by J. L. Brown
“What do we got?” he said. “Christian?”
“Why don’t you go first?” Christian asked.
Dante’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.
Christian gave Dante a look before pulling a small notebook out of his back pocket. “The first victim, Sebastian Scofield, had two kids. A boy and a girl, ages two and four. Jared Carr, three: two boys, seventeen and nine, and a girl, five. Finn Hurley was childless.”
“Did you find out anything that made you think the murders involved the children?”
“Given my limited investigative experience,” Christian said, “it’s no surprise that I have not.”
Dante scowled at him. “Grow up!” He turned to Pat. “Anything on the sketch?”
“No match.”
“What about the cameras from 40th Street?” Jade asked.
Dante shook his head, frustrated. He scanned the room. “Does anyone have anything?”
Silence. Then Christian said, “I found the bike.” He savored the moment of attention. “In Crystal City. It’s one of those bike shares you see all over the city. Although the perp wiped it clean, forensics found blood.”
“Whose?” asked Jade.
“Hurley’s.”
“Did you track down who rented it?”
“Nope. The perp reserved it online. His personal information was fake, the credit card stolen.”
“Anything else?” Dante asked, his tone impatient. Jade eyed him. Leading a case could do that to you.
“Got Hurley’s client list,” Pat said. “Corporations, nonprofits, all levels of government, including the White House, the FBI. Cyber worked with her on the Robin Hood case.”
Dante used his pen to scratch behind his ear. “Were the other two victims on the list?”
Pat shook her head. “Although Scofield’s firm was private, we’re trying to piece together its client list through SEC and other filings. So far, we’ve come up with wealthy individuals and pension fund managers. The Carrs’ firm is private, too, but a lot more secretive. The surviving brother hasn’t been cooperative.”
“Let me know if you need help there,” Jade said.
Dante held up his hand. “We got it.” To Christian, “Anything on the knives?”
“All three were the same brand,” Christian said. “Maxam hunting knives, which you can buy on Amazon in packs of eight. No prints were found on them. Forensics believes the unsub wore gloves.”
“Why did he leave the knives in their bodies?” asked Jade from the back of the room.
Everyone turned to Max.
Max thought for a moment. “I don’t think the knives mean anything to him. They’re a tool. A means to an end. The weapon of choice might be more important. A knife can be quieter than a gun. It’s more personal. If you want to make sure you don’t miss, you need to be close.”
“But messier,” said Dante.
“What if each knife was meant for each victim?” Micah said. “Like the sonnets.”
“That’s good,” Dante said.
Max nodded thoughtfully.
“Or he’s trying to make a statement,” Christian said.
Dante smirked. “I think we got the point.”
Pat, known throughout the bureau for her inappropriate dark humor, said, “That’s bad.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The White House, Washington, DC
“Everyone,” Whitney said, “please be seated.”
Always the last to enter the Cabinet Room, she strode past the fireplace with The Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776 hanging above the mantle, the busts of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, and around the table to the late eighteenth-century replica chair situated in the middle. Affixed to the back of her chair, which was two inches higher than the other chairs, was a brass plate engraved simply with the words The President. The other members’ positions were affixed to the backs of their chairs. The elliptical mahogany table was purchased by President Richard Nixon in 1970 with his personal funds. Glancing at the United States flag and the flag of the president behind her, Whitney was awed, not for the first time, by how appropriately the latter represented her position: an eagle clutching white arrows in one talon and an olive branch in the other.
Once everyone was seated, she said, “Shall we begin? Sasha?”
Over the past week, the two of them had refined the document that Whitney had shown Sasha on Air Force One. Sean had typed it up. Whitney had not run it by Mo. Or Jo. The circle—or triangle—of people who knew about its contents had been kept intentionally small.
In front of each member, Sasha placed a folder bearing the presidential seal on the cover.
Whitney looked around the table at the faces of her cabinet members, their deputies and aides sitting behind them in chairs against the walls.
“‘Let every nation know,’” she began, “‘whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.’”
“What?” asked Secretary of Labor Tucker Price, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Kennedy,” Secretary of Education Pravir Ratta said out of the side of his mouth. “John,” he clarified.
“That’s right,” Whitney said. “President John F. Kennedy said those words as part of his inaugural address on January 20, 1961. It would later form the basis of the Kennedy Doctrine. To that end, I present to you the Fairchild Doctrine.”
