Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Read online

  Tank’s real name was Henry Thaddeus Potter. He’d started life as Henry, then Hank, then Hank the Tank, by virtue of his playing fullback on a state championship team at Westlake High. After four years as a Texas Longhorn, he was just Tank. It made for good copy. He was stuck with it.

  His phone rang and he checked the caller. “Yeah, Al.”

  “You at Pedro’s?” demanded Al Soletano, managing editor of the Austin American-Statesman, Tank’s employer for the past sixteen years. “Betty said she saw your car there. I need you to come in.”

  “I already got my envelope.”

  “You read it all the way through? The new management is itching for an excuse to fire you for cause. It would save them a lot of dough. You have thirty days until the deal clears. Keep your nose clean until then. In the meantime, we got a breaking story. An FBI agent got himself killed in Dripping Springs. Thought you might want to handle it. You know—a last hurrah.”

  “My beat is state politics.”

  “This one’s in our backyard. I’m not giving it to a wire service. I’ve still got my pride.”

  “You mean you’re short a crime reporter.”

  “Press conference is at nine at the Federal Building.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Tonight. Don’t be late. And Tank—no more cocktails.”

  Tank hung up and asked for his tab. Pedro put the bill on the counter, concerned. “Leaving already? The señoritas aren’t here yet.”

  “Duty calls.”

  The bartender flashed his most optimistic smile. “So you’re not fired?”

  Tank slapped the envelope on the bar. “Buggy whip, Pedro. It’s only a matter of time.”

  9

  Tank crossed the street and climbed into his ’98 Jeep Cherokee. The engine turned over after a few tries, no buggy whip needed. His first task was to roll down the windows. The air conditioning was DOA and the fan had as much power as a fruit fly’s wings. This accomplished, he reached under his seat for a backstop and took a two-second swizzle of Cuervo. Soletano had said no more cocktails. He hadn’t mentioned pick-me-ups.

  The FBI residency was off Ben White in South Austin, no more than a fifteen-minute drive. Tank made a U-turn against traffic and headed north. To the west the sky was flaming red. A wavy black line rose from the river and climbed east into the purple dusk. A gust of warm, fetid air washed through the car and he grimaced.

  The bats.

  Each spring a million bats migrated north from Mexico to Austin to nest beneath the Congress Avenue Bridge. Every evening they left the damp, cool recesses of the bridge and flew east to scour the countryside for insects. The air was thick with their musty, throat-clawing odor.

  Tank continued on Lamar, skirting the south shore of the Colorado River, the skyscrapers of downtown Austin to his left. He spotted Potter Tower, built by his grandfather in the late 1980s. To answer Pedro’s question, yes, there was money in the envelope. Or at least the promise of money. More money than Tank was likely to see again in one lump sum.

  The Potter family money was a thing of the past. Oil dried up. Real estate crashed. Besides, his mother wasn’t the first Mrs. Potter and he wasn’t the first male heir to carry on the family name.

  Tank arrived at the FBI’s office ten minutes later. The lot was half full and he parked in a far corner. He scoped out the place and took a quick snort from his backstop. It was just 8:30, and he chided himself for leaving Pedro’s so quickly. A car pulled into the lot and he spotted a slim, eager-looking man in short sleeves and a black tie hustling inside. It was the AP stringer out of Dallas. The enemy. No small-market paper could afford a full complement of reporters these days, not with circulation down 50 percent in the past ten years.

  A minute later two dark sedans pulled into the lot, braked dramatically by the double glass doors, and disgorged several men in business suits. He recognized Don Bennett, the agent who headed up the Austin residency. Another ten minutes remained before the press conference was scheduled to begin. God knew they never started on time.

  Hurry up and wait. It was a reporter’s life.

  Tank sipped from the Cuervo and turned up the music. Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys sang about lost loves and ruined lives. The night had cooled, and Tank leaned his head back and gazed out the window at the darkening sky. He remembered his own cheatin’ wife, gone these past five years. There hadn’t been anyone serious since, just the floozies from Pedro’s…though he did enjoy their company. He thought he saw a shooting star. He relaxed a notch.

  Damn if it wasn’t a beautiful night.

  —

  Tank woke with a start.

  He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself upright, then wiped away a lick of drool that had dried on his cheek. It was 10:45. He’d passed out for almost two hours. He looked around, still getting his bearings. The lot was empty. The press conference was over.

  He bolted from the car, ran to the front doors, and banged furiously. A young hotshot came down the hall and opened the door a crack. “Yeah?”

  “I need a summary from the press conference.”

  “And you are?”

  “Tank Potter. Statesman.”

