Chapter 13
Coop moved through the bullpen Monday morning, extra-large black coffee in one hand, dialing his cell with the other. Sutton answered almost immediately.
“Tell me you’ve got something.”
“I’ve made progress,” Sutton replied.
Coop waited but got nothing further. He set his cup down and leaned against the desk. “Why does it feel like I’m pulling teeth to get half of the picture out of you?”
“That’s rich,” he muttered. “I give you first-rate intel then read about your action-hero adventures in the paper the next day. If I’m lucky. We behind-the-scenes guys are always the last to know.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that what this is? Payback?”
Sutton didn’t hesitate. “You know it is.”
Coop understood completely. If he had to ride a desk forty hours a week, he’d be bitter, too.
“But, seriously,” Sutton said, “this is me making sure I don’t hand you something that falls apart the second you lean on it.”
“Is it going to fall apart?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got your girl.”
“Erica?” Coop asked too fast.
“Who? No, Debra Wilson.”
Coop relaxed, but only briefly because Sutton immediately asked, “Who’s Erica?”
“No one. Tell me how the wife is involved.”
“Debra Wilson’s title firm looks clean,” he said. “Books, filings, transaction structure… Everything tracks. If she’s dirty, she’s good at burying it.”
“There’s a but,” Coop said.
“There’s always a but,” Sutton agreed. “She employed the wrong man. Her husband had access to internal accounts, escrow flows, and transfer timing.”
“And he had opportunity.”
“Exactly.” His mouse clicked rapidly. “I’m seeing irregular withdrawals. Small at first. Then larger. Spread out enough to avoid attention.”
“Thomas Wilson embezzled from his own wife.”
“That’s what it looks like.” Silence came from the other end, before Sutton said, “I really don’t think she knew.”
“Walk me through it.”
“Title companies move a lot of money short term,” Sutton said. “Escrow accounts hold funds between transactions. If you know the timing, when money comes in and when it goes out, you can skim without triggering alarms. Especially if you’re inside the operation.”
“And she wouldn’t see it?”
“Not unless she was auditing him specifically.”
Thinking better on the move, Coop pushed off the desk and started pacing. “So, Thomas skims money. What next?”
“He needs somewhere to park it that can’t be traced to him.”
“Enter shell companies.”
“Bingo. Domestic LLCs. Layered ownership. Standard laundering structure.”
“And where do they lead?”
Sutton hesitated, not from uncertainty but precision. “I can’t put Kedrov at the top of it. Not cleanly. But I can put him close.”
Coop’s jaw clenched. In this case, close told him a lot.
“Two, maybe three layers removed,” Sutton continued. “The same entities that move Thomas’s money show up in transactions tied to known Kedrov fronts.”
“Thomas was laundering for him.”
“That’s my read. Wilson Title handles legitimate deals: real estate, development, and investment groups. Kedrov operates through fronts that need exactly that kind of service. Thomas gets greedy, skims from the wrong place, panics, borrows to cover it, and ends up owing the wrong people.”
Before he could respond, his captain came out of his office with a man who had federal agent written all over him. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, expression smug, as if he expected everyone to drop everything and cater to his whims.
Reyes spotted him and waved him over.
“Shit,” Coop muttered.
“What’s happening?” Sutton asked.
“Looks like I’m getting sidelined.”
“What? Why?”
“We’ll pick this up later.” Right before he ended the call, he caught Sutton’s faint, “Dammit, not again,” crackle through.
“Lt. Cooper,” Reyes said as he approached. “This is Special Agent Kyle Morgan. FBI Organized Crime.”
Morgan extended his hand. “Good to meet you in person.”
Coop took it, noting the firm grip.
“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Reyes said.
“Only by phone,” he replied.
“Your captain was filling me in on the raid,” Morgan said. “Sounds like you had a busy weekend.”
“I consider it job security.”
Morgan’s mouth tipped slightly. “Something we all can use.”
Reyes gestured toward his office. “Let’s get to it.”
No one sat. Coop stayed standing. Morgan positioned himself opposite the desk, unhurried, as if he had all day.
Reyes looked between them. “Well?”
Morgan opened a thin folder. “Your raid didn’t simply hit a crime scene. It hit one of Kedrov’s legal business fronts.”
