by J. L. Brown
“Not hard enough to wipe away footprints.”
“No.”
“Would have been lucky to find impressions in this grass.” Jade stood, placing her hands on her hips. “Who found him?”
“UW rowing club,” he said. “Women. They row Lake Washington every morning. Saw something on the bank. As they came closer, they realized that it was a body. They almost moved on, thinking it was a homeless person, sleeping.”
“But they saw the blood,” she said, scanning the drenched ground.
Next to her, Max was taking it all in. He met her eye but said nothing.
“Yep,” McClaine said. “They rowed back to the Conibear Shellhouse”—he pointed to the other side of the lake—“and called us.”
“Did they check to see if he was alive?”
“No. Claimed they didn’t leave the boat.”
She gazed out at a lone sailboat braving the cold. Small waves lapped against the shore. “Any witnesses?”
“None have come forward. We went house to house,” he said, waving behind him at the houses on the hill overlooking them, “but no one saw anything. Still waiting on one resident to get back to us.”
Veritas’s house was still under surveillance. Although his real name had been confirmed as Jacob Michael Collins, Jade still thought of him as Veritas. Anderson had reported that he was home all night. NSA tracked his phone to his apartment. This morning, before Jade and the DC contingent arrived in Seattle, Anderson and another local agent paid a visit to Veritas. During the interview, he maintained his innocence. Anderson told her that all the defiance Veritas displayed during their previous trip had dissipated. He was scared. Shaking scared. Though he’d told them he wasn’t going to stop tweeting.
Jade didn’t think he was responsible for the murders, but the killer could be taking cues from him. She mentally kicked herself. They should have been monitoring his tweets.
She pulled out her phone and sent a text.
Pat’s reply came within a minute: Cyber’s on it.
Pocketing her phone, Jade inhaled the fresh air. Her eyes returned to the top of the hill. “What neighborhood is that?”
McClaine followed her gaze. “Madison Park.”
“Gigantic houses. Great views.”
“I should’ve gone into IT. Or coffee.”
McClaine was referencing Seattle’s tech hub, home to Amazon and Microsoft, of course, as well as hosting Google, Facebook, and Apple. Costco, Nordstrom, and Starbucks were all headquartered here too.
“You’re dressed for it,” she said.
“IT? Or coffee?”
“Both. TOD?”
“Coroner said between 10:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.”
Jade surveyed the ground. “Any trace evidence?”
“Just the knife,” McClaine said. “Oh… and a sonnet.”
*
Christian let out a breath. “Jesus.”
Standing next to him, Jade said, “Why do you always say that?”
He invoked the Lord’s name whenever he saw a naked, dead body.
In the morgue on Jefferson Street, just south of the First Hill neighborhood, the five agents and McClaine stared down at the body of Blayze Tishman on the stainless-steel table.
What remained of the body.
Stab wounds dotted his expansive pale torso, a macabre work of impressionist art.
Tishman’s face and legs were unmarred. A tag with his identification information was tied around the big toe of his left foot.
Bright lights illuminated the chilly room, where the smell of antiseptic was overpowering.
Jade scrutinized the wounds. “How many?”
“Twenty-seven,” McClaine said. “The victim ended up choking on his own blood.”
Dante swallowed slowly. “Jesus is right.”
“Such anger,” Max murmured, his eyes scanning the body.
To Max, Dante said, “You think the perp knew him?”
“It’s possible,” came Max’s noncommittal response.
“Or Tishman angered him in some way,” said Micah.
“He could be abrasive,” McClaine said. “It might’ve been drugs. Seattle has a huge opioid, mental health, and homelessness crisis. A dangerous combination. Or some guy thought the vic encroached on his turf. A quiet place to sleep.”
“With a killer view,” Dante said.
Jade looked at him. “You’re becoming worse than Pat.”
McClaine said, “I’ve seen victims murdered in this city for less.”
DC too.
“But for the sonnet,” she reminded him.
“But for the sonnet,” McClaine said. “Let’s go to my office.”
*
McClaine passed around copies of the sonnet and the police and autopsy reports to the team, who sat around the rectangular table in a conference room at the downtown precinct. He handed Jade the murder book containing the complete case file: autopsy report, crime scene photos, investigative notes, and witness interview reports.
He waited for the FBI agents to read through the materials.
Jade scanned the autopsy report. Tishman, fifty-eight, weighed two hundred twenty pounds. Manner of death: homicide. Under cause of death, each stab wound was listed. Pasta, tomato sauce, and a brownish liquid were found among the contents of his stomach.
“Tell us about his wife,” Jade asked.
“Victoria Tishman. Married twenty-six years. She oversees their family foundation and, from what we’ve gathered, is very involved in her husband’s business interests. She was his partner, personally and professionally. Formidable in her own right.”
Jade flipped through the pages. “She give you anything?”
“Nothing helpful.”
“We need to talk to her.”
“Arranged,” he said. “She’s expecting us within the next couple of hours.”
