by J. L. Brown
And he wouldn’t let go.
She peeked over his shoulder. Some of the other guests were looking at them in surprise. Jade guessed they’d never seen the most conservative white guy of them all hugging a black woman before.
After Jade hugged his wife, Ashley, and the children, Cole asked her to sit up front with the family. Jade demurred. During the service, she sat in a pew in the back of the church, flipping through the Bible she grabbed off the back of the pew in front of her, admiring the stained-glass windows high on the wall, studying the intricate sculpture of Jesus nailed to the cross over the altar, and glancing at the back of Cole’s head.
Jade wasn’t the only one in the church with tears in her eyes when members from CJ’s high school glee club came together to sing “Over the Rainbow.”
The last one to leave, Cole sat motionless in his pew, staring at the casket long after the funeral director had lowered the lid for the last time.
Now at the memorial park, Ashley sat next to him holding his beefy hand, with their five surviving children sitting next to her in chronological order: Colleen, Madeline, Ryan, Kaitlin, and Ronnie. All of them were crying, except for Kaitlin, who’d had a role in the TSK case.
It was cold but clear. The rain the forecasters predicted never materialized. The park was peaceful, with its manicured lawns, shrubs, and pine trees. The private graveside service included family, select coworkers, and exclusive guests. Mourners sniffled and cried.
Cole wept.
Ashley’s face was pale and withered. The former model had aged ten years since Jade last saw her a year ago.
Jade kept her eyes on the family, ignoring the chaplain holding the Bible and tuning out his words of comfort. Looking at him or the casket dredged up memories of her parents’ funeral.
After the service, Cole encircled his wife and children in a group hug.
Jade waited her turn and hugged Cole and Ashley again.
“He left a note,” Cole said, wiping his nose with a handkerchief.
“Was it the bullying?” Jade asked.
“Partly,” he said. “Mostly it was me. He never got over the fact that he let TSK into our home and almost got his sister killed.”
“That wasn’t your fault. Or his.”
“TSK wanted to scare me or kill me. If it weren’t for me, that godforsaken liberal killer wouldn’t have been there.”
Jade said nothing; it was true.
“Thanks for coming, little lady,” Cole said, smiling through his pain, knowing she hated the nickname.
Ashley squeezed Jade’s arm. “It means a lot.”
Before Jade left, she needed to speak to one more person. She walked over.
“Madam President,” Jade said.
The two hugged. Although they were separated in age by over twenty years, a kinship had blossomed between them. It was more than their being two alpha women trying to make it in a man’s world—it was a strong relationship based on mutual trust and respect. These traits, at a time when they were most needed, were becoming less common between women.
“How’s the new job?” President Whitney Fairchild asked her.
“It’s been an adjustment,” Jade said.
“That’s what I like about you; you’re always truthful with me.”
“Don’t know any other way to be.” Jade tilted her head toward the grave site. “Like him.”
The president nodded, her gaze drifting toward some departing mourners. Jade spotted Senators Hampton and Sampson, and Representative Howard Bell, walking away. Sampson’s arm was around a woman’s waist, presumably his wife’s. “I wish you had taken me up on my offer.”
“The FBI is in my blood, ma’am.”
“We’ll see,” Fairchild said. “Well… you’re the boss now. ‘For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.’”
With a faint smile, Jade said, “My father used to say that.”
Fairchild cocked her head. “I would like to meet him.”
Jade swallowed. “He’s gone.”
“I should have remembered. I’m sorry.”
“No worries,” Jade said. “You two would’ve had a lot to talk about.”
A moment of silence.
“He’s come around,” the president said, waving her hand toward the inscription on the granite headstone.
Cole “CJ” Brennan Jr.
Loving son and brother
with the voice of an angel
“What do you mean?”
“Cole never liked the nickname,” Fairchild said. “He didn’t want anyone to forget who his namesake was named after.”
“As if anyone could.”
“He also didn’t appreciate that his son preferred singing in the glee club to running down a football field.”
“Not everyone is destined to be a great athlete.”
“No,” the president said. “How boring would that be?”
Jade shrugged and smiled. “Well…”
Fairchild smiled. “Ah… right.”
“He’s come around in more ways than one,” Jade said, inclining her head toward Cole, who was shaking hands with friends of CJ’s, some prominent activists in the gay community.
Shifting her gaze back to Jade, Fairchild said, “Have you seen Blake?”
“No. How’s he doing?”
“He’s mending. I was hoping you two would…” She paused. “I must go, but we should get together soon.” The president grasped both of Jade’s hands in hers. “I miss our talks.”
“Me too.”
Fairchild started to walk away and then turned. “Agent Harrington?”
“Yes, Madam President?”
“Do you know the secret to success?”
“What?”
“Don’t be afraid.”
Afraid of what? Jade didn’t ask.
“Ma’am, we need to go,” said Josh McPherson, stepping toward Fairchild and nodding at Jade.
