Invasion of Privacy (20 page)

“He went dark,” said the Mole.

“How’s that?”

“Signal vanished.”

“But you just had it.” Shanks glanced over his shoulder. The Mole sat at his console, headphones draped around his neck, eyes glaring at the monitor. Shanks returned his attention to the road. Rush hour, and traffic on I-35 was slow. “Find it?”

“There’s no ‘it’ to find,” said the Mole. “One second he’s blasting in the clear. The next he’s dark. A ghost.”

The Mole recommenced the search protocol by entering Tank Potter’s mobile phone number. The handset’s corresponding eleven-digit alphanumeric identification appeared on the screen. Potter was a ONE Mobile customer and theoretically easy to locate. The Mole requested that the number be pinged. A signal was broadcast to the handset in order to establish its real-time location as measured by the internal GPS chip standard in all cell phones. Two minutes earlier the phone, and presumably Tank Potter, had been inside the premises of the
Austin American-Statesman
at 305 South Congress Avenue. Now the pulsing red dot denoting his location had vanished.

“He knows,” said the Mole.

“About time. You wiped his photos an hour ago. His story just went up in smoke.”

“Continue to his last known location. Let’s hope for a visual.” Shanks pulled into the
Statesman
’s parking lot five minutes later. “A rusted-out Jeep Cherokee shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

The Mole slid into the front seat beside him and scanned the parked cars.

“No joy,” said Shanks after he finished a circuit of the lot. “You sure he was here?”

“GPS doesn’t lie.”

“He’s gone now.”

“I give him a ten-minute head start.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Shanks. “We lick our finger, stick it into the wind, and guess where he’s headed?”

“Pull over and be quiet.”

Shanks slid the Airstream into a spot at the back corner of the lot. “Better be quick. Briggs wants this guy taken care of.”

The Mole began feverishly typing commands into the console. It wasn’t a matter of guessing where Potter was headed but of analyzing his past actions to predict where, statistically, he was most likely to go, the pertinent question being, where could Tank Potter usually be found at five p.m.?

First the Mole asked ONE Mobile’s servers to provide a history of Potter’s movements between the hours of four and six p.m., based on GPS readings transmitted from his phone. For a data range the Mole chose the past fifty-two weeks, with data points chosen randomly four times each hour. A jumble of nearly three thousand dots clogged the screen. It was immediately evident that he spent the preponderance of his time at or close to the
Statesman
headquarters.

The Mole narrowed the search parameter to Thursdays while keeping the time period constant. Approximately four hundred dots remained and only confirmed that Potter rarely left a two-square-mile area surrounding his office. The problem was that many of the coordinates had been taken while Potter was driving and failed to offer an establishment where he might be found. Still, there were four smaller but statistically significant clusters of dots at defined locations other than the
Statesman
.

The Mole accessed a record of all text messages sent from Potter’s phone on Thursdays between four and six p.m., winnowing the time frame to the past six months. He was not interested in the messages themselves but again in Potter’s geographic location when he sent them. A sample set of two hundred dots appeared. The four clusters were now just two, not counting the
Statesman
.

The Mole activated the map’s tagging feature. The names of all nearby banks, restaurants, boutiques, and gas stations appeared. Potter had sent 107 texts from inside a single 50-square-meter perimeter.

The Mole sampled several texts randomly, the messages appearing on an adjacent monitor.

At P’s. You coming?

Billy boy, get down here. The joint is jumping!

Hi darlin! Hanging at P’s. When can I expect you?

All three had originated from 16415 Barton Springs Road. Pedro’s Especiale Bar and Grill.

The Mole brought up the website on his monitor. The screen filled with a picture of a black velvet painting of Salma Hayek in a bikini. “Throwback Thursdays. Happy Hour 4–8.”

“Good news,” said the Mole. “We got him.”

“Well,” said Jessie. “What was that all about?”

Mary waved as the Ford pulled out of the driveway. “I needed to talk with some of Dad’s colleagues.”

