by Lauren Carr
The hectic life of being a single father did not give Chris time or concern to worry about it—until he had run into Ivy at the shopping mall the Christmas season following Blair’s death. It took him a moment to recognize the brunette donning a leather coat with fur trim, laden down with shopping bags, as she ran out of the department store and slammed into Chris, causing her to drop one of her bags.
Chris found his voice first after the initial shock of the collision. “Ivy?” He was surprised to see the color drain from her face.
She gazed at him with wide eyes.
Must be guilt for dropping out of our lives. Chris knelt to collect the items that had scattered from the fallen bag before they got kicked into traffic—a pair of earrings, a scarf, and a bottle of perfume. “How are things going?”
“Fine,” he heard her say with a meek tone. “And you?”
“Okay. Busy. I’m trying to make Christmas merry without Blair, which is going to be hard for the girls.” With everything collected, he rose to his feet and dropped each item into the bag—pausing when he noticed the bottle of perfume. “White Shoulders. That was Blair’s favorite perfume. I bought her a bottle every Christmas.”
“I’m sure you did.” Ivy snatched the bottle and dropped it into the bag. She closed the top and held it tight in her grasp.
Chris was startled by the spark of anger in her eyes. “How are things in your neck of the woods, Ivy?”
“Fine.”
“Emma says you’ve hired a live-in nanny for Hannah.”
The anger in her eyes turned to fear. “When was Emma talking to Hannah?”
“Sheerah’s birthday party last month,” Chris said. “They spent the whole party catching up. Emma really misses Hannah. I know we’re both busy, but we should try to arrange for the two of them to get together more often. It’s bad enough that Emma lost her mother. She shouldn’t lose one of her best friends, too.”
Ivy backed away from him. “I know, but things are really busy—”
“After the holidays.” He stepped toward her. “How about if I give you a call. Hannah can come for a sleep over?”
“Sure, give me a call.” Ivy spun on her high heels. “I’m late. Call me and we’ll do lunch.” She trotted away as fast as her heels could carry her.
As she had instructed, he called several times after the holidays, but never did she return his call. He didn’t expect her to.
Chris sensed that she was afraid of him but couldn’t understand why. He didn’t see that fear before Blair had gone away to Switzerland. Nor did he see it at the funeral.
What happened between the funeral and Christmas—a matter of five months—to make you so afraid of me, Ivy?
As Chris pressed the phone number he found on his laptop into the burner phone, he was determined to ask her just that.
One advantage of the burner phone was that there was no caller ID. For that reason, Ivy Dunleavy picked up on the third ring. “This is Ivy Dunleavy.”
“Hello, Ivy Dunleavy. This is Chris Matheson.”
There was an audible gasp from the other end of the phone.
“Judging by that, I guess you remember me,” he said in a pleasant tone.
Her tone was sharp—accusing—when she replied, “Where’s Blair? What have you done to her?”
Chapter Ten
“Nice to have good friends in high places,” Jacqui said to Bruce after they breezed past the security checkpoint at the Russell Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. Familiar with the building’s layout, Bruce led her to the stairs.
“Keaton’s office is on the second floor.”
Bruce usually donned slacks and sweaters or button-down shirts over oxfords. While always stylish, Jacqui also leaned toward a casual style in clean jeans or slacks or a loose skirt.
For their trip to the city, they had dressed to impress. Bruce traded in his sweater for a sportscoat and tie. Jacqui opted for a steel blue fitted women’s suit with pencil skirt and heels under a matching wool cape coat.
Senator Keaton’s office was at the end of the corridor. Bruce held open the door for Jacqui. As they entered, a woman’s shrill voice blared into the reception area from the corner office.
“Don’t underestimate my power, Graham! If you don’t get your senators in line to approve Cross, I’ll do everything in my power to ruin all of you!”
Behind the reception desk, the administrative assistant rolled her eyes.
Senator Graham Keaton’s calm voice was a direct contrast to his visitor’s hysteria. “I never said we weren’t going to confirm Cross. I simply said we needed to wait and see. That’s what we do with every nominee.”
“You told the Times that you were concerned that he was too young to head up the Central Intelligence Agency! Of course, you and I both know your real objection.”
“Which is?”
“You’re racist!”
“Racist? He’s a white male. I thought you considered all white males the enemy.”
“He’s Chinese-American,” the senator said.
“Give me a break!”
“His great-grandmother on his mother’s side was from China,” Senator Douglas said.
There was a silence from the office. Jacqui and Bruce exchanged questioning glances before Senator Keaton asked the same question they had. “So? Why would any of the senators on my side of the aisle object to his nomination because of who his great-grandfather slept with a hundred years ago?”
“Precisely! Why would they?”
“You must see it as an issue since you brought it up. I’m more interested in knowing what terrorist groups he’s been friendly with than what Ancestry.com has found in his DNA—unless he’s an alien from outer space.” He gasped. “You don’t think …”
Senator Douglas uttered a long string of profanity.
“Don’t get your panties in a knot over it, Kimberly.” Senator Keaton laughed.
