by J. L. Brown
Thompson shrugged. “Maybe. She went to all his games. Sometimes, I had to miss games because of work, especially the away games. My wife,” he hesitated, “is not well.”
“What do you mean?” Jade asked.
Thompson’s eyes watered. “She”—he gulped—“won’t leave the house. She rarely showers. Wears that ratty old bathrobe and slippers most of the time. Watches TV all day. Or sleeps. I want her to see someone. A psychiatrist. She won’t go. The only place she will go is the cemetery. I take her sometimes. She lays on Tyler’s grave. She can lay there for hours.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Fairfax, Virginia
Jade exited the car and strode up the sidewalk that bisected the yard. She knocked on the front door, turning to scope out the surrounding houses while she waited. They had been waiting in her car for over an hour. The neighborhood of Colonial homes—the keeper of lives and their secrets for longer than four decades—mostly quiet.
Now, at six a.m., the residents had started to stir. A few of the Thompsons’ neighbors departed, commuters trying to beat Washington’s insufferable early-morning traffic.
She knocked again. This time, Jenny Thompson answered the door. She stared at them vacantly, cinching the top of her bathrobe at the neck.
“Are you here to tell me who killed my son?”
Jade handed her the warrant. “Jennifer Thompson, we have a warrant to search your house and garage for the contents listed on that document.”
Jade didn’t wait for an invitation inside. She pushed past the dazed woman, followed by Dante and Micah and forensic techs. The techs dispersed throughout the house.
Jenny caught up to her and grabbed Jade’s arm. “What is this? Where’s Christian?”
Jade stared at Jenny’s hand until she removed it. “Where’s your husband?”
“He’s at work. Why?”
Jade had seen him leave. Other agents were simultaneously serving him a warrant at his office at the dealership. “I suggest you gather your children and stay in one room. One of our agents will keep you company.”
Jade left her and followed the techs into the living room. They knew what to search for: any evidence linking Matt Thompson to the four murdered William Randolph Secondary School students.
She turned to Micah and Dante. “I’m going upstairs.”
“I’ll go with you,” Micah said.
Dante shook his head, smirking.
To Micah, she said, “Suit yourself.”
They watched the techs process the master bedroom and the bedrooms of the two youngest children.
The technicians hesitated at the last bedroom. Everyone knew that the Fairfax County police had processed the room after Tyler’s case was ruled a homicide.
“Do it anyway,” Jade said.
She glanced at the twin-size bed, neatly made, the nightstand, the dresser. Everything seemed in its place.
But something was off. She couldn’t put her finger on what.
She moved to the dresser against one wall. On top of it were a few trophies—one of the plaques said Most Improved, another Best Attitude—several text books, and his baseball cap.
A forensic analyst turned off the overhead light and began spraying Luminol on the walls, the carpet, and the bed.
Expecting to find nothing, Jade turned to leave.
A blue glow glimmered on the wall behind the bed, followed shortly by the bedspread and the carpet nearby. As the photographer clicked away, Jade stopped, her mouth slightly open as she took in the scene. She stared at the light for the entire thirty seconds it took to fade away, her mind churning.
A chemical in Luminol reacted to iron, which was found in hemoglobin.
Jade looked at the tech for confirmation. He nodded.
She said to Micah, “That means—”
“—there’s trace amounts of blood present,” he finished. “What’s the big deal, though? The victim was beaten up before he died.”
“Yeah. But he didn’t lay on the wall.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Seattle, Washington
Noah enjoyed a turkey sandwich at an organic deli near his office in Pioneer Square. He sat at the counter at the front of the restaurant, staring out the window at the activity taking place among the trees, tables, and black streetlamps in Occidental Park.
Pioneer Square had begun as the city’s center. Noah’s ancestors had settled there in 1852. Most of the original wooden buildings erected at that time had been destroyed in the Great Seattle Fire of 1889. The neighborhood’s current brick and stone buildings replicated that original architecture.
The vibrant area consisted of art galleries, nightclubs, sports bars, restaurants, and bookstores. But the neighborhood had its dark side: vandalism, prostitution, drug dealing, and, sometimes, homicides. A large population of homeless people also called Pioneer Square home. The area was beautiful and primed for revival. The transition had been a struggle. Noah wasn’t sure the neighborhood would make it. He didn’t spend much time here after dark.
His phone vibrated.
He looked down to see a text from Jack, one of his running buddies. A text from him was rare, unless it was to schedule a run or a bike ride for the upcoming weekend.
I heard about what happened. Let me know if I can do anything.
Noah stared at the message, wondering what Jack meant. He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich. Jack had probably intended to send it to someone else. As Noah sipped his bottled water through a straw, he received another text, this one from a fellow member of a nonprofit board on which he served.
Horrible news. I’m here for you.
Had something happened to his father? After a few more texts from well-wishers, he returned Jack’s text.
What are you talking about?
