Read Online Invasion of Privacy by Christopher Reich - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Reich
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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 sworeunder 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
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 sworeunder 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
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