Rule of Law

by J. L. Brown

  Zoe worked for a nonprofit organization that advocated for pro-choice, Democratic female federal and state candidates.

  Still shooting the pillow, Jade looked at Zoe. “Why will it be different this time?”

  Zoe stared at her for a moment. “How do you do that? Anyway, after that lone, white gunman gunned down over one hundred elementary-school kids playing at recess, even some Republicans have had enough. We’ll get it this time. You’ll see.”

  Jade stopped shooting, raising her hands in surrender. “I hope you’re right.”

  The best friends lapsed into a shared silence. Comfortable. Unhurried.

  “What about you? What’s happenin’?”

  “I’m working on two major cases. Both stalled.”

  “Can I help you this time?”

  Jade sat up again for another sip of beer. “Maybe. You were clutch on the TSK case.”

  Zoe beamed. Jade gave her a brief description of both cases without revealing any confidential information.

  “And you have no idea who could be behind the cyberthefts?”

  Jade shook her head.

  “Have you spoken to Kyle?” Zoe drew Kyle’s name out. A smile, mischievous and deadly, spread across her face.

  “Only about the case.”

  “Huh.”

  “Why ‘huh’?” Jade paused, then, “She did ask me out to dinner tonight.”

  Zoe’s smile disappeared. “Oh?” She frowned. “She’s here?”

  “On business.”

  “She must have had a lot of information about the case to take up an entire dinner.”

  “I didn’t show.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t like being told what to do.”

  “I Googled her, by the way. Your Kyle gets around.”

  “She’s not mine.” Jade placed her beer carefully on the table. “What do you mean?”

  “Not like that. She attends fundraisers and other events in Seattle. Sometimes with an attractive man—or woman—on her arm. Most often alone.” Zoe swigged her beer, eyeing Jade. “Is she gay?”

  A question lobbed casually with the explosive weight of a grenade.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Are you?”

  Jade flashed her a warning look.

  “I’m your best friend. You can tell me.”

  Instead, Jade swiped her bottle off the table and held out her hand. “Finish.”

  Zoe drained the last of her beer. Jade went to the kitchen to retrieve a fresh round. She selected a couple of German hefeweizens this time. She handed one to Zoe and returned to the sofa. After a moment, “Why did you research Kyle?”

  “I was bored.”

  “Yeah, right. You didn’t need to do that. We checked her out when we first took on the case.” She picked lint off the pillow, not looking at Zoe. “What else did you find out?”

  “I knew it!”

  Zoe regaled Jade with Kyle’s family history and her successful business exploits.

  When she finished, Jade said, “How did you find out some of that information?”

  “You know I have skillz,” Zoe grinned.

  “You’re still doing that?”

  “Not really. I couldn’t find where she’s been romantically linked with anyone. I don’t think she’s ever been married.”

  “Huh,” Jade said, not sure why this pleased her.

  “But there’s a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know how many people in DC act as if they’re in the one percent and they’re not?”

  “Sure.”

  “And that most one-percenters are men.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And that you and I are proud card-carrying members of the ninety-nine percent?”

  “Get to the point, Zoe.”

  “Your Kyle Madison is not like us. She is definitely in the one percent.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Washington, DC

  Jade spent the following day in her office, reviewing both the murdered bullies and the cybertheft cases. As she told Zoe, the bully case had stalled. There hadn’t been another death for weeks, but there hadn’t been any new clues either as to who was killing suburban teenage boys.

  Two of the murders were linked. That the wounds in two of them were consistent with damage caused by a blunt instrument had been released to the media. The severing of the baseball players’ penises had not. What was the significance of that?

  On the other hand, there had been movement in the cyberthefts case. In the wrong direction. Not only had three more significant thefts occurred in the Emerald City—an online retail company, a real estate developer, and a Fortune 500 software company—but also, the crimes were no longer isolated to Seattle. They had spread to other cities. Incidents of significant unauthorized bank transfers had been reported in Oklahoma City, Anaheim, Omaha, and San Antonio.

  What was the motive here? Was it one of the crime syndicates from the Ukraine? Russia? A political statement from the Chinese? Simple greed? Or something else?

  Although she had initially explored whether one of the employees of a Seattle organization could be responsible, she had eliminated them as suspects. They had investigated the CFO, CIO, accounting, and IT personnel of every firm where a theft had occurred. All of them clean.

  These were not inside jobs.

  Mid-morning, McClaine called, asking her to return to Seattle to interview additional victims.

  Leaning back in her chair, she rubbed her eyes. When she opened them, her gaze fell on the Churchill file, kept separate from the other files on her desk. She hadn’t had a chance to review it. What the hell? She wasn’t making any progress on her cases. She might as well be useful to the president.

  Jade took her time studying the case file, starting with the autopsy report. Cause of death was a heart attack, not natural causes as Fairchild was led to believe. Pretty straight forward.

