by J. L. Brown
What was that?
Zach turned his head to check out the yard on the side of the house where the noise came from.
Something hard hit him in the head.
“Fuck!” he screamed.
A baton? A pipe? A baseball bat? Whatever it was, it hurt like hell.
Dropping his bag, he clutched his head with both hands. He pulled his hands away, his left saturated with a dark liquid. Blood. His blood.
“I’m going to kick your ass, motherfucker.”
As the anger surged through him, he cocked his arm back to deliver a Hail Mary punch. He caught a glimpse of his assailant. And paused. Surprised.
His hesitation cost him his life.
The person hit him in the head again.
“Damn it!”
A long-ball hitter, quickness was never Zach’s strength. He didn’t raise his forearms in time. The assailant hit him in the exact same spot. Now that fucking hurt. He yelped and grabbed his head again, which made him unprepared for the blow to his kidney. The pain cut to his core. The air left him. He doubled over.
The next blow came to the side of his leg, followed by two more in quick succession. Something popped in his knee.
Shit, I’m going to miss the rest of the season. Need to start fighting back.
But the blows kept coming.
His mind lost track of which part of his body was experiencing which pain. He couldn’t get up.
He never had the chance to fight back.
His last thought was not of his parents or his friends or his teammates. His last thought was of Kaylee. She wouldn’t go out with him with his face looking like this.
Before he drifted off into eternal darkness, his head was lifted by his hair. The roots tugged at his scalp. Zach had no energy left to scream.
Before his eyes, a photograph. Before he had time to formulate a name, his face was smashed into the ground.
And then, he felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER TEN
The White House, Washington, DC
Whitney turned off the television. She didn’t want to be, but she was right about this issue. Things were going to get worse before they got better. The quality of life must be improved for all Americans, not just the ones at the top. If people revolted, the impact would spread beyond businesses and the boycotting of their products. The republic itself could be at stake.
She hit the remote for the stereo. The Four Seasons, op. 8 by Antonio Vivaldi was already loaded in the CD player.
She closed her eyes for a moment, a deep breath drawing the music in to soothe her. Unbidden, thoughts of Grayson arose—or as the mainstream media had dubbed him, “The First First Man.” Some in the alternative media called him “The First Dude.”
Whitney had never asked her husband during or after the election to turn over the reins of Fairchild Industries to one of his brothers or a professional CEO. During the transition, the Right had had an apoplectic fit, clamoring for him to place the business in a blind trust. Grayson never considered it. Since she wasn’t a director or shareholder, and thus neither exercised any influence nor received any direct benefit from the business, she had hoped to assuage the public’s conflict of interest concerns. The conservative media still wasn’t buying it.
She hadn’t asked Grayson to lead a pet cause like prior presidential spouses: the war against drugs, mental health, or supporting veterans. One of his unofficial responsibilities, to be a senior counselor to her and attend select cabinet meetings, would have bored him to tears. He hadn’t made any appearances on her behalf, much less visited the poor and disenfranchised in other countries or helped to shape citizens’ perception of her initiatives.
He wasn’t much of a First Gentleman.
But that was fine with her. She didn’t need the distraction.
His current job was important. As the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar agriculture and biotechnology conglomerate, his employees and customers and stockholders depended on him. He tried to live a normal life, despite the ever-present press corps and the small Secret Service detail shadowing him. He had resisted even that, until he realized they were going to follow him around anyway.
The media, of course, was having a field day. Grayson was not only neglecting his duties as the First Gentleman, but shirking an honor and a tradition and a privilege—although not constitutionally mandated—entrusted to him by the American people.
And the American people didn’t like it.
The media speculated about their long-distance marriage.
Ted Bowling, her campaign manager, had told her that a recent poll had ranked her in the bottom twentieth percentile for “family values” out of all US presidents, a ghastly result considering the competition and unwelcome news, particularly for a female politician.
She and Grayson had lived separate lives for such a long time, while she was a representative and then as a senator in Congress. Back then, they would see each other once a month. Either she would go to him or he to her. It worked for them.
Now, he always came to her.
At times like this, she missed Landon, her congressional legislative aide. Their debates about politics. Late-night strategy sessions. Reading contests. The comfort of being able to discuss almost anything with him. He would have flourished in the White House, relishing the challenge of working with an obstructionist Congress.
For the last few months, those on the Right had tried to make more of what happened. The “TSKgate” scandal had overshadowed her presidential transition. Allegations had swirled about her complicity or knowledge of Landon’s crimes. And that she hadn’t done anything to stop him. FOX News had accused her of being the mastermind, an accusation repeated so often that, by some, it was now considered fact. FOX would continue to fuel the conspiracy until the next scandal erupted. Created by the network, if necessary.
