by J. L. Brown
An overpowering cologne announced the arrival of Special Agent Dante Carlucci. He leaned against her door frame, watching her.
“A tidy desk makes a tidy mind?”
Jade continued to straighten the items.
“Something like that,” she said, not looking up.
Dante had curly brown hair, a long nose, and one ear higher than the other. All of his features were a little off, but in combination made him handsome. And he knew it. He wasn’t her type, though. He knew that, too.
Dante had been a rising star at the Bureau. That is, until Jade arrived in the division. Since then, his star had fallen, while hers continued to rise. During her first week, he had also hit on her, as he did with every woman he met under fifty. He had not taken the rejection kindly.
“How come you never ask me what I did on the weekends?” he asked.
“Why should I? You always do the same thing.”
“You’re jealous ’cause I’m getting some.”
She booted up her computer. “So you say.”
“How’s Zoe? Man, she’s fine. I sure wish she didn’t swing on the other side of the fence.”
Jade ignored him and popped a red peanut M&M into her mouth. Dante couldn’t stay quiet for long.
“Why do you eat one M&M at a time? Who does that?”
“Me.” Jade began perusing her emails until Dante gave up and left. She typed “Randy Sells” in the search bar. Thousands of hits came up. She clicked on one.
Randy Sells, KABC Talk-Show Host, Murdered
Popular Pittsburgh talk-radio host Randy Sells was found dead Friday night behind a downtown restaurant in what police are calling a homicide.
The body of the 28-year-old Sells, a political conservative whose talk show aired the last three years on KABC-AM, was discovered in an alley behind Angelo’s Restaurant at 600 Grant Street at about 10:30 p.m. The body was beaten almost beyond recognition, according to police sources.
Jade read several more news items on the Sells murder but didn’t learn anything new.
She paused for a moment and then typed “conservative talk show host” into the Google search bar. Four million hits. Jade perused the first few pages, most of the links referring to Cole Brennan. She knew of Cole—everyone did, and everyone called him by his first name—but didn’t listen to his program.
Jade took a break, refreshed her coffee, and wandered over to Pat’s cubicle. Patricia “Pat” Turner, fiftyish and overweight, looked like someone’s grandmother. Individuals who met her were fooled by her appearance. Jade was not. Pat had been with the FBI forever. She could run the place.
“What’re you up to?” Jade asked.
Pat finished typing on her computer. “Nothing now. What do you need?”
Jade leaned against a filing cabinet. “Looking into this Sells murder.” She brought Pat up to speed on what she had done so far. Pat tapped the keys on her keyboard as Jade talked.
Pat added “murder” to the search request. Randy Sells’s murder topped the search results.
She clicked through the next several pages and the links changed to stories about conservative talk-show hosts in general. Nothing helpful.
“What about ‘killed?’” Jade asked.
Pat clicked through a few pages of search results. She clicked to the next page. Jade leaned over her shoulder, expecting another dead end.
Halfway down the page, she pointed to a link for Pat to click on.
The story was dated ten years ago.
Chattenham College Radio Personality Killed
A Chattenham College talk-radio personality was found dead earlier today next to his car in the campus radio station’s Main Street parking lot in what police are calling a homicide.
Kyle Williams, 22, a Chattenham student who hosted a controversial conservative talk-radio show at campus station WCCO-AM, was found on the ground beside his car. Police say Williams suffered at least one blow to the head with a blunt instrument.
The Chattenham County Police Department requests that anyone with any information about this crime call 215-555-5555. Grief counselors will be available to talk to students and staff. A candlelight vigil will be held on the campus’s Quad on Friday.
There weren’t any follow-up articles on progress or suspects or arrests.
Jade looked at Pat. “Are there others?”
They spent the next two hours searching the Internet and other databases without success. By this time, Jade had pulled up a chair and her coffee sat on Pat’s desk, cold and half-full. Forgotten.
Jade stood and paced the corridor between Pat’s cubicle and the cubicles of other agents. Were the two murders connected? Why ten years apart? Were there others?
She popped her head back into Pat’s cubicle. “I gotta run. I’m late. Keep working this.”
*
An hour later, Jade Harrington paced the sideline, glaring at LaKeisha, her point guard.
“LaKeisha, run the offense!”
LaKeisha smiled at her as she dribbled in place near the half-court line. She gave Jade a thumbs-up.
“You got it, Coach.”
Jade tried hard to hold the glare and prevent the smile trying to form on her face. LaKeisha’s smile never failed to produce one of her own.
Jade coached a girls’ basketball team made up of preteens from Anacostia, a rough DC neighborhood. Some people called the players on her team “at risk” kids. Jade thought of them as kids who had gotten the short end of the stick in the universal draw of circumstances that dictated where one was born. They just needed a break.
The old high-school gym in Southeast DC sported sagging nets, crooked rims, and dead spots on the court floor, but these kids didn’t care. They just wanted their own place to play.
LaKeisha passed the ball to her teammate on the wing, faked as if she were going to set a pick for the other wing, and then sprinted toward the basket for a give-and-go pass. After receiving the ball, she went up for a shot, but instead passed it behind her back with her left hand—LaKeisha was right-handed—to a forward cutting down the lane. The forward made the easy layup.
