[Jade Harrington 01.0] Don't Speak

by J. L. Brown

  A man, who appeared as if he had had several drinks himself, entered the restroom. He stared at Cooper, Jade, and Christian. Then he muttered, “Sorry, dudes,” and stumbled out the door. Christian laughed. Cooper blushed again. Jade rolled her eyes. They went back out into the hallway.

  “We think he was incapacitated in some way here—maybe tased—and dragged outside.” He pushed the release bar on the back door, which opened into an alley. The narrow alley stunk of trash and urine. Farther down, a large dumpster took up most of the narrow lane. “When he didn’t return, his co-workers went looking for him. One checked the bathroom and then out here, thinking Sells may have come out to talk on his cell phone or grab a smoke. He didn’t see him. It gets pretty dark out here at night. Another co-worker checked the front of the building. After a while, they all figured he went home. You can leave the bathroom and go out the front of the building without going through the restaurant.” He pointed to the pavement. “The victim was killed here.”

  Jade bent down a few yards from the door. Flecks of blood still dotted the pavement. “Cause of death?”

  “Severe blows to the head. He lost a lot of blood.”

  “Spatter?”

  “Cast-off pattern on the wall and the ground.”

  “So, you’re thinking he was most likely hit with a blunt instrument.”

  Cooper nodded.

  “Did you recover the murder weapon, Lieutenant Cooper?”

  “Coop. And no.”

  “Any defensive wounds?”

  “Nope. The victim’s head looked like mush. He didn’t put up much of a fight.”

  “Is this where you found him?”

  “Not exactly.” Cooper started walking down the alley. Jade and Christian glanced at each other and followed.

  Cooper stopped at the dark green dumpster. “We found him in here. Someone threw him away with the restaurant’s nightly trash. His tongue had been cut out.”

  *

  “Jesus,” Christian breathed.

  Jade stared down at the body on the stainless steel table at the Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s office. Although it had been cleaned up, the face of Randy Sells had been beaten beyond recognition. Was that the point? Sells would have a closed casket at his funeral.

  “No question as to the manner of death,” Cooper said.

  Jade scanned the length of the corpse and returned to his face. Almost all the damage had been inflicted to the right side of his face. “The UNSUB is left-handed.”

  Christian nodded. “And has anger management issues.”

  Jade’s eyes didn’t leave the victim. “Sells was a big boy. Our suspect must be strong.”

  “Or had help,” Christian said. He turned to Cooper. “Who found him?”

  “One of Angelo’s busboys. He had started to swing the trash into the container when he noticed the vic. He dropped the bag, ran back into the restaurant, and told the manager, who called 911. The kid was shaking so hard during our interview, we had difficulty getting the story out of him.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Between nine p.m. and midnight. Sells’s friends were still drinking while he lay dying in the alley.”

  Jade continued to stare at Sells’s face.

  “Anything back on the tongue?”

  “Sent to the lab. Results aren’t back, yet.”

  “Cutting out someone’s tongue is extreme,” Jade said. “This seems personal.”

  “We agree,” Cooper said. “We don’t think the victim was chosen at random. Nothing was stolen as far as we could tell. He still had his wallet and cell phone on him.”

  Christian pointed at the corpse’s bare neck. “According to the autopsy report you showed us, the victim wore a necklace with a crucifix. Maybe this is connected to his religion or church. A hate crime. Did you check it out?”

  Cooper’s cheeks reddened, a vein throbbed on the right side of his pale forehead.

  “We’re in the process of checking it out now. We’ve just started this investigation. We haven’t even completed our interviews, yet. My boss called you in. Premature, if you ask me. He’s nervous because Sells was a rising celebrity in this town, and Pittsburgh is ranked as one of the safest big cities in the country every year. There’s a lot of pressure for us to solve this case quickly and protect our ranking. But this isn’t some damn TV show. We need more than forty-eight hours to solve the crime.”