The expressions on the members’ faces ranged from questioning to shocked.
“The United States will no longer sit on the sidelines of global affairs,” Whitney said. “We have a responsibility to be at the center of the international order. Only then will we enjoy global prosperity and international peace and security. At one time, we were the most respected, emulated, and revered country on earth. There is no reason we cannot achieve that again. Starting today, we will strengthen relationships with our key allies and strategic partners and regain their trust.”
Price’s chair creaked as he shifted. “How are we going to do that?”
She pointed to his folder. “Read.”
As they opened their folders, Whitney reached for the delicate cup on the table and took a sip of tea.
Price looked up. “I thought we were focusing on domestic issues this year. Like homelessness.”
“Minimum wage,” Vice President Josephine Bates said.
“Infrastructure,” said Julio Casillas and Ashton Crawford, the secretaries of transportation and commerce.
“What about police brutality?” Jo continued. “African-Americans are more than three times as likely to—”
Whitney held up her hand. “Jo, I’m not abandoning those issues. We will continue to address homelessness, raise the minimum wage, and invest in our crumbling infrastructure—”
“You forgot police brutality,” Jo said.
“Things aren’t always black and white,” Whitney said.
“For some of us, they are.”
“Hear, hear,” Sasha said.
Whitney flashed Jo a warning. “You didn’t let me finish. Those issues are important to me, and my commitment hasn’t changed, but I also want to focus on issues that impact everyone, not just Americans.”
“Like what?” said Price, doubtful. He scanned his colleagues’ faces to ascertain who was with him. Several other cabinet members seemed to share his doubts.
“Create opportunities for women. Reduce income inequality. Provide an affordable quality education. Eliminate poverty. Combat climate change. Improve health outcomes. Ensure security by cracking down on cyberthreats.” She nodded at Malachi Winters, chairman of US Cyber Command. “Private and government-sanctioned groups.” A pause. “World peace.”
She let the silence linger as they absorbed her words. Whitney gazed at each of their faces. “Franklin Roosevelt won World War I and created the international financial and diplomatic systems that we still use today. Kennedy drea
med about landing the first man on the moon. Johnson expanded civil and voting rights. Reagan helped end the Cold War.” She pounded her fist on the table. “Name one watershed accomplishment over the last two decades.”
Some of the members flinched. Whitney, typically not one to show emotion—especially anger—had their attention.
“We can no longer go it alone. We will no longer take our allies for granted.”
“What about diminished wages and lost jobs in the US?” asked Ashton Crawford. The commerce secretary’s hair, makeup, and nails were always flawless. Born in an old money New York family, she’d never had to worry about lost wages or jobs in her life, but Whitney had chosen her because she was smart and got things done.
“You’ll be mindful of that in your trade negotiations,” Whitney responded. To everyone, she said, “Unless we want to kowtow to authoritarianism or terrorism, we will engage in international diplomacy and continue to be a strong ally with NATO.” She raised her hand toward Maricela Salcedo, the secretary of homeland security. “We will support those countries resisting outside agents and protect the territories and independence of such nations. And use military force, if necessary, to defend our economic and national interests.”
She scanned the stunned faces of her cabinet.
Jo raised a quizzical eyebrow. “War… and peace?”
Titters from some of the members.
Whitney stood and glanced at the west wall across from her. Each president chose the paintings that hung there. Instead of paintings, she had chosen to hang three black-and-white photographs of suffragettes. Her favorite was one of women picketing in front of the White House.
To Jo, Whitney said, “You must fight for the things that matter.”
Chapter Forty
Arlington, Virginia
Jade exhaled as she transitioned from the at-rest stance to the first move. Crossing her arms, she extended them to either side, her triceps perpendicular to the floor, her hands in fists, palms facing forward.
She stared into the intensity of her own light-brown eyes in the mirror, pretending she was her opponent. Fists to her hips, she extended her left arm, while her right fist came up in a slow-motion uppercut as she moved to a left front stance. She repeated the movement on the other side. She continued the movements of the poomsae against an imaginary opponent, her stances solid. No one could knock her off-balance. Her punches were sharp and swift. Her hands sliced through the air like horizontal guillotines.
When she completed the form, she sat cross-legged on the matted floor in the middle of the room, facing the wall-length mirror, which was split horizontally by a bar, like one found in a ballet studio. But no one performed ballet at Master Won Ho’s Tae Kwon Do school, located at a strip mall within walking distance from her house.
