by J. L. Brown
“Not sure. We need to check him out.”
“Will do.”
“His mom might be right.”
“About what?”
“If they ate dinner there once a week, someone could’ve studied their patterns. Knew they were going to be there.”
He closed his eyes. “If we’re not careful, she might put us out of work.”
She tapped him on the shoulder and waited for him to open his eyes before she glanced down at his seatbelt. “Are you going to buckle that?”
“Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” she said. “I’m asking for Christian.”
@TheGodOfVeritas: Word on the street is that Finn Hurley is in secret meetings with Senator Hampton. I wonder what Congress will do next to boost her business. #shame
Chapter Eighteen
Arlington, Virginia
Few cyclists braved the cold. The odometer showed ten miles. Five to go before she arrived at her home in Old Town Alexandria. She picked up the pace as she headed south on the gravel path that paralleled GW Parkway, the mud-brown Potomac River on her left. Ordinarily, she rode ten miles every morning, but today she strove for fifteen. Because of her ever-rising stress level? Was she procrastinating going to work?
She pedaled harder.
The board of directors was unhappy with last quarter’s financial performance: flat sales, escalating payroll costs, and a decline in earnings.
They’re shortsighted.
She’d never understood why American markets focused only on a public company’s last quarter. She had negotiated several new client contracts, increasing the backlog, which meant future revenues. One was a lucrative contract with the federal government. She ran her company for the long term, a perspective that was hard to keep in this market environment.
She wanted her “baby” to be around long after she was gone.
Six months ago, she increased her employees’ pay. Not out of kindness, but to retain her top performers before they left to seek higher wages elsewhere. Was she rewarded for her efforts? No. Some of her best talent still left, and profits fell. To compensate, she’d need to increase her fees, which would alienate most of her clients. She couldn’t win.
The one bright side: she was still running the company.
Her front tire hit a rock. In an attempt to control the bicycle, she overcorrected. As she fell, she clicked out of the pedals and landed on the grass adjacent to the path, the cycle still between her legs.
As dew seeped into her cycling clothes, she assessed the damage. She wasn’t too worried. She wore a helmet. Nothing was broken or even scratched, the grass landing having softened the blow. Sitting up, she examined the bicycle. The front tire was whacked out of alignment, but otherwise things looked okay. Easy to fix.
She heard the clicking of an approaching bicycle.
It was one of those red bike-share bikes you saw everywhere these days. The rider stopped near her and disembarked. He was dressed in all black—cycling glasses, helmet, tights, and jacket—and toted a backpack.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concern etched on the visible lower half of his clean-shaven face. He had a strong jaw.
She liked that. “Yeah. It’s no biggie. My ego is hurt more than anything else.” She laughed. “I fall about once a week.”
He joined in the laughter. “Here.” He laid his bicycle next to hers and held out his hand. “Let me help you.”
“How kind,” she said.
Placing her gloved hand in his, she thought how refreshing it was to meet a friendly person. A friendly man. Men in DC were pretentious, unable to be involved in a real relationship with anyone but themselves. Her husband divorced her after becoming fed up with the hours she spent at work and client dinners. She hadn’t met a considerate man in a long time. She laughed inwardly. There she went again. A glance at the gentleman’s gloved left hand. He might not be single.
After he helped her up, she righted her bike, preparing to adjust the tire. She turned to thank him… and a burning sensation spread up her thigh. She saw the hilt before her brain registered that it was a knife.
Eyes wide, she looked at him. “What are you—?”
He stared at her, his face neutral, as she fell again. He didn’t say a word while she lay there, her blood soaking the grass. She closed her eyes for the final time. Her last thought wasn’t of her company. Or her accumulated wealth. Or her ex. Or the children she would never bear.
Instead, it was, I guess he wasn’t such a nice guy after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Arlington, Virginia
Dev pedaled away.
She understood why the target chose to ride at this time of morning. It was quiet. Peaceful. Only a few other riders and runners were out.
The lack of nearby witnesses was advantageous.
But that’s not why she had killed the cyclist here. She’d been given specific instructions, and Dev was a stickler about following orders.
But she had messed up once. Just once.
And here she was.
Following the path to Crystal City, Virginia, she reached Jefferson Davis Highway. She located an available bike-share dock on her phone and locked the bicycle, then walked back to her room at the Holiday Inn.
Showering hastily, she changed into a business suit. She hailed a taxi in front of the hotel, climbing into the well-worn back seat.
Entering the automatic sliding glass doors of Ronald Reagan National Airport, she averted her face from the surveillance camera, bypassed the check-in counters, and went straight to security. Patiently waiting in line, she smiled as she allowed a black woman with two young children to cut in front of her.
Retrieving her small carry-on and briefcase from the conveyor belt, Dev blended in with the rest of the early-morning business commuters as she headed to the gate, in time for the announcement of the 8:00 a.m. American Airlines flight to New York City.
