Checkmate

by Steven James

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Packing?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t sound too excited about it. “I guess.”

  She was getting ready for her freshman year at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she’d registered after she decided to bail on her previous choices of English and Deep Ecology and major in Criminal Science instead. Though it wasn’t far from DC, we all agreed it would be best if she stayed in the residence hall rather than at home.

  Admittedly, I had mixed feelings about her following in my footsteps—on the one hand, I was excited about the idea of someone as sharp as she was entering the field, but on the other, her emotional stability was a matter of concern, so who knew how that was going to pan out?

  “Don’t watch the news, Tessa.”

  She gave me a curious look. “What?”

  “I don’t want you watching the news.”

  In typical paradoxical fashion, Tessa was as insatiably curious about crimes as she was troubled by blood and dead bodies, often asking me about my cases even though she knew I couldn’t give her any details about the investigations. But the more she watched the news, the more disturbed she became.

  And the more curious.

  A vicious cycle.

  She took a bite of chocolate cake. “It’s someone from your past, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t know who’s behind this.”

  “Ah, I get it.” She swallowed her mouthful of cake. “So, let’s see how I do here . . .” As she went on, she vaguely imitated me. “Don’t assume. Never trust your gut. Go with the facts over your instincts. And try to prove yourself wrong rather than let your presuppositions color your judgment.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “Well, it’s all from you from over the years. I mean, I conflated the axioms, but . . .”

  “Right.”

  She polished off another bite of chocolate cake. “I heard there was evidence left at the site of Jerome Cole’s homicide that pointed to a connection with you.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “The news.”

  “See, this is why—”

  “So?”

  “I can’t divulge anything about the case.”

  “But according to CNN, an undisclosed source close to the investigation confirmed that the—”

  “Tessa—”

  “Yes?”

  She looked at me innocently.

  What’s the point, Pat? If that’s what the media is reporting she’ll find out soon enough.

  “Okay. Yes. It’s true. One of the books I wrote was left there at the scene. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “So, when should I expect them?”

  “Expect who?”

  “The agents or cops or whoever you’re going to assign to watch the house when you and Lien-hua are gone. I mean, that is what’s coming, isn’t it? If this has something to do with you, if this killer—or killers; okay, I’m not assuming, I’m just saying—if this killer, he’s shown interest in you, then you’re going to have someone watch me when you’re not around.”

  “As a precaution only, not as—”

  “You know what? That’s one of your most annoying quirks.”

  “What is?”

  “Saying something is a precaution. It means you’re worried about someone but you don’t want to admit it.”

  “If I was worried I wouldn’t leave you alone. Not even for a minute. I don’t think you’re in any danger. I just want to be prudent.”

  “Prudent.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gotcha.”

  The conversation, which had started off on a positive enough note, had turned a sharp corner and I wasn’t exactly sure where to take things from here.

  “Alright,” I said, “well, when I know more of my schedule for the day I’ll text you. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tessa—”

  “I said sure.” She slid her unfinished breakfast to the side and trekked off to her room.

  I waited until the door closed behind her before gathering my things and going outside to the car.

  The agents I’d called in right after Lien-hua had kissed me good-bye had made it here and were stationed across the street watching the house.

  A precaution.

  Prudence.

  That’s all it was. Just until we found out more information.

  I pulled out of the driveway and hopped onto the interstate to head to downtown DC.

  + + +

  Through her bedroom window, Tessa watched her dad leave.

  Yup. A dark sedan was parked on the other side of the street. The side windows were tinted and the sunlight glinted slightly off the windshield, but she could make out that there was a guy in the driver’s seat. It looked like a woman was with him.

  They didn’t get out of the car, just sat there, observing the house.

  Yeah, she’d called that one.

  Okay, sure, it meant that Patrick cared about her and that he loved her—but she could take care of herself and she didn’t need some middle-aged, overweight, doughnut-eating cops—or federal agents, or whoever—watching over her.

  Don’t forget, a voice inside of her said, Basque did attack you a couple of months ago. Patrick does have a right to be concerned. I mean, doesn’t he?

  Great, now here she was arguing with herself.

  She sighed.

  Okay, whatever.

  So, pack.

  Her room was filled with boxes.

  Nearly all of them empty.

  Overwhelmed.

  Feeling overwhelmed right now.

  Walking to the kitchen, she got an empty cereal bowl from the cupboard and returned to her room. She set her iPhone in the bowl so the sound would be amplified—pretty much the cheapest speaker system ever. She had some acute hearing loss in her left ear from when a gun went off too close to it one time and she needed the extra volume.

  Lately she’d been on a CocoRosie kick. Not nearly as dark or intense as most of the bands she listened to, but their music was so earthy and moody and real and just present that she couldn’t get enough of it.

