South America, one year and ten months after Red John
June, 2015
Dear Sam and Pete,
Hope you're both doing well. And give my regards to James and Luke and his family. I'm fine if bored with life here. Fortunately, I may not have to be here forever.
I have a new twist on the favor I'm asking of you. Next time you deliver a letter to Teresa, let the Feds make you.
I want the Feds to find out where I am from the postmark, but without knowing I engineered it. That means one of you will have to be obvious enough for them to make you. With the FBI's limitless pot of Federal dollars I'm sure they keep her under surveillance.
There is a risk to you. I've thought about it, but unfortunately I can't see a way around it. The risk should be manageable. The Feds could hassle you for receiving mail from a wanted fugitive, but I don't think they'd bother with charges. What you're doing is pretty minor–it's me they want. I am sorry, my friends, that I cannot guarantee it will stop with hassling. The odds are very good and, of course, if it ever got to a trial I would cover the cost of the best attorney available. You have clean records which would mean no sentence or a light one even if they managed to get a conviction.
As for me, no worries there. Venezuela doesn't have an extradition treaty with the US. The FBI cannot legally touch me. (There's always the illegal route, but I can't see them choosing that approach. They'd want me to stand trial to make an example of me.)
Trust me that this is all working out. With luck, I'll be visiting you for Christmas. Thanks again. I owe you.
Me
~.~.~.~
South America, one year and ten months after Red John
June, 2015
Dear Lisbon,
Hope you are fine. All is well here.
I'm swimming and hiking daily to fill the time. The sky is a deep blue, and the water a lovely aqua-marine. I'm spending more time outdoors at night to avoid the hottest time of the day.
One advantage of living by the sea is the seafood. It is impossible to describe the pleasure of eating seafood which is no more than a couple of hours from boat to meal. Alas, it is considerably harder to come by some of my other favorite foods, such as lamb. I'll survive.
Although I miss the intellectual challenge of solving cases, I cannot imagine going back to the life I lead for ten years. I've moved on, here, in this pretty good facsimile of paradise. It's peaceful not having to strive, just letting it all go. I have my books and puzzles from the papers and that is good enough. Going back seems like it would be going backward. Not healthy.
I think I have an idea of how I could help my friend Franklin. Education isn't the key for him and outright charity would be offensive. He has more pride than to accept a handout. I plan to offer him a loan–any reasonable amount–that he can use to start a business. My terms would be easy, of course. He is very enterprising and this could make a big difference for him.
Making friends in this different culture remains a problem. Remember how Bosco and I were good friends? I can only dream of replicating that close, honest relationship here. I'll keep working on it.
Meanwhile, I ask you to trust that I know what I'm doing–trust me. Know that this is working out as well as it possibly could. Some day I hope to see you again, hope you can visit this paradise. We'll share a sundae again or maybe blueberry muffins. Fondly,
Your partner in crime (solving)
~.~.~.~
Washington State, June 2015
Another summer break, another safety campaign. Lisbon decided to use the same measures that were so effective last summer, with a few modifications. This year the patrol officers would use the cantaloupe-helmet-sledge hammer stunt for high schoolers as well as middle- and elementary-school children. The younger teens in high school still rode bikes. And some of the older teens rode motorcycles. Both groups needed to understand the difference a helmet could make in protecting their heads. Thanks to Jane's influence, she would go with dramatic impact over scientific accuracy any day, because the former would convince the kids.
The newspaper articles, posters, presentations, and car wrecks on display were the same otherwise. She made the same standing offer to driving age students. The driver's ed equipment would be set up to simulate the slower reflexes and impaired vision of someone with a blood alcohol level over the legal limit. (She wasn't going to put too fine a point on the fact they could not drink legally at that age. Practical as always, Lisbon was more interested in dealing with reality.) She would give any driving-age teen who drove a perfect simulation under those conditions a gift card for a local amusement. Because of the stellar accident statistics from last summer, she was able to get the local bowling alley, movie theater, amusement park, skating rink, and water park to donate the outings rather than having to fund them herself. Those businesses got publicity and good will out of the deal. And maybe one of their children would avoid suffering in an accident.