  Jade touched Christian’s forearm before he reacted. She smiled at Cooper in apology.

  “I think we’ve seen enough here, . . . Coop. We need to catch a flight. Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

  Cooper broke his stare with Christian and turned to Jade. “Yeah, about the tongue. When we arrived on the scene, the vic was clasping it in his own hands. Like a rosary.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Athens, Georgia

  “You sound tired,” said Grayson, her husband.

  “Sometimes I wake up with no idea which state I’m in, much less which city.” Whitney lay back on the king-size bed in her hotel suite, cell phone pressed to her ear. “People seem to be receptive to our message,” she said, “though some of my base may be disappointed.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I thought we could meet in Ohio in a few days for dinner. A romantic dinner.”

  Grayson had always understood the demands of her career and never been resentful that she had to fit him into her schedule. As the CEO of Fairchild Industries, a St. Louis-based biotechnology and agricultural conglomerate, Grayson didn’t enjoy much free time either.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “I need to see you. Hold you. What’s wrong?” He knew her.

  Grayson was normally too busy to miss her. “I could ask the same of you.”

  “I just miss you. That’s all.” He paused. “Is it Hampton? The women’s rights bill?”

  “Have you spoken to the children?” Whitney asked. She didn’t want to talk about work.

  “I spoke with Chandler today. He decided to intern with us this summer. I’m not sure why he wants to work for the family firm all of a sudden. I rarely talked to him last semester. He only calls when he needs—”

  “—money,” they said at the same time and laughed.

  “And Emma,” Grayson continued, “is freaking out about her final exams, and they’re still three months away. Again, not sure why. She inherited her mother’s brains.”

  Whitney scoffed. “Please . . . .” She thought of her son, Chandler, a junior at the University of Missouri, his hair falling on his forehead no matter how many times he pushed it back and her daughter, Emma, a freshman at Princeton, whose nose was the same as Grayson’s. “I miss my babies.”

  “They aren’t babies, anymore.”

  “I know. I talk to Emma every day about nothing at all, and those calls mean everything to me.” She paused, sighed. “Dear, I need to run. My audience awaits. I’ll call you tomorrow about dinner. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. I’m so proud of you.”

  She held the cell phone next to her heart.

  At the discreet knock on her door, she placed the phone on the nightstand. “Coming.”

  Whitney rose, smoothed her shirt and skirt, and put her heels back on. She went out into the living room of the hotel suite. Ted Bowling and several others on her campaign staff sat on the beige sofas and chairs with laptops and papers spread out everywhere. Easels with white boards were placed throughout the room for a strategy session.

  A presidential candidate was never alone, and the lack of privacy would only become worse when she became president. Yes, she was able to grab a few minutes on occasion, such as just now with Grayson, but most of the time she was surrounded by the individuals in this room.

  Whitney sat, crossed her legs, as she thought again of the unusual anxiousness in Grayson’s voice. Scanning the faces of her team, she forced the thoughts of her husband from her mind. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

  CHAPTER
TEN

  Washington, DC

  “Hey, Cole. This is Carl from Lubbock, Texas. Love your show. The reason for my call is I’m not too happy with Ellison. Why does he feel the need to compromise with the Socialist Democrats? Why isn’t he doing more to protect and promote our conservative values?”

  “Good questions, Carl. Sometimes, and I think you would agree, some of the folks in our party aren’t ‘right’ enough for me. They don’t stand up for our conservative heritage. They’re either weak and willing to compromise with the Commies or they flip-flop as Romney did back in the day. Romney flipped more times than an Olympic high diver on steroids. I think President Richard Ellison sometimes forgets where he came from and who elected him to office. He may need help getting in touch with his ‘inner conservative.’ That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Why don’t you run, Cole? We need a man like you in the White House.”

  “Because my calling is to spread the word to you good folks. Thanks for the call, Carl. Next caller.”

