like the idea of background checks. It’s probably why he asked your brother to be a straw buyer for his friend.”

  “What does he do at these shows?”

  “Sells hunting gear—binoculars, ammo, camouflage jackets. Passes out leaflets railing against the government.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s convinced the federal government is to blame for the failure of his parents’ farm. Cutbacks in subsidies, that sort of thing.”

  “Not to mention they seized the land,” she said.

  “That, too.”

  “I can kind of see where he’s coming from. I grew up in an ag town. A lot of people I know have been devastated, especially with the drought.”

  “Do they murder their public officials?”

  “No, but plenty of them are mad. It’s not easy watching your crops dry up because of water rationing when fifty miles away, they’re watering golf courses.”

  Jon gave her a measured look. Maybe that sounded provincial to his ears, but it was how she felt.

  “You were telling me about your evidence,” she said. “The ME ruled it a suicide, but you think he got it wrong. Why?”

  “Couple of things. One, Kimball had just bought a half-million-dollar life insurance policy three months before his death. One of the clauses stipulated that in the event of suicide within the first six months, the policy would be void.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “Any chance Kimball missed the clause?”

  “He had a law degree.”

  “Okay, so maybe he didn’t care,” she said. “Wanted to end it all anyway.”

  “Also, his favorite shotgun was a Winchester, custom-engraved. Belonged to his dad. He didn’t use that weapon, though. He used a cheap twenty-gauge he’d picked up at Walmart a few years before.”

  “So?”

  “So most suicides tend to be ritualistic. His wife insisted that if he’d intended to kill himself, he would have used his favorite gun.”

  “Guns are heirlooms to some people,” Andrea said. “Maybe he wanted to leave it to his kids. Didn’t want them having a negative association with it.”

  “They didn’t have kids.”

  “This is weak, North, and you know it.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “What’s the real evidence?”

  He looked at her for a long moment. Then he sipped his beer and plunked it on the table. “A fingerprint.”

  Her eyebrows tipped up.

  “We have Shay Hardin’s print on one of the shotgun shells.”

  chapter six

  “HARDIN LOADED THE MURDER weapon without gloves?” Andrea couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  “Not the shell used in the killing,” Jon said. “We got the judge’s prints on that. A shell. From the box in Kimball’s car. He drove it out to a part of his ranch where he liked to dove hunt, parked, and walked out into a field with his shotgun. Never came back.”

  She watched him. “What’s Hardin’s story?”

  “Has an alibi for the time of the crime.”

  “Of course he does.�
��

  “Four people put him at a bar in Killeen, two hundred miles away.”

  She cringed. “That hurts. What does he say about the shell? I assume someone interrogated him?”

  “An agent interviewed him a week after it happened. Hardin claims the judge was at some of the same gun shows. Must have bought a box of ammo from him there.” He paused. “Unfortunately, that story pans out. They were, in fact, at a couple of the same events. And Hardin sold ammo, so it’s possible. But I’m not seeing it. The judge wouldn’t stop at a booth to buy something from a man who’d publicly insulted him and sent scathing letters about him to the local paper.”

  “You’re right, it’s a stretch.”

  Jon leaned back in the chair. He rubbed the back of his neck, and she could see the stress of the case was weighing on him.

  Still, she felt as if she was missing something. Such an old case with such fuzzy facts. “You know, I’ve been doing some investigating of my own these last few days,” she said. “I made a few calls about you.”

  He waited.

  “Nice job last year. I hear you helped nail those two guys who were plotting to blow up that bridge.”

  He didn’t say anything. Did he catch what she was driving at? This seemed like an odd assignment on the heels of such a big win. Almost as though he and Torres had been put out to pasture.

  She watched his eyes. He definitely got her meaning, but he wasn’t going to talk about it.

  She persisted anyway. She’d succeeded at interrogations because she didn’t give up. Subject didn’t want to talk? She kept hammering. She hit on a touchy subject? She didn’t let go.

  Other times, it was about finesse. During her patrol days, her stature hadn’t been much help when she needed to get drunks into her car. But as a detective, she used it to her advantage. A lot of men blew her off, didn’t take her seriously. They sat in the interview room shooting the breeze with her, waiting for the real detectives to show up. Meantime, she was getting the conversation flowing while listening to every word.

  “This isn’t just a cold case,” Jon said now.

  “No kidding.”

  “Hardin’s been on our radar.”

  “Our?”

  “Homeland Security.”

  Andrea had never liked the term. It sounded so ominous. It implied invaders, paratroopers, Red Dawn.