She was acquainted with him but didn’t know him well.
He and the rest of the coterie of secret service agents escorted the president to her limousine, idling in the middle of a long line of limousines and black Suburban SUVs on the blocked-off street next to the cemetery. The throng of press waiting there started shouting questions at Fairchild.
Jade walked in the opposite direction.
As she crested the hill on her way to the cemetery’s parking lot, from behind her came, “Mrs. Harrington! Wait!”
She turned. Kaitlin Brennan ran toward her. The girl came to an abrupt stop in front of Jade.
Jade crouched, her arms on her thighs, her eyes level with the girl’s. She’d be about ten now.
“Yes?”
“I never thanked you for saving my life.”
She wasn’t sure how Kaitlin remembered, since she was unconscious by the time Jade had reached her on that fateful night. Her parents or siblings could have told her.
Jade smiled. “You don’t need to thank me, Kaitlin. I was doing my job.”
“When I have nightmares about that night, I think about you, and it makes me happy.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’ve got girl power. My daddy says you’re strong and not afraid of anything.”
“Did you tell your parents about these nightmares?”
The girl shook her head.
“Promise me you’ll tell them,” Jade said.
A solemn nod. “You’re my shero.”
Shero. Not hero.
Kaitlin flung her arms around Jade’s neck, almost knocking her off-balance. Jade hesitated, then hugged her back, the child’s silky blond hair brushing Jade’s cheek. She was surprised by the tears pressing against her own eyelids.
Pulling away, Kaitlin ran off to rejoin her family.
Jade didn’t move. Despite all the accomplishments she’d achieved in her life—the trophies, medals, awards, press clippings, accolades—the simple gratitude of this young child might have been the most precious.
You co
uldn’t put that in a box in the basement.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Fairfax, Virginia
“You again?” said the skinny bartender with the punk-rock black hair. She leaned forward, her hands on the bar. Her rolled-up sleeves revealed a colorful tattoo on her right forearm. “You’ve got a new partner.”
Micah looked from the bartender to Jade, confused. “You’ve been here with someone else?”
To Jade, the bartender said, “Will there be singing this time?”
Incredulous, Micah said, “You? Singing?” To the bartender, “Tell me more.”
Jade said nothing. She gazed at the bartender with a look that said she didn’t want to talk about the time she and Christian had gotten drunk in this very bar. By noon on that day, they were sitting on these same wooden stools, heads back, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” at the top of their lungs. The bartender gave her an imperceptible nod before turning to Micah. “A Brit?”
He nodded.
“Sweet,” she said. “The first one for you is on the house. What can I get for you two? Guinness? Shots?”
She remembered.
“No,” said Jade, more sharply than warranted. Softening her voice, she said, “A lager. English. Something on the lighter side.”
“We’ll take two Golden Glories,” Micah said.
“You got it,” the young woman said, pushing off the bar and grabbing two pint glasses. She slid one under a draft tap.
Jade eyed him. “Golden Glory?”
“Trust me,” he said.
She held his gaze, wondering if she did trust him. Yesterday, after returning to the bureau from CJ’s funeral, she’d run into Micah in the hallway. Noticing her subdued manner, he’d asked her what was wrong. When she told him, he invited her here. She protested that she had work to do. He said taking a few hours off from the case wouldn’t hurt. She finally agreed.
Pictures of English royalty—including an American princess, political figures and celebrities—pennants of all the English Premier League teams, and English quotes and slogans covered almost every inch of the dark brown wood-paneled walls. An enormous Union Jack flag was displayed prominently on one wall.
The Stratford Arms was crowded because of the soccer game that was showing on every television in the place. Judging by the jerseys they wore, the patrons were evenly split by which team they supported.
“This is the quarterfinal of the FA Cup,” Micah explained. “It’s a big deal.”
“I know,” Jade said.
The bartender placed the glasses on cardboard coasters on the bar. Looking at Jade, she said, “Let me know when you get hungry. The fish and chips are ready this time.”
She winked before moving away to help another customer.
“What’s up with you two?” Micah asked.
“Nothing,” Jade said, picking up her glass and holding it up for a toast. “I guess I’m cheering for Chelsea.”
Micah picked up his glass. He looked like a soccer player, the formfitting red Arsenal jersey covering his upper body like a second skin.
“Always the contrarian,” he said. “Cheers.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“Up for a bet?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“If my team wins, you have to sing the team fight song. And vice versa.”
“I don’t know the words.”
Waving his arm, taking in the room, he said, “You’ll have help.”
Noncommittal, Jade changed the subject. “I like Mertens.”
Micah nodded a few times at the name of Chelsea’s versatile midfielder. “Me too. He just plays for the wrong team.”
They sipped their beers as they watched the game on the flat-screen television high on the wall. The crowd in the bar cheered at every scoring chance, exceptional skill, and defensive stop, and groaned at every dispossession, errant pass, and uncalled foul.