  A co-worker had found Mary Churchill—concerned when she didn’t show up for her job three days in a row as head librarian at the public library—dead in her bed. She was forty-one years old.

  Jade reviewed the toxicology report. Halfway down the page, she stopped.

  Oleander.

  She read the word again, thinking she misread it. Four grams of oleander were found among the contents of Churchill’s stomach. She needed to be sure. She fired up her computer. All parts of the shrub—the flowers, leaves, stem, roots—were poisonous, and could be found in an ordinary garden. Ingesting honey created by bees that consume the nectar from oleander plants could also be toxic. When a chemical in the plant, oleandrin, was absorbed into the blood stream, it could cause irregular heartbeats or stop the heart from beating altogether. Jade scanned the autopsy report for Churchill’s weight. 105 pounds. It wouldn’t take a large dose of oleander to be fatal for a woman of her size.

  Did Mary Churchill, the president’s aunt, commit suicide? Was it an accidental poisoning? Or was she murdered?

  She picked up the handset to call the local police department in the Chicago suburb, and then replaced the receiver in the cradle without dialing.

  She left her office and paced up and down the hallway. Other agents—used to Jade’s habits—ignored her. She thought about what she’d discovered, and what she was going to do about it.

  Back in her office, she picked up the handset again. What she was about to do went against her grain as a sworn agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation of the United States of America.

  She dialed.

  “This is Agent Harrington. I need to speak to the president.”

  *

  After she hung up with the president, she called the local police department in the Chicago suburb. She relayed her discovery to the officer in charge of the case.

  She had a feeling that Churchill had not committed suicide. The president didn’t believe it when she told her. She said her aunt always had a positive outlook. Jade put Pat to work, s
couring the manifests of flights and train schedules into and out of Chicago and hotel registrations in the surrounding suburbs around the time of the president’s aunt’s death in 2001.

  While she waited for an update from Pat, Jade checked her email inbox. Earlier in the day, Pat had sent a list of the latest victims in the cyber case:

  Capstone Energy Partners, Oklahoma City, OK, $1,500,000

  BMR Aviation, San Antonio, TX, $1,250,000

  TVX Corporation, Anaheim, CA, $10,000,000

  Third Data Corp., Omaha, NE, $1,125,000

  What was the significance of the amounts, if any? She opened a spreadsheet on her computer and entered the four companies’ names, locations, and amounts. She then entered Kyle’s—Ms. Madison’s—organization, Madison Ventures, Seattle, WA, $1,000,000 and the other Seattle organizations that had been victimized. She stared at the numbers, then opened her web browser to further research each company.

  Her cell phone vibrated on her desk. A text message.

  This is Kyle. I missed you the other night.

  Jade typed back: Too busy. Then. And now.

  I’ll let you go then. Until next time.

  She stared at Kyle’s last text for a minute. And then two.

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

  She didn’t like anyone telling her what to do. Even herself.

  Jade texted: I’ll be in Seattle the day after tomorrow.

  I’ll see you then.

  Her face flushed. She looked up at the knock on her door. Christian leaned against the door frame, staring at her.

  “What’s up with you?” He peered at her strangely. “Are you . . . blushing?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “I understand, Governor.”

  My aunt died from poisoning?

  Into the phone, she said, “Yes. You will have the full support of the federal government behind you.” Whitney spotted Sasha standing at a door to the Oval Office, an anxious expression on her face. The Republican governor of Alabama thanked her for her help in dealing with its latest hurricane and the flooding aftermath. “You’re welcome. Good day.”

  She waved Sasha in.

  “Are you okay, Madam President?”

  “I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

  Sasha remained standing in front of her desk. “I have some bad news.”

  “What is it now?”

  “It’s Emma.”

  Whitney froze. She had witnessed and read about many atrocities in this office, but when it came to the well-being of her own children, the world stopped.

  “Is she all right?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean? Spit it out, Sasha.”

  “She’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested!”

  “She was picked up at an income-equality rally in New York City. She and about fifteen thousand other people. The largest mass arrest in US history, by the way. The media will find out about Emma shortly. We need to prepare a response for Lena.”

  Lena was the White House Press Secretary.

  “I don’t give a shit about the media right now.” She pressed the button to call Sean. “Get Mayor Nasir on the phone. Now!”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “What?” Whitney snapped.

  “Emma wouldn’t want to be treated differently than any of the other protesters.”

  “I don’t care—”

  Whitney stopped and thought about it. Sasha was right. Into the phone, she said, “Sean, hold off on that call for now.” She said to Sasha. “I need to call Gray—The First Gentleman.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Washington, DC

  “It took you long enough to say ‘yes.’”

  “I’ve been busy,” she said. “I can’t tell you the last time I was in a museum.”

  “I wanted to do something different.”

  Blake Haynes didn’t know that Jade didn’t date much. So, this was different.

