by J. L. Brown
Something told Cole even if Junior had no plans, he wouldn’t want to go.
Cole realized something else. He pushed his plate away. He was no longer hungry. He looked at Ashley.
“Sweetheart, how about another drink?”
*
Later in bed, Cole lay on his back with his hands under his head staring at the ceiling, thinking. Ashley sat up next to him, leaning back against her pillows, reading the latest Harlan Coben mystery novel. He couldn’t remember the last time he read a book for pleasure. He couldn’t remember the last time he had read a book, period.
“How’s your book?”
“Hard to put down.” She laid it on her nightstand, and rolled over and snuggled up close to him, her hand on his chest.
He was grateful to be lying down; it was the only time he didn’t need to suck in his stomach. They lay in silence for a few minutes.
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer.
She raised her head, lines creasing her forehead. “I know you. I know when something’s bothering you.”
He glanced at her and back up at the ceiling.
“When I was a kid, my mother sang ‘I Fall to Pieces’ to us when she was making dinner or trying to get us to fall asleep. She had a beautiful voice. Like an angel. Sounded like Patsy Cline. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still hear her.” Cole paused. “Can he sing?”
“Like an angel,” she answered. When he didn’t respond, she continued, “Is it something else? Are you worried about this Talk Show Killer?”
“I thought about running.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been testing the waters. As a Republican and as a third-party candidate. My advisors say my fans are rabid, but my base is too narrow. I can’t win. All I would be is a nuisance to Ellison and distract the party from keeping the White House.”
“What else?”
Cole remained silent for a moment. He turned his head to her, his eyes moist.
“I don’t want to lose what we have,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’m afraid I’m losing my daughter. And my son.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Washington, DC
Four months and no progress. Jade stood behind the guest chairs in Ethan Lawson’s office, sweating through her white dress shirt because of the heat but trying not to show it. July in Washington, DC, could be brutal. The sweat began emanating from her pores as soon as she walked out of her front door this morning and hadn’t stopped.
She wasn’t surprised that Ethan asked her to his office first thing. The CART team got back to her with an initial analysis of TSK’s email. They believed the sender used a type of software, called Tor, that routes internet traffic over a network of six thousand relays. The routing information for the email and its content were encrypted, preventing the linkage of the origin of the email to its final destination. It also made it difficult to trace a user’s location. As a result, CART hadn’t been able to tell her much. The FBI analyst promised he would keep trying. The killer’s silence did not deceive Jade. He was out there. Plotting.
“What is it, Ethan?” she asked. “I’m late for my own briefing.”
Ethan reclined in his chair. “This will only take a minute.”
“I need more time.”
“You don’t even know why I called you in here.”
“I know we haven’t made a lot of progress, but—” She stopped to hear him out. “What?”
He leaned forward, twirling his wedding ring. His starched, white shirt unwrinkled. His eyes searched hers. “I wanted to tell you that I believe in you.”
She had braced herself for a tirade, a rant, something else. When he did not continue, she squelched the gratitude threatening to overcome her. His attitude almost made the situation worse. Now, she couldn’t fail.
A “thanks” was all she could manage as she strode out of the room.
*
The other agents were seated around the table when she arrived for the morning briefing. She didn’t apologize for being late; she wasn’t much of an apologizer.
“Updates?”
No one spoke.
“Anyone?” she asked. “Christian?”
Her “rock” shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing.”
“Pat?”
The older woman shook her head as well. “Still trying on the email. We’re coming up empty.”
Dante just stared at her.
“I’m sick of this case!” Austin said.
Everyone turned to the rookie agent.
“I’ve sat at my desk. Day after day. Listening to these stupid radio broadcasts, reading these stupid articles, and they say the same thing over and over again about the same topics. It’s enough to drive me crazy.”
“Look on the bright side,” Dante said. “You might learn something while on the job.”
Pat addressed Dante, still staring at her computer. “Oh, is that your secret? Education through talk radio?”
“You’ll find something,” Jade said to Austin. “You have to find something. All of us, we’ve got to work harder.” An unintentional rise in her voice. “We’re not working hard enough. We’re not putting enough time in. While we’re sitting around failing, he is out there plotting, planning to outsmart us.”
Austin sank back in his chair, crossing his arms like Christian, his face flushed. Jade started to continue her pep talk when Max Stover interrupted her.
“Let’s take a break, everyone. Except Jade. You stay here.”
The rest of the agents shuffled out of the room. Christian, the last to leave, glanced back at her with a concerned expression before closing the door.
Jade stared at her mentor. “He’s going to strike again. I can feel it.”
Max nodded. “This guy is a bright one. He will kill again unless we stop him. But blaming your staff for the lull in progress isn’t going to solve this case.”
“I’m not blaming my staff. I was just giving them a pep talk.”
Max eyed her. “Then sign me up for a different team.”