That was it. He’d crossed a line. His jaw tightened. He wasn’t about to apologize for saving a girl’s life.
“We’ve been tracking Kedrov for a year,” Morgan continued. “He hides behind shell companies and development fronts. One of those fronts intersects with your victim.”
“Debra Wilson,” Reyes guessed.
“Her company’s clean,” Morgan said. “Her husband wasn’t. We suspect he was laundering money through her title firm and ended up owing Kedrov.”
Except for a muscle ticking in his cheek, Coop didn’t move. Sutton had told him the same thing.
“But that’s only half the picture,” Morgan said. “A development tied to those shell entities received unusually fast federal support.”
Reyes frowned. “Lots of developments get federal support.”
“Not like this,” Morgan said. “Expedited approvals. Zoning flexibility. Infrastructure grants pushed through committee.” He slid a document across the desk, tapping the top page. “Senator Burnside sits on that committee. And he invested in a development Wilson Title handled.”
Corruption didn’t surprise him anymore. “You think Burnside is involved?”
“Someone in his office had access,” Morgan said. “Someone who could push things through without raising alarms.”
Reyes scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled, “Jesus.”
“If Kedrov’s money is moving through U.S. developments,” Coop said slowly, “and those developments are getting federal backing…”
“Then he’s not only laundering,” Morgan finished. “He’s embedding himself inside U.S. systems.”
Reyes straightened. “What do you need from us?”
“A foot in the door without raising red flags from here to Washington,” Morgan said. “Local cops asking routine questions about a local murder at a company he does business with, and I’m simply along for the ride.”
Coop understood. “And we’ll see who reacts.”
Morgan didn’t deny it. “If it’s not the senator himself, someone in that office is working with Kedrov.”
***
The senator’s San Antonio offices occupied the entire top floor of a limestone building overlooking the River Walk. Quiet, polished, and a world away from the violence Coop had spent the past week wading through.
Glass doors etched with GEORGE BURNSIDE—UNITED STATES SENATE reflected Coop and Morgan as they entered. The lobby smelled faintly of furniture polish and coffee. Framed photos lined the walls: ribbon cuttings, factory floors, Burnside shaking hands with voters and donors.
He had no patience for politics, but it had a way of bleeding into his job.
The receptionist looked up. “May I help you?”
Morgan produced his credentials. “Special Agent Morgan, FBI. This is Lieutenant Cooper of the Texas Rangers. We’re here to see Senator Burnside.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Coop answered—friendly, local, nonthreatening—before Morgan could. “We’re following up on a local homicide. The senator was a client of the victim. We need a few clarifications.”
She blinked, the color draining from her face. “I’ll check if the senator is available.”
She disappeared down the hall.
Coop scanned the reception area while they waited. Morgan leaned against the counter, unbothered, like this was just another stop in his day.
“Have you ever met him?” he asked.
Morgan shook his head. “We’ve been in the same task-force briefings, but we were never introduced. Surprising, actually. Burnside likes to remind everyone how much funding he’s secured for law enforcement.”
“Lucky us.”
Morgan chuckled, but the sound died when footsteps returned.
“The senator will see you, gentlemen.”
They followed her down a corridor lined with Texas landscapes and campaign posters.
Before entering Burnside’s office, Coop removed his hat and quickly finger-combed his hair.
Inside, two things hit him at once. First, the man behind the desk.
George Burnside rose with a broad, camera-ready smile.
Tall, silver-haired, the kind of politician who looked like he’d been born shaking hands.
Second, the woman beside him. She tensed the instant she saw their badges. A pen slipped from her fingers and clattered across the hardwood.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, bending to retrieve it. Her fingers trembled enough that the pen rolled once before she caught it.
Coop filed that away. Nervousness wasn’t unusual. Before anyone spoke definitely was.
Burnside strode around the desk, hand extended.
“Well now, this is an occasion.” A genial chuckle followed. “The FBI and the Texas Rangers on the same day.” His gaze lifted to Coop’s hat. “The Stetson gives you away.”
Coop gripped his hand firmly. “Lieutenant Vince Cooper. Pleased to meet you, Senator.”
Morgan moved in next. “Special Agent Morgan, FBI. Organized Crime Task Force.”
“Yes,” Burnside said, pumping once. “I’m familiar with the task force.”