Jade shook her head and laughed. LaKeisha never did things the easy way. For her, the more difficult the shot or the pass, the better. Sounded like someone else Jade knew. Herself.
Jade, a former All-America basketball player at Stanford University, enjoyed her time with these kids. No matter how busy she was, she tried her best not to break her commitments with them—and to be present. For the next hour, she would not think of Sells, Kyle Williams, or the work piling up on her desk. In truth, she never felt as free as when she was on a basketball court. Whether the court was in Palo Alto, Madison Square Garden, Japan, or on the playground.
It was home.
The sight of the teams running up and down the court dredged up the memory of that day after elementary school. That day was never too far from her thoughts. The day she thought of as “before.”
Three girls in her eighth-grade class had followed her home and beaten her up. They called her “Bink”—and worse—although Jade was black and Japanese, not Chinese. She didn’t bother to correct them. After her attackers left, she stayed on the ground for a long time, bleeding and bruised and broken. Through her tears, she recognized another girl from school whom she did not know.
The girl reached down and helped her up.
Jade realized many things that day. Her parents couldn’t protect her. Her teachers couldn’t protect her. With no brothers or sisters, she had to learn how to protect herself. She also learned that kindness could come from strangers. The next day—”after”—she decided: never again. She hadn’t cried since.
Jade convinced her parents to enroll her in Tae Kwon Do, and she learned to defend herself. She started practicing basketball. Every day. She slimmed down and her body became stronger. She got rid of her glasses, replacing them with contact lenses. After she’d been named an All-America her junior year in high school, with scholarship offers from every major c
ollege in the country, all the kids who had teased her wanted to be her friend.
No one ever messed with her again—or became her friend.
The whistle sounded, ending the game.
Most of her players left the gym as Jade stuffed basketballs into a bag. LaKeisha dawdled nearby before coming up to her.
“You know I like messing with you, Coach.”
Jade straightened, holding a ball.
“I know you do, but would it hurt you to make the easy shot for once instead of the fancy pass?”
LaKeisha was a talented player—Jade’s best—with an excellent chance of going far in the sport, if she didn’t get pregnant, go to jail, or end up dead—the three fates all too common for female students at this school. The girl smiled, her mini-twist hairstyle springing from her head in every direction.
“Did you always take the easy shot, Coach?”
No. “Just do it, LaKeisha. Okay?”
“I’ll try, but it’s not in my nature.” She grew serious, a foreign emotion for her. “You know what I like best about you, Coach?”
“What’s that?”
“I can work on my skills, close to home, and I feel safe. And it’s not because you’re an FBI agent.”
Jade froze, beating back the emotions from her childhood. LaKeisha broke into a big smile, serious time over, the moment broken. She grabbed the basketball from under Jade’s arm and sprinted for the door under the Exit sign. Over her shoulder, she yelled, “You need to protect the ball better, Coach!”
Jade called out after her as the door slammed shut.
“You better bring it back to the next practice!”
Jade sat on the bench and laughed, stuffing the last ball into the bag. She sobered as her thoughts returned to work. To the two murders. Why so long between them?
She thought about what Lakeisha said. She liked working on her skills close to home.
Jade stopped closing the bag in mid-zip.
Maybe the killer was honing his mission close to home, with the Williams murder, and then decided to branch out.
She whipped the cell phone out of her pocket and texted Pat.
Try conservative television commentator, blogger, journalist, columnist.
Got it, came the response.
*
Jade, still in the black Adidas track suit she had worn to the game, was sprawled out on the wicker sofa in her best friend’s apartment in Adams Morgan, a diverse neighborhood in Northwest DC.
Zoe, kicked back in an adjacent chair, had her feet up on the coffee table. The television was on, muted, and African music quietly played on the stereo. The apartment sported walls splashed with different hues—indigo, eggplant, and lime—and displayed art she purchased in Senegal and framed posters from various local and national political campaigns Zoe had worked on: marriage equality, the equal rights of women, Occupy DC, and the taxation without representation of DC citizens.
The bookshelves contained Nigerian statues, mementos from Zoe’s time in Ghana with the Peace Corps, and Ivory Coast knickknacks, including swaths of Kente cloth, reflecting Zoe’s fascination with all things African. The aroma of patchouli wafted throughout the living room.
Jade lay on her back, shooting a round pillow into the air like a basketball. “Who sings this?”
“Shantae Ndiaye. The hottest singer in Africa right now.”
“Don’t you own any Prince?”
“No. Unlike you, I live in the present decade. You need to expand your horizons, including your musical tastes. So, how was your vacation?”
Jade rolled her eyes. “One day a vacation does not make. I had started planning what I was going to do for the week when Ethan called and sent me to Pittsburgh for a consult.” She caught Zoe staring at her. “What?”
“I wish I had your high cheekbones.”
Jade eyed her former college roommate with the funky hair and the game-show-host smile, and threw the pillow at her.
“Shut up.”