  “Cole, this is Fred from Nebraska. Senator Sampson is trying to keep the farm and welfare reform bills together. Do you support this?”

  “Absolutely not. The federal government pays around thirty-two billion dollars per year to farmers, whether they grow crops or not. Our US Department of Agriculture—it’s not a coincidence its acronym is DOA, dead on arrival—also provides subsidized crop insurance and marketing support for the farming industry at a cost to American taxpayers of five billion dollars a year. Crop insurance guarantees eighty percent of their revenue. Most other businesses must pay these expenses out of pocket without government help and with no revenue guarantees. Why should farmers be the exception?”

  “Yeah, but Cole, I’m a farmer. I need that money—”

  “Listen, Ted. You farmers resisted subsidy reductions for decades. Subsidies made sense when we were a country of farmers, but now you all represent a small percentage of the population. These subsidies are costly and transfer income from general taxpayers to farmers, who then overproduce, resulting in lower prices, and more subsidies. It’s a vicious circle, Ted. Worse, these handouts hinder you guys from taking the actions needed to compete in the global economy. We want a free market, where those who invest and innovate reap the rewards. Prices should be set by supply and demand, not subsidies.”

  “But—”

  “Did you know the average farmer makes more than the average US industrial worker?”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t, but—”

  “Did you know millions of dollars in farm subsidies and crop insurance are paid to dead farmers? I’m talking fourteen million dollars per year of our money. Our government doesn’t know whether you’re dead or alive. It’s not capable of managing this.”

  “But—”

  “A fraud ring in North Carolina bilked the government for over one hundred million dollars. Listen here, Ted—”

  “Fred.”

  “Senator Sampson is pushing this bill because his family owns farming corporations. He and his cronies in Congress are all farmers or ex-farmers, and they’re trying to stuff their own pockets. Farmers need to be disciplined and self-reliant like the rest of us. Sorry, Fred, the subsidies must go. This is tough love, my friend. I’m not even going to answer your question about welfare reform. You all know how I feel about it. Next caller.”

  “Yo, Cole, this is Adam from St. Cloud, Minnesota. What do you think of Senator Fairchild as a candidate?”

  “Well, Adam, from St. Cloud, Minnesooooooooooooota. I think she is the chick version of Mitt Romney. She was a bleeding-heart liberal when she was in the House. Now, all of a sudden, she is talking about compromise and making lazy people work? I don’t buy it, and the American people won’t buy it. Liberals think the public is dumb. That we don’t understand what’s in our best interest, so they need to make decisions for us. The Commiecrats love her, because the women’s libbers have been nagging them to death to nominate a female candidate. She doesn’t stand a chance.

  “Before we go, remember to pre-order my book coming out this summer, Communism in Russia is Dead, but Alive and Well in the USA. Ain’t that the truth! You can also purchase my other books, newsletters, apparel, and DVDs on my website, www.theconservativevoiceonline.com.

  “This is Cole Brennan protecting your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Join us again tomorrow for ‘The Conservative Voice.’”

  *

  The black limousine was at the curb in front of the studio, and the driver held the door open for him. Cole Brennan lifted his bulk and sat in the seat facing the front, a glass of cognac in the cup holder. On the short drive to his home in Bethesda, Maryland, he sipped the brandy as he made a quick call to his agent, who had been pestering him for the final manuscript of his new book. Cole had no problems pre-selling the book, but finding the time to write these days was proving problematic. He completed the call by assuring his agent it was almost finished—Not!—as the limo ascended the long driveway to his sprawling home. Before the car had stopped, five of his six children ran toward him. The oldest, Cole Jr., followed them, too cool to run.

  Cole hugged each of his kids and held the hands of his youngest two as they strolled toward the front door. His wife, Ashley, still retaining the figure of the fashion model she once was, stood in the doorway, smiling, holding his second cognac of the evening.