“Why didn’t you drive?”

“Someone else gave me a ride.”

The front door opened. Grace stepped outside. “Where’s Tank?” Mary hesitated and Jessie pounced. “Who’s Tank?” she asked, dark eyes instantly suspicious, darting between Mary and Grace for any sign of treachery.

Mary smiled. “Let’s go inside, Jess. It’s hot out here.”

Jessie had been too awed at seeing her mother being chauffeured by a young, handsome FBI agent to ask any questions on the ride home from UT. She’d been in surprisingly polite form the entire way and spent the trip talking about how she’d been the only one in her class who’d solved some kind of challenging problem. “A hack,” she’d called it.

“Rudeboy did it in five minutes,” Jessie had explained. “Okay, I’m not him. I needed thirteen minutes, but at least I did it, Mom. I did the Capture the Flag hack. I’m as good as Rudeboy, and he’s the best.”

Mary shut the front door and walked into the kitchen, her daughters following like a lynch mob.

“Who was driving that car, Mom?” asked Grace.

“The FBI,” said Jessie. “Now be quiet. Mom didn’t answer my question yet. Who’s Tank?”

“He’s a reporter,” said Grace.

“For the
Statesman
,” said Mary, adding inadvertently, “kind of.”

“Kind of? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Grace giggled. “He’s really tall and he has messy hair.”

“Shh,” said Jess, her eyes never leaving Mary.

“He had some questions about your father. That’s all.”

“Was it about Dad’s voice message?”

There it was: the reason for Jess’s worry. Mary had been foolish to
think her soothing words would allay Jessie’s fears that she’d been the one responsible for erasing Joe’s voice message.

“No,” she said, trying to sound light, breezy. “Just about his work. Nothing that concerns you two guys.” She took a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and poured two glasses. “Here you are. Why don’t you find something for all of us to watch on TV?”

Jessie didn’t budge. “Mom, something’s wrong. We can tell. You’re not acting normal.”

“Yeah,” said Grace. “I heard you talking to Tank before.”

“He was here?” demanded Jessie. “In the kitchen?”

Grace said, “What really happened to Daddy? What did he mean when he said that they were lying about what kind of gun shot him?”

“Who was lying?” Jessie looked from Mary to her sister. “Grace, what did the reporter say?”

“I’m not sure,” said Grace. “But he didn’t want them to take Dad to Virginia. That’s why Mom went with him downtown.”

“Mom, you need to tell us what’s going on. We’re old enough to know.”

Mary looked at her daughters. Chalk and cheese. She was at a loss for words. How much should she explain? Were they old enough to share her concerns? She felt cornered. She wished Joe were there to help.

“Tell us the truth,” said Jessie. “This is about Dad. We have a right to know.”

“What’s Semaphore?” asked Grace.

Mary snapped, “Shut up, Gracie.”

At once Grace’s eyes welled up.

“Mom!” shouted Jess. “You shut up.”

“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Mary retorted.

“Both of you, stop.” Grace looked between them, crying. “Don’t argue with each other. I hate it.”

Mary wrapped her arms around Grace. “Come now, mouse. It’s all right. I didn’t mean it. Mommy’s just upset. I’m sorry.” She kissed Grace’s blond head and saw a shadow of resentment cross Jessie’s face. Mary opened her arm and motioned Jessie closer. “Come here, peanut.” Jessie shook her head, arms crossed.

“Please,” said Mary.

Jessie remained rooted to the spot, glaring at her mother. Mary sat
down with Grace at the table and held her until she stopped crying. She noted that Grace had winced a few times since she’d come home. “What is it, mouse?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Grace.

“You’re sure?”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Jessie. “She said she’s fine. Stop doting on her. She’s not some fragile piece of china.”

“I’m fine, Mommy,” said Grace with a smile, wiping her eyes.

“Really?”

“Promise.”

Jessie shrugged her shoulders and sighed dramatically. The only thing missing was a roll of the eyes. “Tell us about Dad.”