She glanced at her watch. Seven p.m. in Missouri. He would still be at work.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, darling,” Grayson said.
“Still at the office?”
“Acquiring a biotech company in California.” He sounded upbeat. “How was your day?”
“Unproductive,” she said.
“Why is that?”
“Most of my legislative agenda has been stonewalled. These protests across the country concern me.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Run for Congress?”
“No thanks. After this acquisition, why don’t I come and spend some time with you? I can make some appearances. Join you at some events.”
“Excellent idea.” She glanced at her briefing books again. “Darling, I must run. Work is calling. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
“I love you—”
Whitney hung up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Washington, DC
“Ask me what I did this weekend.”
She studied her colleague Special Agent Dante Carlucci. He dressed for work as if he were going out. Jade never understood how he could afford such expensive suits on his salary. His features independently—dark brown curly hair, long nose, and one ear slightly higher than the other—appeared out of sync, but together, they complemented each other. Handsome, and he knew it, Dante never passed a mirror he didn’t like.
Even though they’d had run-ins in the past, the status of their relationship was one of détente. They didn’t entirely trust each other, maybe didn’t even like each other, but over the last year they’d developed a grudging mutual respect. It didn’t mean she couldn’t give him shit when warranted.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s not like that. I met someone. Her name’s Laurie. I cooked dinner for her. French, my specialty.”
“And?”
“We watched a movie, and I took her home.”
His cologne wasn’t as overpowering as usual. Perhaps this woman was a good influence on him. Maybe now Jade would be able to work near him without gagging.
“Sound
s as if you have a girlfriend.”
“I think I do.”
“I’m happy for you. Bye.”
“What about you?”
She tore her eyes away from the file she wanted to return to reading. “What about me?”
“Don’t you ever go on dates . . . with anyone?”
“I don’t date.”
“You should. It might take the edge off.”
“Take the edge off what?” Christian said, filling up the doorway to her office.
“Nothing.” Jade, in resignation, set the file down. “How was it?”
Christian had spent the morning attending his nephew’s funeral. He shook his head.
Jade’s desk phone rang.
The receptionist: “A Lieutenant John Briggs with the US Park Police is on the line.”
“Lieutenant,” Jade said. “What can I do for you?”
“I saw you on the news. The Talk Show Killer. Great work.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t take compliments well. She straightened the items on her desk while she waited him out.
“Anyway,” he said, “I caught a case you may be interested in.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s been a murder here. In Gravelly Point Park.” He paused. “It’s bad.”
Gravelly Point Park was located just north of Reagan National Airport.
Oops. Zoe would kill me.
Zoe, her best friend, believed it was blasphemy to call the Washington, DC airport by any other name than its original: National Airport. A true-blue liberal Democrat, Zoe might have been a little biased.
The park, a few hundred feet from one of the runways, was considered one of the best places in the United States for aircraft spotting—the hobby of watching airplanes take off and land. The site attracted all kinds of people: casual observers, aviation buffs, locals, and tourists. Jurisdiction over Gravelly Point Park fell to the US Park Police.
Why was he calling her?
Jade received calls like this often. Local police from all over the country requested her involvement in their cases. She should tell Lt. John Briggs that she was busy.
“How so?” she replied.
“The vic was a boy,” he said. “Between fourteen and seventeen.”
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I still don’t understand why you’re calling me.”
“The manner in which he died made me think of you. Well, TSK. Beat his vics with a blunt instrument, right? A baseball bat?”
Jade’s heart beat faster, as she glanced over at Christian and Dante. “Are you saying this victim suffered similar injuries?”
“Did you hear about the murder of the high-school kid a few nights ago? The one killed in his parents’ front yard? Next to their BMW?”
“Sure. What about it?”
“I called the cop who caught that case, and she’s on her way over.”
“You think they’re related?”
“I think you might want to have a look, too.”
Jade took one last glance at the neglected file. “We’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Seattle, Washington
“Daydreaming again?”
Yes.
He glanced at his father standing in the hallway just outside his office. Although in his early sixties, he was still tall and fit, except for a small belly increasing in size in direct proportion to the number of craft breweries opening around Seattle. Noah was built like him.
Noah Blakeley, the chief operating officer of his family’s international shipping firm and scion of one of the first families of Seattle, had been watching the local news on the TV in his office in the Pioneer Square neighborhood near downtown. Protests across the country dominated the noon broadcast.
Income inequality was a major problem. Not only in this city and in the US, but in countries around the world. A huge supporter of the president, he was skeptical of the federal government’s ability to find a solution given the current dysfunctional Congress. Raising the minimum wage would be a start, but not a panacea. He had done his part. The lowest-level employees in his firm earned twice the state minimum wage. And Washington had one of the highest minimum wages in the country.
