Far Gone (8 page)

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.

“You want to explain that?”

“His name keeps cropping up,” he said. “He’s a person of interest in the judge’s death, he’s in a white supremacist group.”

“But he was in the military,” she said. “I think he even earned a medal or something.” She was being deliberately obtuse. He’d earned a Bronze Star in Operation Iraqi Freedom. He’d been a war hero. But then he’d dropped out. Why? She didn’t know. And as a city homicide cop, she had no easy way of finding out. But Jon probably knew.

She sipped her beer and waited, hoping he’d answer the unasked question.

“Someone like him can be a problem,” Jon said. “The military training, expert marksman. Great if he’s on your side. But what if he decides to switch teams?”

“What are you saying, exactly?”

“I’m saying, here’s a guy who goes from sending letters to the newspaper and intimidating a federal judge to quiet. Not earning any money—at least, not that he’s reporting. Living in the middle of nowhere. Even by West Texas standards, the place is remote.”

“You think it’s a front? That he’s keeping a low profile?”

It seemed like a reach to her, but he wasn’t sharing everything he knew.

He watched her, and she felt her skin heat as she imagined being alone with him—far away from a crowded bar. The look in his eyes shifted, and she knew he’d read her mind.

“Come on.” He plunked his beer on the table and stood up.

“Come where?”

“Let’s play some pool.”

“How do you know I play?”

“Because you do.” His look pinned her. Resisting would only make her seem insecure.

“Fine.” She shrugged, making it no big deal. She grabbed her jacket and her beer and followed him.

The previous players were filing out as Jon walked over to the rack of cues on the wall.

“This one looks about your size.” He handed it to her.

“It’s been a while for me.” She tested the cue’s weight in her hand as Jon flipped back the cuffs of his shirt.

“Same here.”

She smiled. “Why don’t I believe that?”

He racked the balls with the snap of his wrist. “Eight ball. Loser buys the other one dinner.”

She lifted an eyebrow. She’d expected him to bet cash or maybe a round of drinks. No matter the outcome, he was locking in a date with her.

Was this part of his information-gathering mission, or did he really want to take her out? She still didn’t trust his motives.

“Ladies first.” He handed her the cue ball.

“That’s your first mistake. Making assumptions.” She lined up her break shot, conscious of his gaze on her body as she leaned over the table.

Despite being rusty, she managed to sink a couple of solids. He followed up with a few impressive bank shots. After a five-ball run, he missed a curve shot and turned it over to her.

Another mistake.

She got down to business, nailing a long-rail bank shot. She studied the layout and planned her next move.

“Who taught you to play?” he asked.

“My granddad.” She leaned over the felt and sent him a sharp look. “He never let me win, though. I had to earn it.”

Jon watched her from the corner. Something in his gaze reminded her of the night at the Broken Spoke. She shouldn’t be getting so comfortable, not with the fed investigating her brother. But she had that flutter in the pit of her stomach, and she felt the alcohol kicking in.

She sank another solid before tapping one of his stripes.

“Oops.”

Jon chalked his cue, watching her. She reached for her beer, used it to cool her throat as he mulled his strategy. The next shot was all power. It made a sharp
crack
that sent a jolt of heat from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

He studied the table for his final shot. “Corner pocket,” he said, leaning over.

He killed it. Then he looked up at her.

He didn’t gloat. But the look on his face told her she would have been much, much better off if she’d stayed in her motel room pecking away at her computer.

He took her cue and replaced it on the rack. He replaced the chalk and watched her as he dusted his hands.

“I owe you dinner.” She shrugged into her jacket, putting an end to the evening.

They drove back to Maverick without talking. Tension hummed in the truck cab between them, and she spent the drive gazing out at the inky desert. Clouds were out tonight, so there was little to see besides a few ranch houses here and there.

He pulled into the pitted parking lot and slid into the space beside her Cherokee. Without a word, he came around to her door.

She was out before he reached it, digging through her purse for the keycard.

“Thanks for the drinks,” she said.