Lisbon was walking to her SUV after work. She was surprised to see Pete's beat up truck in the lot nearby. He got out and approached her, envelope in hand. What the hell?! Lisbon frowned a bit at how...exposed, how visible it was. She caught her breath when the light breeze lifted the envelope from his hand and blew it a hundred feet away. Fortunately a pedestrian in a black suit saw what happened and chased it down. He picked it up, glanced at the envelope and handed it back to Pete. Lisbon stood stock still, every instinct telling her this was a set-up. Pete thanked the good Samaritan but his face was wrinkled in a fierce frown. He turned and openly handed it to Lisbon.
"Thank you. How are things, Pete?"
"Everything's fine, Teresa." Face close to hers and toward a blank brick wall, he winked, turned and left.
~.~.~.~
Lisbon was home in ten minutes, dropped her purse on the counter, and quickly put gun and holster in her home safe. She took a cold can of soda and Jane's letter into the den. She closed the drapes and put the whole box of Jane's letters on the couch. Before anything else, she closely inspected the box. Covered in cloth, there were some loose threads around the corners. Lisbon had carefully lined one thread up with a seam. Anyone who opened that box other than herself wouldn't know to line that thread up the same way. She sighed in relief. No one had opened the box in her absence. She scooped out the letters, put a rubber band around them, and hid them under a loose floor board under the couch. Now it was really unlikely they would be discovered. She returned the blank paper and matching envelopes to the box, and placed it back on the bookcase. She wasn't sure what was going on, but she certainly didn't want Jane's letters discovered. She sank onto the couch and slit the sides of the self-mailer.
Skimming the brief letter she shook her head. The tone, length, topics–everything was wrong. Pressing her lips into a tight line, she leaned back, took a deep breath, and read slowly and carefully.
Okay, first things first. Is this from Jane at all? Yes, I think so. No one else would know to mention the sundaes and muffins. And the comments about Franklin continue what he was talking about in previous letters. The attitude toward outright charity rings true, as well. So, yeah, Jane wrote this.
Now, why is it so out of character? It sounds like the letters he wrote early on, before he had...healed, before he worked through it all. A lot of this flat out contradicts previous letters. Jane, unless I've been misunderstanding you for months, you do want to go back to working with me and solving cases. You aren't cut out for the "not striving" life. And the Bosco stuff is so far off it's ludicrous. You know I would read that as a hundred percent wrong. So that's gotta be your way of telling me this letter is fake, intended to mislead...who?
Well, who the hell is after you? The FBI. And Pete intentionally gave the whole thing away. He made it obvious–in a non-obvious way–that he was delivering that envelope to me. Then that guy in the suit returns the envelope...after looking at the address. And who the hell wears a black suit in the middle of summer around here? Could be some random guy, but it's more likely an FBI agent. So Pete deliberately told the FBI your location–or at least the Venezuela post office. And Pete would do that... only if you told him to.
Curiouser and curiouser. So this is what Jane's got in motion. He wants the FBI to know where he is. The FBI will go there and...do what? Venezuela doesn't have an extradition treaty, so they can't touch him. If they can't arrest him...
Oh my God. Really, Jane?! You want the FBI to hire you, drop the charges, and legally get you back into the US. Holy shit. But what's going to convince the FBI that it wants you? Hmmm. All those Karen Cross specials and interviews were damn flattering, damn convincing about our–your–track record. Knowing you, there's probably other stuff you're doing to shore up that notion. I wonder if it will work?! Who but you would be on the run only to invite the Feds to hire you and drop the charges? I've gotta hand it to you, my devious friend: Slick. Let's hope it works.
Lisbon put the letter in with the blank stationery and proceeded to make dinner and do her evening chores. She missed getting a real letter from Jane. Then she decided to re-read the last several letters to see what she could pick up about his scheme. She smiled in the sheer pleasure of seeing her master con man at work. Not to mention that she might get exactly what she wanted, too: Jane back in town and the possibility of a real relationship at last. Life is never dull with Jane!
~.~.~.~
Austin, Texas, June 2015
Abbott reached for the bottle of Pepto-Bismol stashed in his bottom desk drawer to quell the rising nausea. It was 8:00 a.m. and the email from the Washington FBI division heads had already ruined the day. Maybe the year.