Chapter Twenty
Arlington, Virginia
Busting through the circle of cops huddled around the victim, Jade was oblivious to their shouts of protest and dirty looks. Kneeling close to the body, she stared at the victim’s face, placing her palm on his cheek, his freckles a galaxy of stars across his nose and upper cheeks.
“Wake up!” she said. Then, more urgently, “Austin, wake up!”
He didn’t stir.
She shook him, but to no avail.
Special Agent Austin Miller was dead.
Jade sat up in bed, sweaty, her cotton T-shirt clinging to her back. Light filtered in under her bedroom blinds. The alarm clock on her nightstand displayed 7:00 a.m. in bright red numerals. The vibrating cell phone next to it had awakened her.
Lately, her fallen agent appeared recurrently in her dreams.
She allowed her head to clear for a moment before she picked up the phone.
“Harrington,” she said.
“Agent Harrington. Lieutenant John Briggs. Remember me?”
“Of course.”
Briggs had worked with Jade on the bullying case a year ago.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said. “Again.”
“Talk to me.”
“A stabbing victim. A cyclist. I think there are some similarities to other cases I’ve been reading about. Want to check it out?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Not too far from Gravelly Point Park.”
This stopped Jade short. “Really?”
“I know, right? What a coincidence.”
Nicholas Campbell, one of the bullying victims, had been murdered and dumped in the same park. Jade didn’t believe in coincidences.
She hopped out of bed. “I’m on my way.”
*
“Where’s Christian?” Jade asked.
Dante shook his head.
She’d arrived to find him and Micah waiting for her. She’d called Dante earlier and asked him to meet her here. Both of them wore suits, although Micah looked like a GQ ma
gazine model, while Dante looked like a character from Miami Vice. They stood apart from the other police personnel. Jade scanned the crowd for Briggs.
Briggs, medium-complexioned with the build of a middleweight mixed martial arts fighter, spotted her first and strode over to greet her.
“Good to see you again,” he said. They shook hands. She introduced him to Micah and Dante.
The detective eyed Dante’s suit. “I remember you.”
Micah threw his head back and laughed.
Jade bit back a smile. To Briggs, she said, “What do we got?”
After checking in with the officer maintaining the sign-in sheet, they followed Briggs across the swath of grass to the bike path. Response techs in white space suits collected evidence. A photographer snapped pictures of the victim and the crime scene from every angle.
Looking down at the body, Jade said, “Who is she?”
Briggs shook his head. “No ID.”
Jade took in the pocketless black bicycle tights and bright yellow reflective cycling coat with an open pocket in the back. “Maybe it fell out.”
Dante stood next to her. “Or she didn’t carry any, afraid it would fall out.”
“Or the perp stole it,” Micah said.
“There was a key in the small bike bag under the seat,” Briggs said. “Looked like a house key.”
“Who found her?” asked Jade.
“Two runners on their daily run.”
“Did you eliminate them?”
He nodded. “A commuter saw the whole thing. Started recording after the stabbing and sent it to us.” He pointed south. “The perp took off that way. We’re canvassing Crystal City.”
Jade waited for the technicians to finish their work.
They finally stood. Recognizing her, one of them nodded.
Snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, Jade crouched next to the body and stared at the victim’s face.
“The corpse whisperer,” Dante whispered behind her.
“Why do you call her that?” Micah whispered back.
“Because they talk to her. Haven’t you noticed?”
“What do they say?”
“I don’t know,” Dante whispered. “It’s like telepathy or something.”
“Incredible.”
Still crouching, she pivoted to look up at them. “You know I can hear you, right?”
Dante said, “Not saying anything that isn’t true.” He pointed at the victim. “What’s she saying?”
Jade ignored him and turned back to the body. The knife was still rammed in the victim’s thigh. Her helmet was removed, and the vivid redness of her medium-length hair splayed across the grass. Her eyes were closed. Other than the stab wound, she appeared to be sleeping. A dark stain covered the ground around her body.
The bike, a few yards away, looked undamaged. Except for the front tire, which was askew.
“Did she fall?” Jade asked.
Briggs nodded toward the techs, who stood off to the side, chatting, waiting for Jade to complete her examination. “They think so.”
“Forced off?”
“I would’ve expected more damage.”
Jade scanned the area surrounding the body. “Lots of blood.”
“She bled out,” Briggs said. “It didn’t take long.”
Since she’d been wearing a helmet, the victim’s face was unblemished. A plethora of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Jade thought of Austin.
“Who did this to you?” Jade whispered to her, wishing she knew the victim’s name.
“See?” Dante said to Micah.
“When I die,” Micah said, “I hope she talks to me like that.”
“If you two don’t shut up,” Jade said, “that might be sooner than you think.”