“Questions?” she asked her team, her eyes landing on Max.
Max looked thoughtful but didn’t respond. She didn’t press. He would tell her his thoughts when he was ready.
“Tishman was a big bloke,” Micah said. “How did the perp overpower him?”
“Maybe he was a slow… bloke,” Dante said. “Like Merritt.”
Christian cut his eyes at Dante but refused to take the bait.
Jade placed the murder book on the table and picked up a copy of the sonnet.
For I am sham’d by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
—Bard of Avon
She checked the Shakespeare app on her phone, which she’d downloaded a few weeks ago, having left the tome in DC.
Sonnet LXXII.
Scanning the faces of her team, she said, “Seventy-two. Does this mean anything to anyone?”
Christian, Max, Dante, McClaine, and Anderson gave her blank looks.
“The last line,” Micah said. “The perp might have thought Tishman cared about the wrong things. Wealth. Material things.”
Jade stood, shaking her head. “Thank God for the Brit. Let’s go talk to the wife.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The White House, Washington, DC
“Well, hell!” Senator Maureen McAllister said. “We’re not going to make it.”
Vice President Josephine Bates exhaled. “Damn.”
“They’re right,” Sasha said.
A whiteboard set up on an easel had been erected in front of Whitney’s desk in the Oval Office. Sasha had written the name of each of the fifty senators and his or her party affiliation—R or D—in parenthesis. There were no independents in the Senate. In two columns, under the headings “Aye” and “Nay,” an X was marked next to each senator’s name.
The Streamline Regulations Act had been more difficult to push through than Whitney expected, given that the GOP controlled both houses of Congress and deregulation had been a pillar of the party’s platform for decades. If she were a Republican president, this legislation would have sailed through last year.
>
Earlier in the month, question marks accompanied quite a few names, but the Presidents Club had come through. Using their contacts, the weight of their former office, and leverage (read: subtle threats), they helped convert the votes of recalcitrant members of their parties. If successful, it would be the second major legislation passed in as many months.
The four women stood in a row, examining the easel. Although Whitney’s high heels were under her desk where she’d kicked them off earlier, she towered over Mo standing next to her.
“Perhaps, if we stare long enough,” Whitney said dryly, “the votes will change on their own.”
“It’d make my job a lot easier,” Sasha said. She’d spent a considerable amount of time on the Hill, persuading senators to change their minds.
Senator Mo looked up at Whitney. “Although I’m a firm believer in positive thinking, I don’t think that’s going to help us.”
Sasha, on the other side of Jo, said, “We need one more.”
After a moment, Jo turned to Whitney. “Who owes you a favor?”
“That’s cutting to the chase,” Mo said.
“I’ve no time to waste,” Jo said. “By the way, where’s that moonshine?”
Whitney and Mo giggled. Sasha eyed them, understanding she wasn’t privy to the joke, her body language indicating that she didn’t want to be.
The laughter died as they all scanned the list again. Whitney went over every name with a “Nay” next to it. Her eyes rested on one halfway down. She pointed to it.
“Scott Harris,” she said. “He might not owe me a favor, but he owes me.”
Chapter Sixty
Medina, Washington
After speaking into the intercom, McClaine closed the driver’s side window and waited for the gate to open. He, Micah, and Dante drove through the entrance, the other agent’s car following. The long driveway led to a circle in front of a humongous house of stone and siding and grand windows. The hedges and shrubs were manicured to perfection. Japanese maple trees dotted the lawn.
The Tishmans, like other former and current managers of Blayze’s software company, lived in Medina, a city across Lake Washington from Seattle.
Many cars—Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, a Jaguar, and a Subaru—were parked around the circle. The five-car garage must have been filled.
Max, Christian, Jade, and Anderson—their driver—sat in the car for a moment admiring the house.
“Wow,” Christian said.
Max stared at the house but said nothing. Was he thinking about his own empty colonial in Virginia? He had told Jade that his ex-wife had moved in with her new partner.
An abundance of flowers greeted them on either side of the front door.
McClaine knocked. A woman in her midfifties opened the door.
“Detective Kurt McClaine,” he said, proffering his badge. “I called earlier.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m Victoria’s sister, Margaret.”
They stepped into a circular entryway with a black-and-white marble floor. A carpeted staircase led to the upper levels.
Margaret escorted them to a room off the foyer. A sitting room. Literally. The long rectangular space was filled with couches, chairs, and coffee and end tables in various groupings. Magnificent paintings hung on the walls. Jade stopped to examine one. A Renoir. It wasn’t a reproduction. The soft carpet was identical in color to the carpet on the stairs. French doors led out to a side yard, where a fountain was surrounded by a circular stone path, with two iron benches, a gazebo, a swimming pool, a tennis court, and an outdoor seating area with a bar. The lake began where the lawn ended.
Wealth. This room screamed the word without making a sound. Tishman and Jared Carr could have run in the same circles.
“Please have a seat,” Margaret said. “I’ll fetch her.”
She closed the white sliding door behind her.