“First of all,” began Mary, “you have nothing to worry about.”

“Who said we were worried?”

“That’s enough, young lady,” Mary snapped, fire in her eyes. Jessie swallowed and appeared to shrink an inch. Mary drew a breath and spoke calmly. “After your father was killed, I had some questions about exactly what happened. Mr. Potter had some questions, too, but he and I aren’t going to be talking about it anymore. This is something only I can figure out.”

Jessie pulled out a chair and sat. “What do you think happened?” she asked, no longer the antagonist.

“I’m not sure. Just—”

“Did they take Dad to Virginia?”

“Yes.” Mary related her conversation with Edward Mason, making sure to pass along his words about their father’s heroism. She had no doubt that Joe had acted heroically, no matter the exact circumstances of his death. Still, she felt disingenuous.

“Sounds like bullshit,” said Jessie.

“No curse words, young lady.”

“Or what?”

Mary leaned forward and patted her leg. “Or I’ll wash out your mouth with soap.”

“Gross,” said Grace. “Soap tastes like poop.”

Mary smiled. Even Jessie laughed.

“So what are you going to do?” asked Grace.

“Mr. Mason told me that your father was working on an important case to help keep our country safe. He said we’d find out all the details
soon. Your father is going to receive a commendation from the president.”

“Wow,” said Grace, beaming. “That’s amazing.”

But Jessie pursed her lips as if she’d chewed on a lemon rind. “You believed him?”

Mary looked at her older daughter, hair hanging in her face, eyes staring like lasers right through her. The problem was that Jessie was too smart. She never accepted a word as the truth until she could prove it herself. Her cynicism had come at a price. She’d heard too many doctor’s promises, seen too many medicines that didn’t work, sat by her sister’s bed too many days. Life had taught her to believe in deeds, not words.

“Maybe,” Mary answered finally. It was as close to a declaration of her own feelings as she was willing to make in front of the kids.

The answer satisfied Jessie. She nodded and her frown relaxed. Distrust was a safer place from which to view the world, and Mary realized that for now, anyway, she shared that same dark promontory.

“I’ll make dinner,” she said, standing, rubbing her hands together. “I’m starving.”

“Chicken fingers,” said Grace. “With French fries and mustard.”

“Barf,” said Jessie. “I want a hamburger.”

“Dog barf,” said Grace.

Mary smiled, happy for even that small measure of relief.

Order was restored.

For now.

Shanks slowed the van as it passed Pedro’s Especiale Bar and Grill on Barton Springs Road.

“Is he there?” The Mole poked his head from behind his work console.

“Like clockwork.” Shanks stared at the blue Jeep Cherokee parked in front. The lot appeared full. He turned at the corner and continued down the street. To his dismay, cars occupied every inch of curb space.

“Must be a popular place,” said the Mole. “Looks like half of Austin’s here.”

Shanks continued to the end of the street and turned around. The alley behind the restaurant was likewise packed. He stopped behind the bar’s back entrance. “Any cameras?”

“None outside. We’re good.”

“Take the wheel. I’m going to go in. Make sure our man is there.”

“Don’t make a scene.”

“If the opportunity presents itself, I’m not going to let him get away. The matter is time-sensitive. That stiletto of yours goes in real easy. A little poke through the ribs, nick his heart. The man will be dead before he knows what got him.”

The Mole slipped his knife from its sheath on his calf. “Make it quick.”

Shanks slid the blade up his sleeve. “Lightning.”

Tank sat on his favorite stool and raised a hand. “Long day, Pedrito,” he called.
“Una cerveza, por favor.”

He’d made it through a day without a drink. Or almost a day—not that anyone was counting. If Mary Grant didn’t want him investigating, that was fine by him. He could take his time, dig up more evidence about what Edward Mason and Don Bennett were covering up. Good stories required patience. How long had Woodward and Bernstein needed for Watergate? A year? Two?

Pedro set a bottle of Tecate on the bar and poured a generous shot of tequila, the amber liquid overflowing the edges. “Throwback Thursday, man. You forget to bring your jersey?”