With a fury-filled shriek, Senator Douglas flew out of the office. Bruce barely escaped being body slammed during her exit.
Senator Keaton’s laughter floated out of his office. “Like I really care if his ancestors are space aliens—unless they weren’t properly documented.”
“She’s mad as hell.” A fresh-faced young man in a sweater and slacks followed the gray-haired man into the reception area.
“Of course, she is. Kimberly has been mad since the day she was born. I don’t know why she’s so upset—just because I’m not jumping up and down praising the virtues of Daniel Cross. I’m doing my job—waiting to see what his qualifications are before making my decision. But Kimberly—she sees a candidate with a drop of non-white blood—therefore, he’s more than qualified for the job!”
“Isn’t that racism, too?” Jacqui asked. “Looking down on a whole class of people because their skin is white is just as bad as looking down on a class because their skin isn’t.”
“It’s only racism or sexism if you’re opposing Douglas.” Senator Keaton flashed Bruce a broad grin and held out his hand. “Bruce Harris. You son of a gun. What are you doing here?” He shot a sly grin in Jacqui’s direction. “Don’t tell me you left your wife.”
“Oh, no,” Bruce said. “I’m much smarter than that. This is Jacqui Guilfoyle. She’s a friend of mine. We belong to the same book club.”
Senator Keaton introduced them to the young man. “This is my assistant, Oliver Hansen.” He added as Oliver and Bruce shook hands. “Oliver, Bruce Harris is someone that you’d like to get to know. Not only was he Virginia’s greatest state attorney general, but he also graduated top of his class from the University of Virginia’s law school.” He told Bruce, “Oliver graduated this past year.”
“And he’s already on Capitol Hill. Are you eying the Oval Office, son?”
“I’ll be happy with attorney general.” Oliver shook his head wi
th a humble smile.
Jacqui shot a glance in Bruce’s direction. His eyes met hers. While Oliver’s words stated modest ambitions, his body language revealed loftier goals.
“Do you have a few minutes for an old friend?” When the senator paused to check his watch in response to Bruce’s question, he added in a low tone. “It’s about a certain letter you received.”
The senator squinted at him.
“Stephens is dead,” Bruce said in a soft whisper.
The color drained from Oliver’s face.
Senator Keaton asked, “How—”
“We believe we know the anonymous source who’d sent the letter, but we need to be sure,” Jacqui said.
Senator Keaton led them into his office and closed the door. To Jacqui’s surprise, Oliver followed them. Aware that the senator’s assistant’s duty was to be Keaton’s right hand, Bruce was not surprised.
After shutting the door, Oliver dropped into the first chair he came to. He swallowed. “Is—is Anonymous—”
“We hope not,” Jacqui said. “We’re trying to locate her.”
Oliver was breathing hard. “How did Stephens—”
“It’s an open investigation,” Bruce said. “I can tell you that Stephens never made it to the meeting with Anonymous. Whoever killed him knew that you had assigned Stephens to investigate the matter and meet with her. They bugged his house. Once they knew the details of the meeting, a hit man murdered him and took his place to intercept her.”
“That means whoever is behind the risk to national security got wind of her letter and found out about Stephens investigating the matter,” Jacqui said. “Who knew about it?”
From behind his oversized oak desk, Senator Keaton looked around the office. “Only me, Oliver who read the letter first, and Stephens.”
“We were told that there was a cell phone in the envelope along with the letter,” Jacqui said.
“She would call that phone to verify her credibility,” Oliver said.
“Who had access to it?” Bruce asked. “The phone could have been cloned or tapped.”
“I gave everything, envelope and all, to the senator,” Oliver said. “He handed everything to Stephens.”
“Can we see the letter?” Bruce asked.
“What role are you playing in this investigation?” Senator Keaton asked. “With all due respect, Harris, Stephens was a good man. Obviously, there was a leak somewhere here in my office. I never even told any of the other senators on my side of the aisle about the matter because I wanted to know if Anonymous was the real deal. Now that I find out people are being killed—”
“Which is why I want to examine the letter.” Bruce held his hand out, palm up, and crooked his fingers.
With a snort, Senator Keaton unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and yanked it open. He extracted a folder, plopped it onto the center of his desk and opened it. He handed the letter, which had a padded envelope stapled to it, to Bruce. “The original. Including the envelope with the post mark. I gave Stephens a copy and the phone.”
Both Bruce and Jacqui put on their reading glasses.
Bruce took the letter while Jacqui examined the envelope. “Where did Christopher say Blair’s best friend lived?” she asked. “You know, the one who married the pompous business attorney?”
“Chantilly, Virginia.”
Holding out the envelope to him, she pointed a manicured fingernail tipped in white at the postmark, which read, “Chantilly, VA.”
Together, they read the letter printed on a single sheet of paper.
Dear Senator Keaton,
I am writing to you in regard to the nomination of Daniel Cross for Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. This nomination to a most sensitive post, putting him in charge of a major intelligence gathering agency, has me extremely distressed because I know for a fact that Daniel Cross is a traitor to the United States.