  Patrick complained that the singer sounded like a five-year-old chain-smoker, but there was something about Bianca’s voice that drew Tessa in—especially songs like “The Moon Asked the Crow,” “Lemonade,” and perhaps the most powerfully haunting one of all, “Child Bride.”

  After starting the music, Tessa stared at her computer for a long time.

  Then she glanced back out the window at the sedan parked on the street.

  Screw it.

  She flipped open her laptop and surfed to a cable news network’s news feed to keep an eye on what they were reporting about the bombing at the NCAVC.

  Then, listening to CocoRosie and keeping tabs on the news, she began sorting through her rather substantial pile of books, deciding which ones to bring with her to college.

  + + +

  The bard used Corrine’s keys to swap her car out of the garage and replace it with his van so he could move her into it without any of the neighbors seeing him.

  Then he untied her from the bed and carried her down the stairs.

  She didn’t struggle.

  He could feel her heart beating softly, gently, evenly in her chest.

  Thrum-thrum.

  Thrum-thrum.

  The rhythm of life.

  So fragile. So easily disrupted. So quiet and tender and true.

  No, she didn’t struggle. The drugs he’d given her took care of that.

  Last night, as it turned out, he hadn’t needed to use the blade, and he preferred it this way because now he could leave Corrine to die a more natural death.

  Thrum-thrum.

 
So tender and true.

  Inside the van, he laid her gently on the floor and secured her. After taking a photo of her for the online album he was working on, he left for Charlotte, where he would put the pieces in place for all that needed to happen before Saturday afternoon.

  15

  Director Wellington had her laptop open on the table in front of her and was removing a packet of papers from her briefcase when I walked into the conference room on the second floor of the J. Edgar Hoover building.

  Two other people were already there, dressed impeccably. I recognized one as Dimitri Sheridan, Assistant Director of the Counterterrorism Division. He was talking in a hushed voice in the corner of the room with a man I didn’t know.

  As I approached the table, Margaret peered at me with those cool, unflinching eyes. Straight brown hair. Perfect posture. “Agent Bowers.”

  “Director Wellington.”

  “How is your side, where the shrapnel hit you? Did they provide adequate care for you at the medical center?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I waited.

  Her turn.

  She said nothing.

  Six years ago, before I worked a stint in Denver, Margaret and I were both teaching at the Academy. One day I found out about some missing evidence in a case we were involved with and brought it up to the Office of Professional Responsibility, the Bureau’s internal affairs office.

  After an investigation, the OPR didn’t officially reprimand anyone or declare any negligence, but they did discreetly arrange for Margaret to be reassigned to the Resident Agency in Asheville, North Carolina—which was not exactly a promotion. At least not in her eyes.

  However, she was a persistent woman, and to her credit she’d worked her way back into the graces of the upper echelons of the Bureau and, eventually, after a scandal cost her predecessor his job, ended up getting nominated and approved by the senate to be the new Director.

  A few months ago she’d asked me to help look into the apparent suicide of her brother, and as a result of that investigation Margaret and I seemed to have been able to bury the hatchet somewhat—a saying that, when it popped to mind right now, only served to bring grisly images of Jerome Cole’s crime scene with it.

  As long as Margaret did her job and let me do mine, I was fine with things staying just as they were between us.

  Finally, she said, “You’ll let me know if there’s anything the Bureau can do for you regarding the injuries you sustained. Expediting insurance forms—whatever you need.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “I appreciate you coming in today.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m trusting that your input will be valuable to the investigation.”

  “Yes,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Me too.”

  Then neither of us had anything more to say.

  No insults. No offense. No lost tempers. No tussles. Chalk that up as a good conversation between Director Wellington and me.

  I found a seat at the far end of the table near a sweating pitcher of ice water.

  As I was pulling out my laptop, the man who’d been speaking with Dimitri came over and introduced himself as Pierce Jennings, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs. Early fifties. Eyes of lead, a gaunt face, and a hard-edged jaw. “I’ll be reporting back to the National Security Council this afternoon.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  So, Ralph had been right about the NSC sending a rep to the briefing.

  While Jennings found a seat, René Gonzalez, the Bureau’s Joint Terrorism Task Force Director, walked through the door. He was a short but commanding man with a thick scar running along the edge of his chin from a knife fight he’d been in back when he was working as an undercover cop in LA.

  Yes, this was definitely going to be the highest-level briefing I’d ever sat in on. And I was so thrilled to be here.

  Tact.

  You’re Mr. Tact, remember?

  Right. Okay. Tact. No problem.

  I could do tact.

  I lost myself in reviewing my notes until Ralph settled in next to me and I saw that two other men and one woman had entered the room in the meantime.