He bussed his table and left the restaurant. Office workers walked to and fro or ate lunch at the outside tables, sharing the busy park with the homeless, beggars, a couple of street performers, joggers, and CrossFit members swinging kettlebells. He thought the latter activity should be illegal. Someone could get hurt. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He dug it out and stared at the message.
The money stolen from your firm.
He frowned and then texted Jack back.
How do you know about that?
He kept walking, staring at his phone, oblivious to everything going on around him. The wait seemed interminable, but may have been only seconds.
The Times just posted a link to an article on Twitter, man.
Noah stopped and navigated to the Seattle Times app. His father’s face—his face!—was on the front page. The front page. Not the business section. For all the world to see. The article stated that one million dollars had been stolen. AMB International was listed with Kyle Madison’s venture-capital firm, and other firms in Seattle and across the country, in a chart in the middle of the article.
Some people grumbled as they walked around him. He barely noticed. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket, and found the card the federal agent had given him at the fundraiser and dialed.
“Special Agent—”
“Did you tell the media?”
“Who is this?”
“Noah Blakeley.”
“Took you long enough to return my call.”
“I . . . uh . . . didn’t get the message.”
She paused. “Interesting . . . ”
“You leaked it to the media. It’s on the front page of the Times. Everyone’s going to know now. Why did you do that? Because I didn’t return your call?”
Noah could hear the hysteria in his own voice.
“Calm down, Mr. Blakeley. Why would I call you, if I already knew? Besides, I can assure you that no one from my office told anyone in the media about what happened at your firm.”
Her politeness was increasing his blood pressure. “Who did?”
There was a moment of silence. “I don’t know. This is the first I’ve heard of it. But I can try to find out
.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He pressed End. His hands shook. His father was going to kill him. He had to figure out a way to avoid him for the rest of the day.
His phone buzzed again. Another well-wisher? No. This text was from his father.
Come back to the office. Now!
He glanced around him. He must look wild. Crazy. He jammed the phone and the wallet into his back pockets, spun, and took off in the other direction, barely missing a hard body swinging a kettlebell. Perhaps he should have let the Amazonian woman hit him. It would have felt better than what his father was going to do to him.
Instead, he swerved around the woman and speed-walked. Away from the office.
And his father.
CHAPTER NINETY
Washington, DC
After the abrupt, strange phone call from Noah Blakeley, she returned to the spreadsheet she had worked on in Seattle. She was trying to keep busy, while she waited for the lab results on the Thompson case.
Pat had long since provided the rest of the financial information Jade needed on the victimized Seattle firms.
She stared at the completely filled-out spreadsheet: the list of firms, locations, total assets, total liabilities, cash balances, last year’s revenue and net income amounts, and the amount stolen.
She sat back. Exactly one percent in each case.
Was this some kind of Robin Hood thing? Steal from the rich and give to the poor? She shook her head. Was she allowing Zoe’s lectures on the evils of the one-percenters to influence her? But, most important, who would have the capability to pull off heists of this magnitude?
She continued to stare at the computer screen, as questions tumbled around in her brain and she tried to come up with logical answers.
Her cell phone vibrated. Kyle.
“I’m in the middle of something,” Jade said. “Can I call you back?”
“I don’t like this kind of publicity.”
“I had nothing to do with the leak. I’m working on finding out who did.”
“It’s a little late now. My investors have been calling. They’re spooked. And threatening to withdraw their money from our latest fund. I’m not happy.”
“I’m sorry.” Jade hung up.
She returned to examining her spreadsheet, but almost immediately her mind wandered back to Kyle.
Jade liked her. Enjoyed talking to her and spending time with her. Her feelings for Kyle were complicated, beyond professional. And wrong. Jade should have learned her lesson with Landon. She chastised herself. Caleb Hewitt.
She looked at the spreadsheet again.
She needed to stop seeing her, except for case-related business.
Or, at least, not until the perpetrator was caught.
Pat entered her office and sat down uninvited. “Michael Brown.”
“What about him?”
Michael Brown had overseen the federal government’s response to Hurricane Katrina. Hewitt had used the name as an alias during his killing spree.
“You asked me to look into transportation manifests in and out of Chicago around the time the president’s aunt died. On a lark, I did a search on all of Hewitt’s aliases: Michael Brown, Eddie Cullen, Caleb Hewitt, Landon Phillips, and any combinations thereof.”
“And?”
“Nothing. There was an Eddie Brown, who flew from New Orleans to Chicago for a conference, but his whereabouts during that time are accounted for.”
Jade’s forearm tingled. “But you found something.”
“Who did Caleb Hewitt hate more than anyone else?”
She thought back to the interview with Hewitt’s parents. “George W. Bush. Caleb believed he stole the 2000 election.”
Pat handed her a file. “Here is the manifest for a Southwest flight from Newark to Chicago Midway in 2001.”
She stared at Pat an extra beat. She opened the file, her eyes scrolling down the list until she reached the name that Pat had highlighted. Her eyes widened, as a small fist formed in her gut, and started creeping its way upward.