“Okay . . . , I shouldn’t have taken it out on them,” she said. She stood and paced. “I’ve gone over all the evidence. Hundreds of times. We’ve followed up on every lead. But I’m missing something.” She stopped and turned to him. “What am I missing?”
“Patience.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Washington, DC
Leaving the anteroom for a vote on the Hill, Whitney and Landon stopped in front of the television, which was tuned to MSNBC. The midday host’s guests were a woman and a man. The man, Blake Haynes, was a young political analyst at a Rosslyn, Virginia-based progressive think tank and a frequent guest star on the network. The think tank, The American Progressive Council (APC), was a staunch supporter of Whitney’s and a major contributor to her campaign and the political action committees that supported her.
Whitney had never met Haynes, but liked the young man’s intelligence and prodigious memory, his short gelled hair, and the way he carried himself. She was reminded of the young man who stared at her at the Palo Alto fundraiser. She never found out who he was.
“Wait a minute,” she said to Landon. “I want to hear this.”
Landon turned up the volume.
“Why are the so-called patriots always the first ones who want to secede from the union?” Haynes asked, in response to the midday host’s question. “They’re like children who, when they don’t get their way, end the game by taking their ball and going home.”
Whitney laughed and clapped her hands. “He speaks his mind.”
Haynes listened to the next question and glanced up before he spoke.
“As you know and I know, almost all scientists believe in climate change. The only people who refuse to believe it are the intellectual descendants of those who believed the world was flat.”
Landon muted the television, as Whitney headed for the door to the hallway. She was still laughing.
*
Later that evening, Ted Bowling sat across from Whitney in a conference room at her campaign headquarters.
The door to the outer office opened and closed. Landon entered, coatless, shirt unwrinkled, and still wearing his tie, appearing as if he had arrived for work in the morning rather than a late-night strategy meeting. He always wore blue ties, Bill Clinton’s favorite color.
“Hello, Senator,” he said. He nodded at Ted. “Ted.”
Whitney had recognized Landon’s gifts when, as a legislative assistant, he helped her finish a floor speech at the last minute. The speech was well-written and persuasive, and she promoted him on the spot. Since, he had made her work life easier. Some people believed making things appear hard to do made them look good. She knew the best athletes—Michael Jordan, Peyton Manning, pre-scandal Tiger Woods—made things appear easy. Their talent masked the tremendous hard work involved. Landon was like that. He had the ability to distill complex legislation down to an understandable paragraph.
Life as a staffer on the Hill was rarely permanent. Not only did the staffer deal with the uncertainty of a legislator’s re-election, the long hours and low pay often led to burnout. Most staffers used these jobs as a stepping stone to political office or the private sector, becoming influential lawyers or lobbyists. Landon, though, was dedicated and loyal to her. She wanted to keep him around for as long as possible.
Landon shook off his black leather briefcase. He removed his electronic tablet and sat down.
To Landon, she said, “Ted and I have been discussing poll numbers—surprise!—and which states I should be spending my time in over the next month.”
Ted coughed. “Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, North Carolina, Virginia, and Florida. We’re finishing up the TV spots for Ohio and Michigan.”
“The public continues to believe,” Whitney said, “that our party is weak on certain issues. I want these ads to show I am not weak.”
After a silence, Ted said, “I’m on it,” confirming to Whitney that he needed to reshoot the ads.
Ted shifted in his chair. “What about the serial killings? Is there some way we can use them to our advantage?”
Landon stopped typing and contemplated Ted with distaste.
“I don’t want to be seen as capitalizing on this situation,” Whitney said. “Rather, we should focus on condemning violence, sympathizing with the victims’ families, and reiterating that freedom of speech is one of the pillars on which our democracy is founded.”
Ted raised both of his hands to ward off the vehemence of her reaction. “Okay, okay, I was just asking. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
After a moment, Whitney said, “I made a decision.”
The two men looked at her.
“I have chosen a running mate,” she said, “and it’s not Senator Paul Sampson.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Detroit, Michigan
A week after the Republicans monopolized the media and renominated President Richard Ellison in Columbus, Ohio, the Democrats descended on Detroit for their convention. The congregants took over the town: hotel rooms, restaurants, coffee shops, bars. Security was tight; a two-hour wait time—at least—preceded every event.
Inside Joe Louis Arena, the atmosphere was charged. Taking back the White House, a distant dream two years ago, was becoming a possibility. Earlier, Senator Sampson had stirred up the crowd by giving a good pro-Democrats speech, despite not being offered the vice presidency. He did not take the news well when Whitney called him last week. She smiled when his speech concluded, realizing he failed to mention her, the Democratic nominee for president. Touché.
Whitney waited in the wings as her future running mate concluded his speech and introduced her. When her name was called, she walked out and opened her arms to accept a hug from the Democratic vice-presidential candidate, Xavier “Xavi” Fernandez, the Independent governor from Florida. They stood together, facing the audience, one arm around the waist of the other. The other arm extended, each hand in a slow, royal wave. He gave her a slight kiss on the cheek and walked off the stage.