  There were nine chairs around the table, so it looked like everyone was here.

  I expected that Ralph might ask me about my side as Tessa, Lien-hua, and Margaret had, but he only said, “I don’t want you whining about those stitches; we’ve got work to do.”

  “Right.”

  He set his arm on the table and I was reminded about the dog bite he’d sustained last spring. One of Richard Basque’s pit bulls had latched onto his forearm when we located his residence. The fight didn’t end so well for the dog, but it had managed to score a chunk of meat from Ralph’s arm before he stopped it for good.

  My friend didn’t like to talk about it, but as far as I knew, the recovery hadn’t been going as well for him as he’d hoped.

  Ralph opened up a package of gummy bears. “Have you ever heard of these things? Amazing.”

  “Ralph, those have been around for years.”

  “Just discovered ’em. They made it to my top-ten list.”

  “Mini-weenies with mustard and ranch dressing still number one?”

  “Still number one.”

  A young woman who had “I’m an intern” written all over her face scurried around the table, placing nameplates in front of everyone. She must have done her homework, because without having to ask anyone his or her name, she correctly identified everyone in the room.

  According to the nameplates, the two men who’d just come in were from the Department of Justice and the woman was the Assistant Director of Domestic Affairs from Homeland Security.

  Nine people was plenty for me to keep straight, but considering how many chief security officers, section chiefs, assistant directors, and executive assistant directors we had just in the Bureau alone, there could have easily been another couple dozen people invited to a briefing like this.

  The intern came to me last, gave me a hurried smile, and placed my nameplate, which had evidently been printed up special for this occasion, in front of me.

  I turned it so I could read it: FBI SPECIAL AGENT PATRICK POWERS.

  With the misspelling, it sounded like a superhero name. Tessa would have a field day with that one if she ever found out about it.

  I dialed it back around to face the group.

  As everyone else took a seat, Margaret stood, cleared her throat, and got things started. “Alright. We’re here to review what we know and put a plan together to coordinate our teams in order to apprehend the individual or individuals responsible for these crimes before any more innocent people perish. Let’s stay on track and let’s make some progress.”

  Brief. Concise. To the point.

  Good.

  Off to my kind of start.

  Rather than take time to have everyone introduce themselves, she just directed our attention to the nameplates.

  After having Ralph summarize what had happened at the NCAVC and review the findings from the autopsy that had been performed last night on Jerome Cole, Margaret turned to me. “In your report you described the driver who dropped off the lawnmower that had the improvised explosive device.” She phrased it as a statement, but left it hanging there as a question.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Male. Caucasian. No facial hair. Age undetermined. Hair color and eye color unknown. He was wearing dark sunglasses, a weathered Chicago Cubs baseball cap, and had a wedding band on the ring finger of his left hand.”

  “From what I understand”—it was the woman from Homeland Security—“from reading over the case files, you only glimpsed this man for an instant in the side-view mirror of the truck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Throu
gh the rain?”

  “Yes.”

  I was about to apologize that I couldn’t offer more details when Ralph spoke up. “Agent Powers has a penchant for noticing things.”

  Powers.

  Great.

  Thanks for that, Ralph.

  Jennings, the NSC’s Special Assistant to the President, said, “So, how do you know he wore a wedding band?”

  “He repositioned the mirror. That’s when I saw the ring.”

  “So, our guy, he’s married.” He jotted something down on a yellow notepad. “That’s good. That gives us something.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t know why he was wearing the ring, only that he was. It’s the same for the Cubs hat—it doesn’t mean he’s a Cubs fan, it simply means he had it on during the commission of the crime. We need to stay focused on what we do know and not drift into speculation about what we don’t.”

  Everyone stared at me. Someone on the far end of the table coughed slightly and I realized I’d been a little too abrupt. “Sir,” I added.

  Jennings turned to Ralph. “What about forensic evidence at the scene of Mr. Cole’s murder?”

  “No prints, no DNA, no fibers.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Correct.”

  “That would be very tough to pull off, don’t you think? I mean . . .” Now he gazed at Margaret. “There must be something there.”

  “Our team is continuing to evaluate the situation and collect any evidence that might be pertinent.”

  “And video?” he asked me. “Nothing from the external cameras at the facility?”

  “No facial features, not even a partial,” I said.

  “Because of the ball cap.”

  “That’s right.”

  A stiff pause.

  “And you’re telling me that he knew exactly where to turn his head as he exited the vehicle and unloaded the lawnmower?” His skepticism was evident in every word.

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that sound like an inside job to you?”

  “It sounds like someone who knew what he was doing. I don’t think we should assume that it was an inside job or, conversely, that it wasn’t. I don’t think we should assume anything.”