When Coop’s attention drifted to the woman, Burnside noticed. “This is my legislative aide, Shannon Carter.”
She forced a polite smile, gripping the pen as if it might slip again.
Burnside waved them toward the chairs. “What brings you here today?”
Coop remained standing. “We’re investigating the Wilson homicide.”
Burnside’s smile thinned. “The real estate woman. Ugly business.”
Morgan picked up smoothly. “Debra Wilson’s title company handled escrow for several development projects. One appears connected to a commercial property your office supported.”
Burnside sat a little taller in his chair. “I can’t count the number of development projects I’ve supported. They’re good for jobs.”
This was a friendly fact-finding visit that could easily tip toward confrontational if they weren’t careful. He could feel Morgan’s stiffness beside him. Burnside would too. Time to soften the edges.
“This is routine,” Coop interjected, keeping his tone easy. “We only need to clarify a few details.”
The senator studied Morgan a moment longer before addressing Coop. “I’ll need an address.”
He gave it to him.
“Shannon. Is the paperwork here on that one?”
“Yes, Senator.” She crossed to a filing cabinet.
Coop watched her move. She still seemed keyed up. Burnside was the opposite. He leaned against his desk, hands folded, composed and unflappable from decades of practice.
“Tell me something, Special Agent Morgan,” he said conversationally. “Are you suggesting a United States senator might be mixed up in organized crime?”
Morgan held his gaze. “No, sir. We’re just following the paper trail.”
Coop cut in again. “We think someone got mixed up with the wrong people. That’s all.”
Burnside studied them both for a beat then relaxed. “That happens more often than you’d think.”
Shannon returned with a folder and set it on the desk. Coop flipped through the pages, scanning signatures and approval stamps. One name appeared repeatedly in the margins. Not Burnside. Not an attorney or a junior staffer. Shannon Carter. Interesting.
“This all looks in order,” he told Morgan.
The agent nodded, but Coop caught the tightening at the corners of his mouth. He’d noticed the same thing.
“Did you know the Wilsons well, Senator?” Morgan asked.
“Other than the article in the paper, I don’t know them at all. My chief of staff or one of my aides probably handled the transaction and brought the paperwork for my signature.”
“Then you’d have an idea who might have wished to harm Debra Wilson?” Morgan pressed.
“None. I wish I could help.” Burnside shook his head. “Ugly, ugly business.”
Coop had what he needed. A coolheaded senator. A trusted but nervous aide with a whole lot of access. He closed the file with a snap.
“That answers our questions. Appreciate your time, Senator.”
Burnside smiled. “Always happy to help law enforcement.”
The meeting ended as it had begun, with polite handshakes.
Coop and Morgan were halfway down the hallway when a voice called after them.
“Lieutenant Cooper?”
Coop turned.
Shannon hurried toward them, still clutching the pen.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About earlier. I must have looked ridiculous.”
“You looked a little flustered,” Coop said.
Her laughter sounded forced. Still seeming uneasy as she tucked her auburn hair behind her ear. “I recognize you.”
Coop frowned.
“Justin O’Reilly. He’s mentioned you a few times. Pointed you out once.” She offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet the legendary Coop at last.”
He shook it.
That explained her surprise. It didn’t explain why someone like her, polished, ambitious, and influential, was dating a first-year Ranger.
“Will I see you at McNabb’s barbecue this weekend?” she asked. “Justin can’t stop talking about it.”
“Seems like he just can’t stop talking,” Morgan muttered.
Coop ignored him, touching the brim of his hat. “I’ll be there if I’m able.”
Shannon smiled politely and headed down the hallway.
Morgan watched her until she disappeared. “O’Reilly’s a lucky man,” he said, clearly impressed.
Was it luck? Coop wasn’t so sure. Her frayed nerves, her authority, her name prominent on all the documents, and her association with O’Reilly; there were too many threads.
He glanced once more toward Burnside’s office door.
Something about her didn’t sit right. He didn’t know why. Yet.
“What was that with Burnside?” he asked Morgan as they walked toward the exit.
“Being questioned about his involvement, it was natural for him to be defensive. I may have played it too hard,” he conceded, “but I don’t have much patience for public servants who serve themselves.”
“We don’t know that he has yet,” Coop returned. “Keep it professional.”
“Always,” Morgan replied.