hands.
“Andrea, look at me.”
She didn’t move. Maybe she was thinking about her brother. Maybe she was thinking about the sixteen people who had died in that attack. The images on the news had been bad, but the raw police footage was far worse—severed limbs strewn across the sidewalk, victims shrieking, mutilated bodies. The carnage was shocking, even for seasoned investigators.
But Jon didn’t know what she was thinking about. She was so utterly still he couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.
“Look at me, Andrea.”
Nothing.
“ Look at me, damn it, and I’ll answer your question.”
She lifted her head, and the bleak expression on her face made his gut tighten.
“Yes, all right? I think Hardin had something to do with it.” He paused. “But I’m on my own with that. Except for Torres, everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”
“What makes you think he did it?”
He paused.
“Tell me.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me, God damn it!”
Jon was suddenly beat. His legs hurt. His head hurt. He had about a thousand cactus needles in his palms, and his hands were on fire.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a half-finished jug of Gatorade. He guzzled it down and tossed the container into the trash.
He sank onto the sagging armchair beside his weight bench and started untying his boots.
Andrea was still watching him with a look of despair.
“You know this investigation all started with a bank heist?”
She didn’t react.
“Six thousand dollars, back in September. This was in San Antonio.” He tossed his boot into the corner. The second one joined it with a thud. “Then, a month later, seven thousand. Both nothing amounts. Robber wasn’t armed. After Thanksgiving, another bank got hit for sixty-five hundred. It would never have gotten on our radar, except one of our eager-beaver new agents noticed some similarities, thought the cases might be part of a series.”
He stood up and loosened his vest. “Turns out this agent was right. We went back and looked at the tapes. Guy’s wearing shades and a baseball cap or a hoodie each time, but you can tell it’s the same perp.”
“Shay Hardin?”
He pulled off his vest and tossed it onto the sofa. Now he was down to a sweaty T-shirt and jeans. He unfastened his leg holster and put it on the table. “No,” he said.
She looked confused.
“Several aspects of the crimes pointed to an inside job. Someone who knew standard ops at these banks. Each hit, they took just under the amount that would attract the FBI’s attention.”
“Don’t all bank robberies attract attention?”
“We get hundreds a year in Texas alone. We prioritize cases, like everyone else.” He sat down and looked at her. “Besides the amounts, we also noticed the timing. First robbery happened while the bank manager was at lunch—but it was two in the afternoon, which was kind of an odd lunchtime. Also, the perp didn’t say anything, just presented the teller with a note. But the wording was interesting. He used jargon that made us think he had inside knowledge of the procedures at this bank.”
“So what did you do?”
Jon leaned back in his chair. “Checked out the bank employees, starting with the first hit, which we thought would be most revealing. Ran everyone’s close relatives and significant others to see if anyone had ever been arrested or in trouble with the law. Guess whose name came up?”
“Hardin’s.”
He nodded. “We found four bank employees with exes who had rap sheets, but Hardin was the only one of those who’d been investigated for killing a federal judge.”
She looked frustrated. And intense. And she had a little worry line between her brows that he hadn’t noticed before.
“So you’re saying Hardin’s suddenly robbing banks now? Why would he do that?”
“Because”—he smiled tiredly—“that’s where the money is.”
chapter nine
“YOU THINK THIS IS funny ?” She looked as if she’d just found gum
“Andrea, look at me.”
She didn’t move. Maybe she was thinking about her brother. Maybe she was thinking about the sixteen people who had died in that attack. The images on the news had been bad, but the raw police footage was far worse—severed limbs strewn across the sidewalk, victims shrieking, mutilated bodies. The carnage was shocking, even for seasoned investigators.
But Jon didn’t know what she was thinking about. She was so utterly still he couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.
“Look at me, Andrea.”
Nothing.
“ Look at me, damn it, and I’ll answer your question.”
She lifted her head, and the bleak expression on her face made his gut tighten.
“Yes, all right? I think Hardin had something to do with it.” He paused. “But I’m on my own with that. Except for Torres, everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”
“What makes you think he did it?”
He paused.
“Tell me.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me, God damn it!”
Jon was suddenly beat. His legs hurt. His head hurt. He had about a thousand cactus needles in his palms, and his hands were on fire.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a half-finished jug of Gatorade. He guzzled it down and tossed the container into the trash.
He sank onto the sagging armchair beside his weight bench and started untying his boots.
Andrea was still watching him with a look of despair.
“You know this investigation all started with a bank heist?”
She didn’t react.
“Six thousand dollars, back in September. This was in San Antonio.” He tossed his boot into the corner. The second one joined it with a thud. “Then, a month later, seven thousand. Both nothing amounts. Robber wasn’t armed. After Thanksgiving, another bank got hit for sixty-five hundred. It would never have gotten on our radar, except one of our eager-beaver new agents noticed some similarities, thought the cases might be part of a series.”
He stood up and loosened his vest. “Turns out this agent was right. We went back and looked at the tapes. Guy’s wearing shades and a baseball cap or a hoodie each time, but you can tell it’s the same perp.”
“Shay Hardin?”
He pulled off his vest and tossed it onto the sofa. Now he was down to a sweaty T-shirt and jeans. He unfastened his leg holster and put it on the table. “No,” he said.
She looked confused.
“Several aspects of the crimes pointed to an inside job. Someone who knew standard ops at these banks. Each hit, they took just under the amount that would attract the FBI’s attention.”
“Don’t all bank robberies attract attention?”
“We get hundreds a year in Texas alone. We prioritize cases, like everyone else.” He sat down and looked at her. “Besides the amounts, we also noticed the timing. First robbery happened while the bank manager was at lunch—but it was two in the afternoon, which was kind of an odd lunchtime. Also, the perp didn’t say anything, just presented the teller with a note. But the wording was interesting. He used jargon that made us think he had inside knowledge of the procedures at this bank.”
“So what did you do?”
Jon leaned back in his chair. “Checked out the bank employees, starting with the first hit, which we thought would be most revealing. Ran everyone’s close relatives and significant others to see if anyone had ever been arrested or in trouble with the law. Guess whose name came up?”
“Hardin’s.”
He nodded. “We found four bank employees with exes who had rap sheets, but Hardin was the only one of those who’d been investigated for killing a federal judge.”
She looked frustrated. And intense. And she had a little worry line between her brows that he hadn’t noticed before.
“So you’re saying Hardin’s suddenly robbing banks now? Why would he do that?”
“Because”—he smiled tiredly—“that’s where the money is.”
chapter nine
“YOU THINK THIS IS funny ?” She looked as if she’d just found gum
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