The FBI is getting killed in the press over those damn Karen Cross specials. I don't know what the hell is going on, but suddenly there's a lot of positive buzz about Patrick Jane. Either we need to arrest him and make the murder charges stick. Or we need to find him, hire him, and quietly drop the charges. And if by some miracle it turns out we hire Jane, you better believe there'll be a clause in his contract forbidding any contact with the media. No interviews, no speeches, no books, no nothing.
The DC geniuses think Jane is just what the FBI needs for tough cases. At least they haven't completely lost contact with reality. And I am the one blessed with this assignment. First, check him out. Just exactly what is his track record at CBI? How much did he contribute versus just ride the coattails of a good team? Second, has he done anything lately that would disqualify him? Drugs, alcohol, gambling? Does he pay his taxes? Beat his wife–ugh, strike that. Beat his dog? Fraud, theft? He's a con man so there's probably something.
Oh, yeah. There are also the murders of, let's see, is it three or is it four people? Sheriff Hardy, clear-cut justified kill. Defense of others. Timothy Carter, in cold blood. Except that a jury acquitted Jane of all charges. And the guy turned out to be a good bet for being a serial killer himself. Then two years ago, McAllister and maybe Cordero. But the evidence just isn't there to prove either one. So he's already free and clear of the most important reasons he should not be working in law-enforcement.
Assuming–big assumption!–Jane checks out on that stuff, where the hell is he? How interested is he in crime solving now? He's been out of the loop two years after, presumably, killing McAllister. Is he sharp, even able any more?
~.~.~.~
A week later, Abbott dozed on the non-stop flight from Washington state back to Austin, Tx. He was gradually assembling the pieces of the puzzle.
Track record. Check. Cho did a fine job of pulling together information on his CBI unit's track record. Damned if that record wasn't every bit as good as what I thought was TV hype. Lisbon's team was pretty good before Jane joined it. Of course, they were younger, even green at that point. After Jane joined them, their record was unbelievable. Closed every case. Almost all resulted in convictions on the main charges. He mused idly, No wonder Lisbon's team got their back up when I shut down the CBI. They were stars who had earned every bit of their reputation. They weren't used to being dismissed and treated as potentially-dirty cops or screw-ups. Sponsoring Cho was a smart move on my part. Good agent. New to the FBI but plenty seasoned already. Hard to believe he wasn't the star of that team.
He yawned and his ears popped as the plane changed altitude. More amazing still, Jane didn't disqualify himself. No substance abuse. No tax evasion, fraud, theft. No gambling habit. Half asleep, Abbott frowned. Some rumors about the kind of gambling success that professionals dream about. It was hushed up, but Jane took the Calida casino for hundreds of thousands at blackjack by counting cards. That's some trick. Why the hell did Jane work for a civil servant's pay? –Oh yeah. Access to the Red John files. Now there was his Achilles heel. Didn't exactly solve cases by the book. But never anything so bad Lisbon or Minelli or whomever had the pleasure of "managing" him couldn't get him out of. Shoot. That Vegas operation. Locking a perp in a coffin to get himself fired. Hey! It'd be funny if it wasn't torture and illegal. Got out of that, too. Just the window dressing on yet another attempt to get Red John. Anyhow, no disqualifying vices. The plane touched down, bumping and rattling on the runway as the engines were reversed and it gradually came to a halt.
In the limo back to his home, Abbott reflected on the last bit. Tried to recruit Lisbon for the effort, but she hates my guts. She was about as forthcoming as a brick wall. Denied any contact. I know she's lying. Jane's carny friends are sneaking his letters to her. At least we learned he's in Venezuela on Margarita Island from the post office cancellation mark. No point in strong-arming her unless she would willingly help get Jane to accept our offer. No chance of that, so I'll have to do it another way. Hey. It's an offer he can't refuse. Get out of jail free. And get the FBI out from under the PR spotlight.
~.~.~.~
Sacramento, California, June 2015
"Hi, thanks for taking my call. I'm Lannie Davidson from Hollywood Creations, Inc. I understand this is the phone number for the Lane-Jisbon website?"
"How can I help you?"
"I have an offer–by the way, what's your name, please?"
"I am the web master for that site. Go ahead."
"Well, my company would like to discuss merchandising for your characters. We think there's a market for action figures, comic books, and branded items such as backpacks and the like. I– ... Hello? Hello?"
The line was disconnected. He couldn't get another call to go through.