  Strolling through the National Gallery of Art at Sixth and Constitution, they stopped to gaze at a huge painting of Phillip II of Spain—his face replaced by the face of pop star Michael Jackson—clothed in 16th-century battle gear, sword and all, astride a gigantic horse. Two cherubs hovered over his head.

  “This is dope,” she said.

  “The colors are vibrant,” he agreed.

  He waited for her to finish reading the museum label. They moved to the next painting in Kehinde Wiley’s collection, a black woman in a black dress with an exaggerated bouffant hairstyle, shrouded in flowers.

  “He should paint you,” he said.

  “He’d have to lose the flowers.”

  “I envision a royal officer headed into battle.”

  Me, too. “How often do you come to DC?”

  “Not often,” he said, still staring at the painting. “But that could change.”

  Jade’s face grew warm. Without waiting for him, she moved on to Bound, a sculpture of three black women bound together by their interlocking braids.

  He joined her. “Okay . . . let’s not be different. How about dinner?”

  Jade hesitated. “Sure. Give me a call next time you’re in town.”

  “I was thinking we could go now.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Arlington, Virginia

  Still thinking about her dinner with Blake, she stopped short. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  That smile. “I missed you.”

  She continued walking toward her townhouse, car keys in her left hand, stopping several yards away. Her right hand was at her side, loose, not too far from the gun in her holster. “What are you doing here, William?”

  “I have some information.”

  “You could have called me.”

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  “I guess I don’t have to ask how you know where I live.”

  “Same way you have pretty boy following me around.” Sitting on the top step to her front porch, he scooted over. “Want to sit?”

  I guess Micah isn’t that good, Max. But then again maybe I’m not either.

  “I’m fine right here.”

  He glanced around. “It must suck for you to live in this area. Most of your victims and—what do you call them?—perpetrators make more money than you do.”

  “Including you?”

  He shook his head. “I was lucky to be the offspring of a couple of high-priced lawyers, who married later in life. The DC way.”

  Jade had checked into William’s background. His father was a corporate attorney at a prestigious law firm in DC. His mother was the top defense attorney in the Northern Virginia area.

  “It’s late. What do you need to tell me?”

  He stared at a long blade of grass in his hand, an unwitting reminder that she needed to mow. “It’s about Tyler.”

  The Thompson case was still with Fairfax PD. With Chutimant. And, as far as Jade knew, growing colder by the day. “What about him?”

  “There’s a reason why Zach bullied him. Why others bullied him.” William placed the grass between his thumbs and blew until it made a musical note. “He was queer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He flicked the grass away and stood. “Because he was sleeping with my best friend.” He started to walk past her. “He and Joshua had a”—he whispered in her ear—“thing.” He kept walking. “Goodnight, Agent Harrington.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Bellevue, Washington

  The next morning, Jade breezed by the airline ticket counters at National Airport. She didn’t check a bag. She wouldn’t be in Seattle that long. She was glad she didn’t have to wait. The queue for the main-cabin service was long. There was no line for first-class customers.

  At the gate, first class was called to board, followed by Platinum and MVP passengers.

  If you ever want to feel like a second-class citizen, travel by air.

 
Six hours later, the plane descended into a blanket of clouds. McClaine picked her up from Sea-Tac airport and headed north on I-5. The sleepy, cloudy, overcast day seemed conducive to curling up in a chair with a cup of hot chocolate and a good book.

  She turned from the window. “What do we have?”

  “A CFO named David Smith called us,” he said. “He was fired from his job for embezzlement. Swears he’s innocent.”

  “How much?”

  “One million. Even.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “To his house.”

  Forty minutes later, they arrived at the Seattle suburb of Bellevue. Smith’s neighborhood was a study in contrasting styles. Time periods. Big houses, like Smith’s, towered next to small houses that appeared over a century old.

  “This used to be a small ranch house like the others. Throughout the Seattle area, but especially here on the Eastside, they’re tearing down all the little old houses and building tall boxy new ones.”

  “Sounds as if you don’t approve.”

  McClaine shrugged. “Seattle is destroying its history. One house at a time.”

  A thin man in his mid-fifties, wearing blue track-suit bottoms and a Seahawks t-shirt, greeted them at the door. He showed them to the living room, his movements slow and measured.

  After initial pleasantries and their denial of refreshments, McClaine said, “Mr. Smith, tell us about the money.”

  Smith scratched the stubble on his cheek. “I was in my office. Downtown. And in a hurry. A plane to catch. I opened the browser on my computer and clicked on the website for our bank—”

  “Was the website saved in your browser?” asked Jade.

  “Yes.”

  From McClaine: “Which bank?”

  “Pacific Coast Bank. The company maintains both of their checking accounts there: operating and payroll.”

  “Go on,” McClaine said.

  “I transferred a million dollars from the operating to the payroll account. I used to transfer payroll every two weeks.”

  “Anyone else authorized to make transfers?” Jade asked.