“I’ll walk you. That you in the corner?”
“The Jeep? That’s it. Got two hundred thousand miles on the original engine. A real trooper. You with the Bureau?”
“APD. Detective Lance Burroughs. Liaison.”
“Really? Detective? Didn’t know they were promoting right out of college.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
Tank tried to read the release, but his eyes sucked and the light was too low anyway.
“Did I miss anything?”
“You’ll find everything we have there. There’ll be a follow-up conference sometime tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.” Tank reached his car and Burroughs opened the door for him. Tank looked at him for a second, then climbed in and closed the door. “Thanks again, detective. Appreciate it.”
“Say, Tank, where do you live?”
“Tarrytown,” he said as he started the engine. “Why do you ask?”
“You may not be making it home tonight.”
“What do you mean? Car runs fine. Secret is to change the oil every two thousand miles.”
The hotshot had stepped away from the car and stood with hands on his hips. “Sir, would you turn the car off?”
Tank dug his chin into his neck. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Just do as I say, sir. Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle.”
“But…” Tank looked down. It was then that he saw the fifth of Cuervo lying on the seat beside him.
“Now, Mr. Potter. You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated.”
10
It was late when Mary returned home. She parked in the front drive and stayed behind the wheel after she cut the engine. Through the front window she could see the girls watching television. For the rest of their lives they would remember that they were watching Survivor when their mother came home and informed them of their father’s death.
Mary got out of the car and managed a few steps toward the house before stopping. The front door was twenty feet and a mile away.
Mountains don’t get smaller for looking at them.
Mary listened to the buzzing of the cicadas, the murmur of the television, the cycling of the air conditioning on and off. One more minute of innocence. One more minute of not knowing. One more minute of not feeling like she did.
Jessie spotted her car and jumped up from the couch. Grace rose, too. Both hurried to the front door, eager to learn why she was home so late. Their children’s sense had warned them that something was wrong. They had no idea.
Jessie opened the door. “Mom, what were you doing just standing there?”
Mary started up the walk. “Coming, peanut.”
Grace pushed her way in front of her older sister. “Where’s Daddy?”
Tuesday
11
The next morning Mary sat on the edge of her bed reading the newspaper. The headline read “FBI Agent Killed in Dripping Springs Shoot-Out.”
“Veteran Special Agent Joseph T. Grant was killed yesterday in the line of duty. The shooting took place at approximately 3:15 p.m. outside of Dripping Springs on the grounds of the former Flying V Ranch. FBI spokesperson Donald G. Bennett stated that Grant was interviewing an informant deemed cooperative and unthreatening when the informant drew a weapon and shot Grant in the chest. The informant, whose name is being withheld due to the sensitive nature of the ongoing investigation, also died at the scene. Grant recently transferred to Austin from Sacramento, where he had been the assistant special agent in charge.”
A color picture ran above the fold. It showed Joe’s car with the windshield shattered, shot through. On the ground, visible between the milling law enforcement officers, lay a body draped by a sheet. The informant, identity unknown.
Mary stared at the photo, trying to imagine what had happened, how Joe had allowed an informant to get the drop on him. She looked closer. The informant lay several steps away from Joe’s car. From the pool of blood on the ground near his head, it appeared that he had been shot there, not in the car. Questions formed in her mind. Discrepancies with Bennett’s nervous and contradictory explanation.
She could hear Joe’s voice, snippets of the message. “Everything’s copacetic. Tell Sid. He’s one of the good guys.”
So there were bad guys?
The door to her bedroom opened. A curvy, attractive woman dressed in yoga tights and a lululemon jacket entered.
“All right,” said Carrie Kramer. “That’s enough of that. There’s a bunch of gals downstairs who are waiting to give you a shoulder to cry on. They’ve brought enough carbs to fill two refrigerators. I hope you and the girls like chicken potpie and grits. That’s what passes for comfort food around here.”
Mary put down the paper. “I’ll pass.”
“How ’bout some coffee?”
“Maybe later.”
Carrie sat down on the bed next to her. She was Mary’s newest next-door neighbor and the best friend she’d made in God knew how long. Carrie was her age, a mother of two girls and wife to a husband who, like Joe, worked far too many hours. Mark Kramer taught electrical engineering at UT and had recently taken a consulting job at the new Apple campus. Joe had “the job.” Carrie’s husband, Mark, had “the lab.” Like Mary, she was a de facto single mom.
Then there was the matter of their looks. Both were blondes a few pounds from being “athletic,” with hair cut to their shoulders; they were more or less the same height, with blue eyes, ready smiles, and a little too much energy. They couldn’t go out without someone asking if they were sisters. This led to spirited banter about who looked older. In fact Mary was older by a year, but in the name of détente and neighborhood peace, they decided to respond that they were the same. They called themselves the Texas Twins.
“You hanging in there?” asked Carrie.
“I can’t stop from thinking,” Mary began, “what might have happened if I’d just answered the phone.”
“It wasn’t your fault you missed Joe’s call. These things happen.”
“I wasn’t there when he needed me. I knew it was a mistake to let Jessie play with my phone.”
Carrie laid an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “You can’t go back, sweetheart. What’s done is done. There’s no saying you could have helped him anyway.”
“He called me at 4:03. I didn’t hear his message until after Don Bennett phoned two hours later. I sure as hell could have done something.”
“You told me he didn’t tell you where he was or what he needed. Who would you have called if you had gotten the message?”
Mary stood. “I don’t know…someone-anyone. Two hours, Carrie. Why didn’t I…?”
“Because it slipped your mind. Because you couldn’t have known what Joe was calling about. Because you’re a human being like the rest of us.”
“And then I went and erased the message. I don’t know how, but I did.”
“How do you know it was you? Machines screw up all the time. Mark’s iPad just goes and shuts down sometimes. He’s always yelling about losing this or that.”
“They don’t lose the last message your husband ever sent you.”
Carrie studied her. “What are you getting at?”
Mary dropped her hands and paced the room, exasperated at her inability to recall her actions. “All I know is that one minute the message was there and the next it was gone.”
“So someone else erased it?”