  He grinned and gave her a quick kiss, and stepped inside the massive foyer. They shuffled down the hallway and entered the large family room at the back of the house. Cole plopped on the overstuffed sofa. The kids gathered around him and all started to speak at once.

  “Dad! I got an ‘A’ on my test.”

  “Dad! Don’t forget my game this Saturday!”

  “Dad! Boys are gross.”

  “Dad, watch this!” another of his sons said, and he tumbled into a forward roll.

  Cole laughed. “Very good, Ronnie. One at time. What was your test in, Madeline?”

  “English.”

  “Who are you playing this weekend, Sport?”

  “The Spartans!” Ryan, his seven-year-old, said.

  Cole turned to his eight-year-old daughter. “Kaitlin, I’m a boy, and I’m not gross.”

  She continued to stare at him with an expression as if she’d eaten something distasteful.

  “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Dad, some kids were talking about you at school today.”

  “Sweetheart, people are always talking about me. Go on. What did they say?”

  Kaitlin hesitated, then said, “They said you only like rich people and people who look like you.”

  Cole was stunned. “What? That’s not true. I-”

  Ashley clapped her hands. “All right, kids. Dad just got home. Let him rest for a minute. Go wash your hands for dinner.”

  “Okay!” the four youngest said, as they raced out of the room. The two eldest children sauntered after them.

  “No running!” Ashley called after them. She glanced at Cole, uncertain. She tried her best to eliminate conflict in their home, since his job was stressful enough. He smiled and moved his hand holding the drink to the side, providing room for her to climb into his lap. She gave him a kiss.

  He squeezed her to him.

  “Why do kids run everywhere? My last inclination is to run anywhere. Unless someone’s chasing me.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to him.

  Kaitlin’s words didn’t bother him. He had heard worse many times before. Given his profession, he had grown immune to what people said about him.

  No, it wasn’t what she said that hurt him. It was the expression on her face that tore at his heart. He was rich and revered in this country because millions of Americans agreed with his values and where he stood on the issues, while here in his own household, he saw doubt about his character on his daughter’s face for the first time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Washington, DC

  The headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation took up the e
ntire block between Ninth and Tenth Streets on Pennsylvania Avenue in Northwest Washington, DC. The J. Edgar Hoover Building’s Brutalist architectural style, popular in the mid-twentieth century, was now listed by Washingtonian magazine as one of the “Buildings I’d Tear Down.” A travel website proclaimed it “the ugliest building in the world.” Although Jade Harrington agreed with the widespread assessment, her affinity was strong for the historical building and the twelve flags in front depicting the evolution of the United States flag since before it became a republic.

  The first floor, built to accommodate commercial businesses that never materialized, remained empty—and now, for security reasons, always would. Two red barricades blocked the entry into the parking garage. Yellow chains and ten-foot high barricades cordoned off the stairs. Tours of HQ, once a popular DC tourist attraction, were canceled indefinitely for renovations. Those renovations would never be completed.

  The building appeared to be a fortress. And it was.

  The Monday after returning from Pittsburgh, Jade dropped her briefcase beside her desk in her fourth-floor office, grabbed her favorite FBI mug, and headed for the break room for coffee. On her way back, she stopped by Christian Merritt’s cubicle, or rather his pictorial shrine to his wife, four kids, and golden retriever. “Hey. How was your weekend?”

  Christian shifted his solid frame in his desk chair. “Good. You?”

  “Watched the Wizards.”

  “Why do you think they’re called the Wizards? I don’t understand why they don’t use their magic to win a game.”

  “There’s always next season. What are you working on today?”

  “The Morales case. You?”

  “Doing some research on Sells. See if I can dig up anything to help Cooper.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘Coop?’” Christian batted his eyes like a coquettish female. “Uh . . . , ‘Call me Coop. My friends do.’”

  “Shut up,” Jade said, giving Christian a playful push. His rock-solid body did not budge.

  She returned to her office and straightened the files and other items on her desk, making sure the stacks aligned with the desk’s edge.