“Left it at home.”

“No one’s going to know who you are without it.”

“Thanks,” said Tank, wrapping his fingers around the beer. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Got you something,” said Pedro.

“A bottle of La Familia?”

“Nah. Something we were talking about.” Pedro reached beneath the bar and came out with a braided leather quirt. “Not exactly a buggy whip, but pretty close. It’s yours. Help you figure out what to do now that you’re not a journalist anymore.”

Before Tank could respond, Pedro left to help another customer. Tank set the riding crop on the counter and lifted the beer to his lips. Who said he wasn’t a journalist anymore? Al Soletano? Mary Grant? Edward Mason?

If you’re a journalist, what are you doing in Pedro’s?

Tank looked at the crop. A journalist tracks down sources and gathers evidence. He digs out the truth, no matter how cleverly it’s hidden. He doesn’t give up until he has his story. A journalist has a sacred obligation to the truth.

Once he’d believed all that garbage.

And now?

He ran his fingers along the crop, waiting for an answer.

Shanks slipped into Pedro’s through the back entrance. The dining room was dimly lit and he needed a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The first thing he noticed was the colorful plastic fish hanging from the ceiling. Then the velvet paintings of Hispanic stars. Real class. Only a few tables were occupied. None of the diners matched Potter’s description.

A din was coming from the bar area. He crossed the room and ducked his head around the corner. The place was a madhouse. Students, young professionals, even a few oldsters. Many wore dated clothing and sported old-school hairstyles. He noticed a sign advertising
THROWBACK THURSDAY
and
BEERS $1
.

Shanks edged his way through the crowd, keeping low, eyes scanning
the faces. He was intent on finding Potter. This was his chance. He didn’t have the gift like the Mole. He wasn’t an electrical engineer or a code pounder, or in any way technically gifted. He hadn’t gone to Harvard or MIT. But he wasn’t dumb.

William Henry McNair—Shanks to his friends—was a proud graduate of King College Prep on Drexel Boulevard in Chicago. And not just a graduate, an honors graduate. His diploma had the words
cum laude
printed right below his name.
With distinction
. That didn’t matter much when your mother was loaded all day and your father was doing time in Joliet. No one in his family had even thought about college.

Shanks didn’t want to follow his brothers onto the street. He was a good kid, with only two smears on his rap sheet. The day after graduation he was on a bus to Parris Island, South Carolina. The Marine Corps Recruit Depot. He saw action in Iraq, made sergeant in three years, and was offered a slot in Officer Candidate School. By then, though, the headaches had begun, and he decided he’d had enough of the Corps. While he liked the idea of getting his butterbars just fine, the prospect of earning $100K a year was more appealing, and that was what his brother had promised.

His brother had lied. Instead of $100K, he got a ten-year sentence for armed robbery. He served six, but six was more than enough. Shanks was done working with thieves. He liked having a real job with a real company with a real salary and real benefits. As of this fine day he was pulling down ninety-four grand a year, with health, dental, and a 10 percent kicker to his 401(k). He aimed to keep it that way.

It was lighter in the bar area and he had a good view of everyone’s face. He made a circuit of the room, keeping his eyes peeled for a tall, shaggy guy with drooping cheeks and sad eyes. He saw no one, and after double-checking the dining room, he made a second tour of the bar. There was a single unoccupied stool. A $10 bill was tucked beneath a full bottle of beer on the counter. Whoever had left the money had left a shot of tequila, too.

And something else. A fancy braided leather riding crop.

Where in the world was Tank Potter?

Shanks hurried out the front entrance.

The Jeep was gone.

“Get out of my seat.”

Shanks slammed the door and handed back the stiletto.

“You missed him.”

“He left.”

The Mole moved to the work bay and took his place at the console. “Briggs is going to be pissed when he finds out you let him get away.”

“I told you, he left,” said Shanks. “Anyway, we have another nail to take care of. You know how to get to Buda?”