Zoe caught the pillow as the doorbell rang. She returned with two brown paper bags, a thin layer of grease on the bottom of each. She put the Chinese takeout on a pile of magazines on the coffee table, picked up their empty beer bottles, and went to the kitchen for replacements.
Jade grabbed the carton labeled Kung Pao Chicken and a pair of chopsticks and ate straight from the container. She chased the food with a sip of Zoe’s ice-cold Tsingtao. They enjoyed the meal in comfortable silence.
“How’s work?” Jade asked.
“Tough. Most of our candidates are in tight races with lots of money on the other side. We don’t receive enough funds to support all of them. Of course, we’re working on Senator Fairchild’s presidential campaign.” Zoe’s nonprofit organization helped elect pro-choice, Democratic female politicians.
“She’s still behind in the polls. Do you think she’ll win the nomination?”
Zoe smiled. “You’re such a jock. It’s always about winning for you.”
Jade gave a wry smile. “What else is there? Besides, you’re a little competitive yourself.”
“True. I wouldn’t count out Senator Fairchild. She’s smart, attractive, politically savvy, with a better chance against Ellison than Sampson. It’s also about time the US had a woman president. We’re one of the last developed countries who haven’t.” Zoe got up and moved toward the bathroom. “We share that dubious honor with Japan and Italy, by the way. Be right back.”
Jade picked up their empties and headed to the kitchen. She must have bumped Zoe’s desk as she passed it, because the sleeper screen disappeared and the laptop sprang to life. She started to pass by, but something made her stop. Jade placed the bottles on the desk and began to read.
AlextheGreat: I’ve been searching for a job for two years. I have a college degree. Sent out thousands of resumes. I can’t even get hired at McDonald’s. I don’t have enough money for food. I don’t want to be on food stamps or collect unemployment. I want to work. What should I do?
PittFan: That sucks.
JoanofArc: What was your major?
AlextheGreat: History.
PittFan: Ouch.
A chat room. Jade continued to read.
JoanofArc: Have you tried temping? That could be a way for you to earn money and an assignment may turn into a full-time job.
AlextheGreat: Good idea.
SusanB: What about teaching?
Oedipus: Why would anyone enter the teaching profession today? Teachers are vilified as lazy, union employees who make the rest of us pay more in taxes. With cutbacks at the state level, it is difficult to land a teaching job much less keep one.
PittFan: Agreed. And teachers don’t make shit. They’re disrespected, glorified babysitters.
SusanB: I wouldn’t go that far. Who taught you how to write and express yourself so eloquently?
PittFan: True. Hey, did you just slam me?
Oedipus: The fundamental issue is, because of the Great Recession, millions of our elderly are forced to work into their golden years, crowding out young workers like Alex. If things don’t change, we will be the first generation worse off than the generation before us.
SusanB: During this downtime, Alex, why don’t you become more involved with Senator Fairchild’s campaign? Instead of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, make yourself useful. Go out and do something.
PittFan: Ouch. How do you really feel, SusanB?
Oedipus: I think volunteering is a good idea. ‘Letting the market work’ is not working. The 1% keeps getting richer while the rest of us keep falling behind. People still can’t find work, toil in jobs for which they are overqualified, or have given up. The key is removing Ellison from office.
PittFan: Right on, brother. Hey, did you all hear about the conservative talk-show host in Pittsburgh who got whacked the other day? I couldn’t stand the guy, but . . . man!
Jade froze.
SusanB: One fewer preacher of hate.
JoanofArc: That’s awful, SusanB.
The chat continued, but Jade’s eyes started to lose focus. The cursor on the monitor was next to SusanB, which, knowing Zoe, could only be short for Susan B. Anthony.
Who were these people? What was the point of this chat room?
Zoe came back into the living room and stood still.
Taking the offensive, Jade pointed to the screen. “What’s this?”
Zoe waved her hand dismissively and sank deep into her chair. “It’s a liberal chat group I belong to. Something I do for fun. Like minds and all that.”
Jade’s eyes scrolled down the text. “Seems pretty intense.”
“It can be, yeah.”
Jade grabbed the empties and headed to the kitchen. She returned, handing Zoe a fresh Tsingtao.
Jade settled on the sofa and took a long pull of her beer. “Was that the last chat conversation?”
“We were in the middle of a discussion when you got here.”
“‘One fewer preacher of hate?’”
Zoe gave her a small, shy smile. “Am I being interrogated for something?”
Jade carefully placed her beer on the coffee table. “I don’t know. Should you be?”
“Why are you so interested in the murder of a radio talk-show host in—” Then, Zoe made the connection. “—Pittsburgh.”
Jade leaned forward. “How involved are you with this chat group?” Could Zoe be involved in this murder, even tangentially? She can’t be. Right?
“What do you mean, involved?” Zoe sat up. “I don’t like where this conversation is going.”
“Why aren’t you answering the question?”
“Why are you snooping through my things?”
“Zoe . . . .”
Zoe stood. “I think you should leave.”
Jade rose and stared at her best friend. Zoe’s eyes were bright, her eyelids blinking rapidly.
“I’m just doing my job,” Jade said.
“I’m not your job.” Zoe pointed toward the front door. “Leave.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