Dante was right. She did talk to her victims, and although they didn’t talk back to her, they often led her in the right direction if she stilled herself long enough to listen. She continued to gaze at the dead woman.
Around her, the DC rush hour went on. Bumper-to-bumper commuter traffic crept along GW Parkway. In addition to the normal traffic, drivers squeezed into one lane due to the emergency vehicles blocking the other. The rubbernecking didn’t help. Jade tried to ignore the excessive honking and occasional shouting.
She swiveled her head as a plane took off. She grinned despite herself, thinking of her friend Zoe, who would only call the airport by its former name: National. Zoe had a fit when Republicans introduced a bill last year to name this park after the former first lady Nancy Reagan.
Lieutenant Briggs stepped forward. “No ID, but we did find something.”
Jade stood as he waved over one of the techs.
“Found this in her jacket pocket,” Briggs said.
The female technician—the one who’d recognized Jade earlier—handed her a clear evidence bag with a sheet of beige paper inside. It was handwritten in tight block letters. Black ink. As she started to read, Dante and Micah moved in close—too close—to read over her shoulders.
But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
—Bard of Avon
“What the hell?” Dante said.
Micah shook his head. “The inadequacy of an American education.”
“What?” asked Dante.
“The Bard of Avon,” said Micah incredulously. “Shakespeare, man.”
Jade thought back to a team meeting during the TSK case. After the killer sent an email to a cable news station, the agent who’d brought it to her team’s attention said, “Shakespeare strikes again.” This homicide couldn’t be related to that case. TSK was dead. Jade knew because she had killed him. But somehow he seemed to reach from beyond the grave.
“Was it hers?” she said. “Or did the killer put it there?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The White House, Washington, DC
They did it.
That morning, the United States Senate had repealed the New New Deal Coalition Act, the final vote along party lines. Soon, the measure would come to Whitney’s desk. She would veto it, of course, but the House had secured enough votes to overturn it.
Sitting in the Oval Office, she read a letter from Joseph Babineaux, a worker from Pike County, Missouri. He’d received a call from a construction firm, rescinding an offer of employment on a crew replacing a crumbling bridge that spanned the Mississippi River. Almost a quarter of the bridges in Whitney’s home state needed repair.
Placing the letter on her desk, she rubbed her eyes in frustration. It was one of many she’d received. Hundreds of thousands of emails opposing the repeal inundated the White House website, most of them from her base outside of Missouri. Thousands of people signed petitions on MoveOn.org and other political action sites.
Sometimes even she, the most powerful person in the world, felt helpless.
Her phone buzzed. It was Sean, her secretary, who sat in the Outer Oval, the office right outside of hers. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, but as for any boss, that wasn’t always an option. She pressed a button.
“Madam President,” he said through the speaker. “Cole Brennan is on the line.”
He couldn’t be calling to gloat, since he was the one who’d strong-armed Senator Eric Hampton into sponsoring the bill, a major reason it had passed.
She would take the call.
Cole, the most popular conservative radio commentator in the country, was not one of Whitney’s biggest fans. He constantly pilloried her legislative positions and accomplishments on his show. Her dress, relationships with her family and celebrities, even her hair—nothing was off-limits to his scrutiny.
Last year, after Cole’s son, CJ, was bullied and savagely beaten, Cole’s wife, Ashley, had visited her in the White House. As a result of that meeting, Whitney and Cole teamed up to pass the federal Anti-Bullying Act, the first national law protecting children and teachers from bullying.
“Cole,” she said. “Is this a condolence call?
”
“Madam President, I assure you I had nothing to do with it.”
Whitney stayed silent. She believed him.
“I want to wring Hampton’s scrawny little neck,” he went on, “with one of his little red ties. He’s behind this. And Sampson… Sampson is a two-faced little pri—piece of crap. He’s crossed the wrong person.”
Whitney said, “You needn’t worry about him for long.”
“Oh?” he said. “Something I need to know?”
“Perhaps.”
“Sexual harassment? Sexting? Embezzlement?”
“You don’t think too highly of the senator, do you?”
“I’ve been in this game for a while.”
“How’s CJ?” she asked, shifting to Cole’s favorite subject.
“He’s doing well in school. Even hosting his own show on the radio station at his college. One of those liberal shows, talking about issues that impact LBGT and all those other letters.”
Pride in his voice.
“LGBTQIA,” she said.
He sighed. “I can never keep up.”
“Sounds as if he’s following in his dad’s footsteps.”
“That he is. Well, Madam President, this isn’t over. I don’t care for your politics much, but I gave you my word, and I’m one of the few people left in this world whose word is his bond.”
“I don’t care for your politics much either, Cole, but that’s kind of you to say.”
“Kindness nothing. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.” He paused. “In the meantime, is there anything you can do about deregulation? Good God, woman! You’re strangling businesses out here!”
Whitney laughed. This was the Cole she knew and had started to respect. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