To accuse someone of treason against their country is not something that someone should do lightly. I also know that making such an accusation against someone with such powerful people behind him would be a dangerous endeavor.
Everyone else who has tried to expose Cross for his crimes against our country has died.
However, as an American citizen, I cannot continue to hide in the shadows and do nothing now that it is apparent that the job of protecting our nation’s intelligence information is being placed in the hands of a traitor. I am duty bound to come forward, even as I know that doing so will put my life in jeopardy.
Of course, you will not act on this information without verifying that I am not a crackpot. For that purpose, I have enclosed a phone. I will be calling.
Sincerely,
Anonymous
Everyone else who has tried to expose Cross for his crimes against our country has died,” Jacqui read.
“Considering that all Stephens did was talk to her on the phone,” Senator Keaton said, “I guess it’s safe to say Anonymous wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Nice ride.” The last thing Francine expected to see when she turned the corner in Dupont Circle after exiting the metro was Murphy climbing out of the back of a white stretch limousine. “I thought secret agents had to keep low profiles.”
With a toothy grin, Murphy waved farewell to the limousine easing into traffic. “You can’t get any lower of a profile than hitching a ride.”
“In a limo?”
Murphy slid his arm across Francine’s shoulders. “Admit it, Francine, if you saw this face—” He gestured at his attractive, pretty boy face. “—on the side of the road with a thumb sticking out, you’d stop to give me a ride, wouldn’t you?”
She looked him up and down. “I’d take you as far as you’d be willing to go and then some, Blue Eyes.”
With a laugh, Murphy opened and held the door to the busy café for her. As she stepped past him, she added with a grin, “You remind me of my ex-husband.”
“Was he a charmer, too?” Murphy followed her inside.
“He was a pathological liar,” Francine said. “But damn, if he didn’t look good doing it.”
Murphy scanned the faces of the patrons who filled the restaurant. They were an equal mixture of professionals and students from in and around the capital area.
“Is your friend here?” Francine peered around for their contact, even though she had no idea what he looked like.
Murphy waded into the sea of the customers and turned the corner around the service counter to a small sitting area where Tristan frequently hung out. The area consisted of two loveseats facing each other with a coffee table between them. Murphy spotted him as soon as he broke through the throng of customers.
The lanky young man wearing dark framed eyeglasses had reclined across one of the loveseats with a laptop. There was a travel mug, the remnants of a consumed expresso and two plates showing evidence of a recent meal, plus a tablet and a cell phone scattered across the table.
“Hey, Trist.” Tapping him on the shoulder, Murphy rounded the edge of the sofa and came to an abrupt halt.
Tristan looked up from the screen. “What’s up?”
Murphy turned his back. “I can’t believe you brought her here to a public place.”
“She’s allowed. Monique is my emotional support animal.” With a sly grin, Tristan stroked the huge tarantula resting on his chest.
Even though he was familiar with Tristan’s pet, Murphy could not bear to look at the black hairy spider that, at eight inches in diameter, was the size of a dinner plate. “Are you kidding me?” He shot a glance at the plastic case on the coffee table which Tristan used to transport Monique. Sure enough, there was numerous stickers announcing “support animal” on them.
“Certified and everything.” Tristan extracted a plastic card from his cell phone case and held it out in Murphy’s direction. “Here’s her card.”
Murphy refused to examine the card. To do so would mean laying his eyes on the huge spider.
“Monique gets bored sitting in her tank all day.” Tristan returned the card to its case. “She likes to get out and explore.”
“Does she have to explore a coffee shop?” Murphy looked around at the other patrons in the shop, none of whom seemed to mind the spider.
“Everyone here knows me,” Tristan said. “I practically live here. And they all know Monique. As a matter of fact, she has a calming effect on them, too.”
“She doesn’t have that effect on me.” Murphy was feeling anything but calm as he saw the creature making her way from Tristan’s chest up to his shoulder.
“Sounds like a personal problem to me. Have you talked to someone about that?”
“Yes, your sister, and Jessie insists that it’s a stage you’ll outgrow.”
“Oh, Murphy, if I didn’t have Monique with me, I wouldn’t be able to talk to you right now.” Tristan’s tone dripped with sincerity.
“Bull!”
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Tristan looked over his shoulder. “I thought you were bringing someone else to help us with the case.”
Reminded of Francine, Murphy craned his neck to search for her. “Yes. She’s an older woman. Francine. Can you put Monique in the box, so you don’t freak her out?”
Before Tristan could object, Murphy dove back into the crowd.
Taking in the restaurant’s atmosphere, Francine didn’t notice that she was alone. A people watcher, she enjoyed the diversity of the patrons—young college students kicking back with their games to stressed out mothers with young children taking advantage of the free wi-fi to busy professionals dressed in athletic togs taking advantage of the brisk but sunny Saturday morning to get some exercise.
Francine spotted one professional in particular.
Clad in biking pants with matching jacket, he had blue-black hair and dark eyes. Despite the build of a much younger man, Francine knew him to be in his early forties. With a brisk motion, he stepped away from the service counter with his travel mug in hand and swung around to the condiment station. There, he peeled the lid off the mug.