  “Press conference ended an hour ago.” The hotshot was hardly old enough to have his first hangover, with a fresh high-and-tight and his sidearm high on the hip. A real greenhorn.

  “Just give me your write-up, okay?” said Tank. “Don’t be a dick about it.”

  The hotshot gave him a look, then smiled. “Sure. Wait here.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  Tank retreated down the steps and lit a cigarette. He checked his phone and saw that Al Soletano had left ten messages. Tank swore under his breath. They couldn’t dismiss him for missing a press conference.

  The hotshot came outside and handed him the summary. “Headed out?”

  “Yeah,” said Tank. “Bedtime.” In fact he was hoping to get back to the office, file his story, and make it to Pedro’s by midnight.

  “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 fron
t 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?”

  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?”

  “I left the phone in the car when I went into the hospital. I guess someone could have broken into my car, erased the message, then locked the car back up. But even then there’d be a record of it on my message log.” Mary knew her Sherlock Holmes. Eliminate the impossible and what remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth. “You’re right. It was the phone. It had to be. Something just happened.”

  “Take it to Joe’s office. Give it to what’s-his-name…Dave—”

  “Don Bennett. Joe’s boss.”

  “Have him take a look at it.”

  “I don’t like him. He practically tried to rip the phone out of my hands last night. He scares me.”

  “The FBI scares me, too, hon, but I trust ’em.”

  “I know them better than you.” Mary tried her best to recall Joe’s words. She closed her eyes and saw them hovering just out of reach. “It’s just that I can’t remember everything he said.”

  “Give it time. It’ll come.” Carrie nodded toward the door. “And the girls?”

  “Jessie is in her room with her door locked. Gracie woke up and cried until she fell back asleep. They’re in shock.”

  “Does Jess know about the message?”

  “No,” said Mary forcefully, surprising herself. “I won’t tell her. It wasn’t her fault I missed the call. She was just doing what she always does.”

  “She’s really into that tech stuff,” said Carrie. “Programming and creating apps.”

  “Her summer school teacher told me that some people just get it, and Jess is one of them. He said she has the gift.”

  “Mark was that way, too. Turned out good for him, even if he is still a geek.” Carrie stood and came closer. “What’re you going to do, hon?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t imagine moving again. The schools are good. Grace likes her new doctor. Besides, where would we go?”

  “I’d imagine you’d want to be nearer your folks.”

  “They’re all gone. I’ve got a brother floating around on an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific, and Joe’s got two sisters in Boston. That’s it. I don’t have anyplace to go.”

  “Texas has done right by us. You could do worse.”

  “Do I have to become a Republican?”

  “Mandatory after five years—otherwise they kick you out.” Carrie went to the door. “Can’t keep your fan club waiting forever.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Take ten. I’ll stall for you.” Carrie winked and closed the door.

  Mary picked up the newspaper again. She looked at the shattered windshield and the
body on the ground. She contrasted the picture with Bennett’s muddled explanation of what had occurred. Something didn’t match. Or, as she’d heard some good ol’ boy say, “That dog don’t hunt.”

  Mary walked to the bathroom, washed her face, put on makeup, and brushed her hair. It wouldn’t be right to show them how devastated she was. The admiral wouldn’t stand for it.

  She picked up her phone on the way out, pausing at the door to access the calls log. She spotted the number she wanted right away.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I direct your call?”

  “Don Bennett, please.”

  12

  It was not this hot in England.

  Ian tried not to hurry as he crossed the broad expanse of lawn known as the Meadow. Christ Church, and the comfort of his air-conditioned office, were ten steps behind him and already he was sweating. He continued up Dead Man’s Walk, then cut over to Merton Street, passing Oriel and University before reaching High Street.

  Oracle had its “Emerald City.” Google had its “Googleplex.” Ian had his own private Oxford.

  There was New College and Radcliffe Camera and the Bodleian Library. There was even the River Isis. The buildings were exact replicas of the originals, built from the same English limestone and mortar on a three-hundred-acre plot of land overlooking Lake Travis, five miles from the Austin city limits. A little bit of England in the Texas Hill Country.

  He crossed the High and entered a warren of alleyways, heading toward Brasenose, the “college” that housed ONE’s research-and-development labs. Each “college” contained offices, a cafeteria, and a quad where employees could get outside and recreate. New College housed the Server Division. Oriel housed Online Sales. And so on.

  Great Tom sounded the quarter hour. Like the original hanging in Tom Tower, the bell weighed six tons and was cast from smelted iron. It tolled over a hundred times at nine each night, not in memory of the original students enrolled in Christ Church, but to celebrate each billion dollars of ONE’s annual sales. In the year of our Lord 2015, Great Tom was programmed to toll 201 times each night.