Dante surveyed all the seating options. “Where should we sit?”
They selected an arrangement of two couches and two chairs in the center of the room.
The agents and McClaine sat. And waited.
After a while, Jade stood and paced.
Dante stood. “We should remind her that we’re here.”
“She’s in mourning,” Micah reminded him. “Tending to her guests. Poor woman.”
“Poor my…” Dante started to respond and then saw Jade’s expression. He swallowed the rest of his retort.
The door slid open.
Victoria Tishman took in the room with one glance. Also in her fifties, she had dyed blond hair and was dressed in black slacks and a black blouse, the severity of the clothing softened by the string of small pearls around her neck. Jade wondered if this was her mourning outfit or whether she regularly dressed this way. Her bearing was regal, despite her mourning, or, possibly, because of it.
The other agents and McClaine rose.
The woman extended her hand to McClaine. “Detective.”
McClaine introduced her to the agents.
“Please sit,” she said in a welcoming way. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“We’re fine,” McClaine said.
She sat in a chair across from one of the couches and leaned forward, her hands clasped. The biggest diamond that Jade had ever seen adorned the ring finger of her left hand.
After offering condolences, Jade asked, “What can you tell us about the night your husband was killed?”
Victoria briefly closed her eyes and exhaled. “I was at a function downtown. A women’s group that I belong to. Blayze had called me earlier, telling me he was headed to the club.”
“Which club was that?” Dante asked, before turning and widening his eyes at Micah, a request to take notes.
“The WAC,” she said. “Washington Athletic Club. We’ve been members for decades. Our children practically grew up there with their friends. Whenever he was in town, Blayze played in the basketball league, which has several divisions for all levels of ability. Good thing.” A slight smile. “He wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He also swam. Worked out. Although, looking at him, you couldn’t tell.” Her words weren’t meant to be hurtful. More of a shared memory with someone who could no longer share it.
“How do you think he ended up on the other side of the lake at that time of night?” Jade asked.
“Blayze loved the lake,” the widow said, a tremor in her voice. She paused to compose herself. “One of his favorite things to do was to sit on the terrace off our bedroom upstairs, sipping whiskey and looking at the lake where he’d spent so much time. He used to row. At UW.”
“What was he doing there that night?” Jade asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Thinking about his glory days?” Dante asked.
This made Victoria smile. “Probably. Although he’s had a lot of glory days since then. To the world, my husband is a successful businessman and a loud-mouth owner of a professional sports team. To me, he’s just Blayze. The same guy I met in college. Studied with. Went to parties and football games with. Fell in love with and married.” She waved her hand, taking in the room. “Before we had all this.” More quietly. “Before we had anything.”
“Tell us about your children,” Jade said.
“Our son, Patrick, lives here in Seattle. Our daughter Tara is in New York City, and our other daughter Lindsey lives in Phoenix. They arrived yesterday.”
Children weren’t mentioned in Sonnet LXXII, but it wouldn’t hurt to investigate them. Jade made a mental note to have Pat check them out.
“Did you or your husband know Sebastian Scofield, Jared Carr, or Finn Hurley?” Dante asked.
Victoria Tishman’s head jolted in his direction. “You think Blayze was murdered by the Shakespeare Killer?” She scanned the faces of the other agents. “I wondered why the FBI was involved.”
“We’re exploring every lead, ma’am.”
She fingered her pearls. “We didn’t socialize with any of them. Neither of us could stan
d Jared Carr or his politics. But… my husband’s former company has dealings with Hurley Technologies.”
“How so?”
“You should talk to the current CEO, but I think it had something to do with developing a joint product.”
Chapter Sixty-One
The White House, Washington, DC
“Madam President.”
Whitney’s body woman, Sarah, stood just inside the door. Sasha paused handing out the day’s agenda.
“I need a private word,” Sarah said.
The members glanced at each other. What could be important enough to interrupt this meeting?
Whitney rose.
“Pardon me,” she said to her cabinet, hustling out of the room. In the hallway, Josh McPherson closed the door behind her.
“What is it, Sarah?” Whitney said.
“It’s about Senator Scott Harris.”
I hope he hasn’t died.
“What about him?”
Sarah looked around. There were only secret service agents positioned in the hall, staring straight ahead, studiously ignoring them.
“His son’s been kidnapped.”
*
“Any news about your son?” Whitney said. She’d called Harris from the Oval Office.
“We haven’t received a ransom note. No communication. Nothing.” He paused. “I’m a US senator, and I feel helpless.”
I know the feeling.
“How can I help?”
In a quiet voice, Senator Scott Harris said, “Just find my son.”
“Perhaps we can help each other.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I missed you last year, during the campaign. At Ohio State. You were supposed to attend and join me on stage before my speech.”
“I had a conflict.”
“Must have been important.” To stiff your party’s nominee for president, she didn’t add.
“Why are you bringing this up?”
“We’re one vote short for the SRA.”
“Is that what this is all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you holding my son hostage in exchange for my vote?”