She glanced at Pat, and back down at the list.
The highlighted name was Walker G. Bush.
She stared at the Pennsylvania driver’s license photograph of Walker G. Bush. His hair was dirty blond and longish. The eyes brown. There was not a doubt in Jade’s mind that she was looking at Caleb Hewitt before he had transformed into Landon Phillips.
“There’s more.” Pat handed her another file. “Given how Hewitt felt about Bush, I deduced he hated someone else just as much.”
“The godfather of ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’?”
Pat nodded. “Good guess.”
“Or Sherlockian deduction.”
“At any rate, you’re right. Dick Cheney.”
The folder contained an airline manifest from 2005 establishing that a Rick Cheney flew from Philadelphia to St. Louis. The photo on this driver’s license was taken five years after the Bush photo. The hair was shorter and light brown. The eyes were green. And the nose job was in place.
The face Jade knew as Landon Phillips.
The fact that Caleb Hewitt was in Clayton, Missouri at the same time Representative Barrett was killed couldn’t have been a coincidence.
“What about hotels?” Jade asked.
“Once he arrived in St. Louis, the trail runs cold. No one by that name stayed at a hotel within a hundred and fifty miles of the city.”
“And the Congressman’s car is long gone, so we can’t verify fingerprints.”
“Since it was an accident, it wasn’t retained as evidence. The family sold what was left of it to a mechanic. We followed up with him. He sold it for parts.”
“Thanks, Pat,” she said, wanting to be alone with the file.
This time, she didn’t pace. As soon as Pat left, she picked up the handset. “This is Jade Harrington. I need to see the president.”
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
The White House, Washington, DC
“I hope you don’t have any food restrictions.”
“No, when it comes to food—just like anything else—I don’t discriminate. My best friend, though, is always telling me that just because you look healthy doesn’t mean you are.”
“Good advice. And who is your best friend?”
“Her name is Zoe.”
“Doesn’t she have a last name?”
“She doesn’t want anyone to know it.” The agent shrugged. “Like Madonna, Cher, Beyoncé. You understand.”
“I do.”
“She does a lot of work for you, actually. Worked on many of your campaigns.”
Jade told her the name of the organization Zoe worked for.
Whitney lifted her glass. “Then, here’s to Zoe.”
“To Zoe. She would love this by the way. The president of the United States toasting her.”
They clinked glasses and drank. Hers was filled with wine. Agent Harrington’s with sparkling water.
“I don’t have dinner guests here often.”
“I’m honored,” Jade said.
Jade’s eyes surveyed the beautiful place setting on the table in the President’s Dining Room in the residence, the Sheraton chairs, the chandelier, the grandfather clock, the fireplace, and the painting over the mantle of a woman with a child sitting in her lap.
The young woman seemed to be waiting for her. Whitney picked up her knife and fork and began to eat.
“I wanted to give you an update on the case,” Jade said.
Whitney held up her hand. “After dinner. I assume the news will not be pleasant, and I would like to enjoy this wonderful meal my cook prepared. Especially, if you’re going to tell me this is my last.”
“It’s bad, Madam President, but not that bad. This pasta is delicious.”
Whitney eyed her plate. “There’s more, if you’re hungry.”
The agent reddened. “It’s not often I eat a home-cooked meal. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Last year, when we were tog
ether, you told me about your hobbies. If I remember correctly, you play basketball and practice Tae Kwon Do.”
“Good memory. I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for either.”
“That’s a shame. Hobbies are important.”
“What’s your hobby? Let me guess. Reading.”
Whitney nodded. “First editions.”
“Expensive hobby. I read through your New New Deal Coalition proposal.”
“Then you must have a lot of free time. And?”
“I like the part about funding infrastructure projects. Can you add the Bureau to the mix?”
Whitney laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It was no secret that FBI headquarters was falling apart. Literally. Netting had been installed along Ninth Street to prevent passersby from being hit by falling concrete. The interior was worse. The agency needed a new building to reflect and support its critical mission in the modern world. And to better protect the building and its employees from terrorism.
Despite the elephant in the room, Whitney tried to relax during dinner. They would talk about it soon enough.
Afterward, they retired to the living room. Jade sat in one of the two chairs facing the sofa. Whitney lifted the bottle of whiskey. “Drink?”
Jade held up a hand. “No, thank you.”
“Come on. Let your guard down for a night.”
“All right.” Jade hesitated. “Do you have any beer?”
Whitney smiled. “I’m sure we can come up with something.”
She called Jade’s request down to the kitchen, and selected a tulip-shaped glass from a cart and returned to the sofa. She poured the whiskey and waited.
There was a discreet knock on the door.
“Come in,” she said.
One of the butlers entered with a cart. On top of it sat an ice bucket with twelve different brands of beer nestled within. Jade selected one. The butler offered her a glass, but she waved it away.
After he left, Whitney raised her glass. “Now, we can have a proper toast.”
“That’s a lot of beer for one person.”