At the half, Micah asked, “What do you think?”
“Chelsea is playing too far forward. They’re susceptible to an overlap by a defender.”
“They have to be. This is all or nothing.”
“If they keep playing this way, it’ll be nothing,” she said. She took a sip of her pint. “Did you play?”
“A little.”
Micah was almost as tight-lipped about his past as she was about hers. She didn’t tell him she’d also played soccer.
The bartender slammed through the swinging saloon doors and placed two steaming cartons of fish and chips in front of them.
“To soak up the alcohol,” she said. “On the house.”
Micah followed her with his eyes as she went to help another customer. To Jade, he said, “I need to bring you here more often.”
They both dug into their food. Jade hadn’t realized she was ravenous. Between bites, she asked, “What are your thoughts on the case?”
“He’s not leaving behind a lot of evidence. Almost as if he understands how a law enforcement officer investigates a crime. How are we ever going to find him?”
“Gathering evidence is not about finding him; it’s about eliminating everyone else.”
“We haven’t eliminated anyone.” He tilted his glass, staring into it. “I’ve been racking my brain about the Shakespeare connection. Is it an English bloke? If so, how is he connected to the victims? Why just the last two lines?”
“Go on.”
“There’s a reason he’s leaving the couplet. It connects the victims in some way.”
Jade sipped her beer. “I think you’re right.”
They ordered a few more rounds of beers and, along with the rest of the customers, cheered and groaned and shouted at the TVs. When Chelsea scored its first goal, Jade received a bear hug from the patron next to her, an older man with stale beer breath and a Chelsea jersey stretched tight over his proud beer belly.
During the second half, Micah’s seat had moved closer to hers, their elbows occasionally touching.
Jade was feeling good. A little tipsy. She needed this.
“I like seeing you smile,” Micah said.
“Don’t get used to it.”
He laughed and then, almost nonchalantly, said, “Are you still looking into the Robin Hood case?”
Jade shrugged.
“Any new leads?”
She shook her head. “Whoever stole that money was good. Really good.”
He took a pull on his beer. “The idea, though, was good. Don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“The crime.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Taking money from people who wouldn’t miss it—money they, their children, and their children’s children would never need—and giving it to the poor.”
She swallowed her beer. “There’re better ways to help the poor.”
“I’m not saying that committing a crime was the right way to go about it. I think the intention was… noble.”
“It was a crime. A lot of good that came out of it had to be undone.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you always do the right thing?”
She stared into those mesmerizing gray eyes, a moment longer than was wise.
Finally, she said, “Nothing can happen between us. You know that, right?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Nope. No way. No can do. Not if you were the last woman on earth.”
Jade frowned. “Well, you don’t have to go that far.”
“I get it. We’re mates.”
“I’m not your mate, Micah. I’m your boss.”
“Trust me,” he mumbled. “I know.”
He drained his beer and signaled the bartender, who was close by, for another round. “Don’t worry, boss. I know my place. I’m a working-class bloke from London, after all.”
Micah turned his attention back to the game. She thought about apologizing but decided against it. Better to squash any idea of a romantic future
before it bloomed.
The bartender brought them two steaming cups. A tea for Micah and a coffee for Jade. She must have overheard the last part of their conversation. Jade eyed her, grateful. There would be no singing tonight.
At the ninetieth minute, the referee added one minute of stoppage time. The score was tied one to one.
“We’re going into extra time,” Micah said.
“We’ll see,” Jade said.
She sipped her coffee as an Arsenal defender dribbled the ball down the sideline. The opposing Chelsea defender, caught too far forward, turned and sprinted to catch up to the speedy Arsenal player. Ten yards from the end line, the Arsenal defender sent a left-footed cross to the team’s forward, who left his feet and dove for the ball, heading it past the outstretched hand of Chelsea’s six-foot-five goalie and inside the lower part of the goalpost.
As the forward sprinted to the flag in the corner of the field, he dropped to his knees, sliding most of the way. His teammates ran to him and fell on top of him in a heap of masculinity.
The referee blew his whistle to end the game.
Micah placed a hand on Jade’s shoulder, his eyes wide with delight, the talk about their relationship forgotten.
“Brilliant!” he shouted. “How did you know?”
Not waiting for an answer, he hugged her, then hurriedly kissed her on the lips before flying out of his seat.
The kiss was an accident. He didn’t even notice her reaction as he jumped up and down, fist-pumping, screaming, high-fiving, and bear-hugging his Arsenal compatriots in a bar in Virginia, a former colony far away from his native England.
She stared straight ahead while Micah joined them in the victory song, he forgetting about their bet, she trying to ignore the smell of his cologne.
Jade glanced at the bartender, who stood a few feet away.
To Jade, she mouthed, He’s fiiiiiiiiiiine!