Whitney refrained from wiping her cheek, as she strode to the podium. She scanned the audience: different faces, different skin tones, different hairstyles, different modes of dress, different sexualities, different genders. America. The applause would not cease. She said thank you many times to quiet the crowd, a trick she learned from biographies about the Kennedys. The applause subsided.
She smiled.
“Is this a party or what?”
The wild cheers started up again and she clapped her hands once, laughing. She was enjoying this.
*
After Whitney accepted the Democratic nomination with humility and grace, her husband, Grayson, and their two children, Chandler and Emma, joined her on stage, along with Xavi, his wife, and their four children.
She had not forgiven Grayson. But for the sake of the election, she was “standing by her man.” She focused on smiling instead of cringing, his hand on her hip an unwelcome weight instead of a comfort.
The crowd was a sea of American flags, Our America, Our Future signs, and tons of confetti. “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang blasted from the speakers. The candidates and their families moved and clapped to the music.
Back stage, television reporters interviewed past and current members of the Democratic Party: senators, representatives, cabinet members, mayors, governors. Whitney was surrounded by her Secret Service team, including her new shadow, Josh McPherson, his brown, bald dome glistening under the lights. She heard snippets of the interviews. Her party was staying on message for once.
As she passed a male reporter interviewing Ted, the reporter turned. He appeared stunned. Whitney slowed and stopped in front of him. He continued to stare. She had always wanted to meet him.
Whitney held out her hand. “Hello.”
The television political analyst, Blake Haynes, stared at a spot up and to the right of her head. He stammered a “hello” and took her left hand in his, a belated gesture.
She smiled, trying to put the young man at ease. “I wanted to say how much I admire your work. I’m a big fan.”
His eyes widened. “Thank you. I admire your work as well.”
Whitney laughed with delight. The self-assured man she had seen on television had returned. He offered her a charming smile. “Seriously, I’m a huge supporter. Since we admire each other so much, perhaps you’ll let me interview you on MSNBC. All softballs I promise.”
“In that case, I am sure it can be arranged. Call my press secretary.”
He extended his hand. “One day I hope to be an FOW.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Friend of Whitney,” he said.
Whitney smiled and shook his hand. She left him, and moved on to shake the hands of supporters in a line that had formed in her path.
She attended the after-party at a popular restaurant in downtown Detroit, occasionally thinking about Blake Haynes and wondering why she had such a strong affinity for the young man.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Washington, DC
The phone rang.
“Harrington.”
“Uh . . . Agent Harrington. This is Landon Phillips from Senator Fairchild’s office.”
“Yes . . .”
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me.”
“Now’s not a good time. I’m sort of . . . busy.”
“I know. I thought you may need a break.”
“I can’t afford the time.”
“We could discuss motives. I can provide a different perspective.” She remained silent, so he continued. “You have to eat sometime, right?”
The offer was tempting. Perhaps talking to someone outside the case with a different perspective could generate new ideas.
“Right?” he asked, again.
She paused for another moment and the
n made a decision. “There’s a restaurant across the street from my office called Social Revolution. I’ll meet you at seven. I can give you a half an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
She hung up. She wondered whether having dinner with him was a good idea.
*
Landon sat at a booth in the back of the walnut-paneled restaurant, away from the other patrons. The lights were dim. Jade strode in his direction and stood next to him. He looked up at her, a smile starting to form.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
She didn’t move. “Do you mind?”
He gave her a blank stare before grinning. “Ah, I get it. I saw The Godfather.” He got up and motioned for her to sit in the vacated seat. He sat across from her, his back to the front door. He surveyed the restaurant and then the menu. “‘Bi-partisan burgers,’ ‘The Lobbyist,’ ‘The Potus,’ ‘The Bail Out,’ and my favorite, ‘The Balanced Budget-Sorry, we couldn’t agree on contents. Please build your own.’ I love this place.” He glanced over at her. “What do you usually eat here?”
She straightened her silverware. “The Laissez-Faire. A burger with smoked bacon, cheddar cheese, and barbecue sauce.”
He closed his menu. “A philosophy I agree with fiscally, but not socially. I’ll get it anyway.”
A waitress came to the table to take their order.
Jade spoke first. “Two Laissez-Faires, a Pepsi, and he’ll have a—” She eyed Landon.
Amused, he said, “One of your craft beers. Something dark.” The waitress left. “I’ve never had a woman order for me before.” He paused. “I think I like it.”
She smiled, but said nothing.
After a few moments, Landon said, “My sister played basketball, too. Do you still play?”
“Was she any good?”
“Pretty good. She got a free ride to a D-One school. So, as far as my parents were concerned, good enough.”
“Did you play?”
He looked at his beer with regret. “Nah.” He smiled at her, sheepish. “I sucked.”
“Did you always want a career in politics?”