He’d met President Whitney Fairchild before, once, during her campaign, hosting the future president and most of Seattle’s wealthiest Democratic contributors in his home in Madison Park, an affluent neighborhood in Seattle.
He wondered if she remembered him.
Given the net worth of his father’s company, one would think Noah’s office would be nicer. His television was the opposite of flat: the silver, boxy thirty-four-inch, early 2000s model sat atop a metal filing cabinet, threatening to squash it at any moment. The TV weighed over a hundred pounds.
Good luck hanging that on the wall.
His oak desk, purchased at a secondhand store, rested on a threadbare carpet, which had been traversed many miles before its installation.
Noah wasn’t much better than his father. His clothes displayed his own frugality: frayed pants, partially untucked shirt, and scruffy brown shoes. People who passed him on the street would never guess he was a multi-millionaire. Like a lot of wealthy people in Seattle.
The most valuable thing in his office was the view. He gazed across Puget Sound to the hills of West Seattle. In the distance, low-hanging clouds surrounded the lofty snowcapped Olympic mountains.
Lofty. Like Noah’s dreams.
He wanted to change the world. Make it a better place. Make a difference.
His father, however, dismissed his dreams, believing Noah had bought into all that talk about “white privilege” and was suffering from some kind of guilt over it. He didn’t feel guilty about being Caucasian and wealthy, he just didn’t think it was fair that some people were fortunate to be born white or in an environment with all the advantages.
Income inequality plagued him.
“Just thinking . . . ,” Noah finally answered. He hesitated, knowing it was a waste of time. “About the foundation.”
A few years ago, Noah’s family had formed a philanthropic foundation, which now contributed generously to many causes. Not just in the greater Seattle area, but across the country.
“I want to run it, Dad,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I’d be good at it. It’s a better fit for my skills and passions. I can make a difference. A real difference.”
His father remained silent.
Noah rushed on. “August should run the business. He’s a better businessman than I am. We should switch places. How could it hurt to try?” When he wasn’t running the foundation, his older brother, August, spent most of his time sailing on Puget Sound. Noah often wondered when he stared out the window at the Sound, if his brother was staring back at him from his boat, cocktail glass raised. Laughing at him.
His father glanced out the window. “I want a detailed report of container shipments by country for the last month. Bring it to my office in fifteen minutes. And be prepared to discuss it.”
He cast one last look at his son and left.
Noah unclenched his fist and grabbed the worry beads next to his desktop computer. Sitting back, he closed his eyes, and breathed deeply as he shifted each bead from his left hand to his right.
When he completed the circle, no less worried than when he started, he faced his computer and called up the operations software to produce the report his father wanted.
As he waited for it to print, he realized that even though the worry beads hadn’t fully relaxed him or relieved his stress, they had worked. Grabbing the papers off the printer, he hurried to his father’s office.
They had calmed him down enough to face him again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Arlington, Virginia
Christian crossed the Memorial Bridge and, one hand on top of the steering wheel, guided the Bureau car south on the George Washington Parkway. Jade preferred driving her own car rather than checking one out of the motor pool.
Located in Arlington, Virginia, Gravelly Point Park was separated from DC by the Potomac River. Riding shotgun, she gazed out the passenger window, ignoring the dirty water, and choosing to stare instead at the monuments of the capital city. Dante lounged in the backseat.
There was no question as to where the body had been found. Lights flashing, US Park, Arlington County, and Fairfax County police cars were parked everywhere in a haphazard, Matchbox-cars-like fashion. Christian pulled into the parking lot.
Before she could completely exit the vehicle, a man rushed up to her.
“Agent Harrington? Lieutenant Briggs.”
Jade introduced him to Christian and Dante. They followed Briggs as he sliced through a group of officers standing around the body. The officers parted. No one asked to see her badge.
Everyone knew who she was.
Briggs nodded to a forensic tech to open the body bag. The surrounding officers quieted. Other than the chirping of a nearby bird, the opening of the zipper was the only sound in the tranquil morning.
Pulling on nitrile gloves, Jade bent next to the corpse. She winced at the sight of him. So young. The injuries were similar to TSK’s victims all right, except for one thing.
“This perp’s right-handed,” she said.
The left side of the kid’s face was damaged. Beaten beyond recognition. She inspected the length of the body, but stopped at the massive quantity of blood in the genital area of the victim’s jeans.
“I hope he was already dead,” Dante said.
Briggs jerked his head toward the coroner’s van. “It’s over there.”
“Jesus!” Christian said.
“We’ll need to see it,” Jade said, ignoring the sick expressions on Christian’s and Dante’s faces.
She pointed with her pinkie. “Check out the scratches and bruises.” To Briggs. “Has he been ID’ed, yet?”
He shook his head.
She scanned the faces of the men and one woman standing around her. “You’re from Fairfax?”