Jade closed her eyes and rested the back of her hands on her knees. “One…”
As she tried to meditate, she thought about her team meeting. Well, Dante’s team meeting. Dante had followed up with her later and reported that after she’d left it had continued for another hour without much progress. Despite his frustration with the lack of movement on the case, he seemed motivated since his promotion. He was one of the first agents in the office every morning and one of the last to leave every evening. No one could accuse him of being lazy anymore.
Although she dreamed of being the first black woman FBI director, Jade had never given much thought to how it would feel to attain that goal. She’d always spent the least amount of time behind her desk as possible. It was harder to do while her team pursued the case without her.
Oh… she forgot. She was meditating and wasn’t supposed to be thinking about anything at all.
She inhaled. “One.”
Her mind drifted to Ethan Lawson, his starched white shirts and suspenders a throwback to bureau agents of days gone by. She wondered if he was ever coming back and why he’d been forced out. She hadn’t looked into it.
New cases had gotten in the way.
“One.”
“I can tell you’re not meditating,” said a serene voice.
Jade opened one eye.
In the mirror, she saw a diminutive man with short-cropped silver hair. He was in his blue dobok, a white athletic shirt underneath, standing near the entrance behind her. One end of his black belt sported six thin stripes. The other, his name emblazoned in gold cursive writing.
“How?” she asked, opening her other eye.
His soft footsteps padded across the floor until he stood before her. He pointed down.
She looked at her hands. Instead of being relaxed, they were balled into fists. One tapped her knee. “This was never my strong suit,” she said. A fourth-degree black belt, she should have mastered meditation by now.
“It’s the most important aspect of your training,” her long-time instructor said.
“I know,” she said, unclenching her fists. “How’s the hip?”
He sat next to her, which took a little more effort than normal. Master Ho, in his sixties, was still recovering from hip surgery he’d had this past summer. He was back to work full time but couldn’t train. Still, she wouldn’t bet against him in a sparring match.
“It feels good.”
“Looks as if it still hurts.”
“How you feel is a state of mind, grasshopper.”
She smiled at his reference to The Karate Kid.
Jade envied her teacher’s calmness. The peace that radiated within and exuded from him, no matter the situation.
She hadn’t mastered that either.
“How have you been?” he said. “You haven’t been to class much.”
At her rank, Jade could work out by herself, but she needed to attend a certain number of classes before testing for fifth degree. Given her schedule, training was difficult to fit in.
“Been busy.”
She never talked about work with him. He knew what she did. Who she was. He focused on helping her achieve her martial arts goals. His only concern was her well-being. Sitting with him helped relieve her stress.
“Care to spar?”
Surprised, she said, “With that hip?”
The corner of his eyes crinkled. “I possess other weapons.”
“This I know.”
The last time she’d sparred with him, his round kick almost knocked off her head gear—and her head along with it.
The vibration of her phone filled the silence. “Saved by the buzz, I guess.”
“Or divine intervention.”
They both placed a hand on the floor and stood, Jade in a fluid motion, Master Ho in a more labored one. “I’ll leave you to it then.” A slight bow. “Good night, Ms. Harrington.”
She bowed in return. “Night, sir.”
Jogging to her bag resting against the wall, she dug out her phone. A text from Dante.
Pat found The God of Veritas. We’re flying out tonight.
Where to?
See for yourself. Meet you at Dulles.
Chapter Forty-One
The White House, Washington, DC
A scaled-down version of the New New Deal Coalition legislation, S.564—Put America Back to Work, sponsored by Senator Maureen McCallister, narrowly passed in the Senate. A similar bill, sponsored by the representative from Jo’s state of California, passed in the House. The media—perhaps believing New Cubed would be difficult to understand by the mathematically challenged, a disproportionate segment of the US population—started calling it the New New Redo. With a lot less fanfare than the original, Whitney signed the bill into law at her desk in the Oval Office that afternoon, surrounded by business leaders, union representatives, and labor activists. Afterward, as the cameras of the White House press corps clicked, the three women—the president, the vice president, and the senator—held the document.
As she climbed the stairs, Whitney’s mood was light. Mo and Jo had held up their end of the bargain. Arms had been twisted in both chambers of Congress. Cole Brennan had done his part, telling h
is listeners the bill’s benefits and to contact their congressmen, multiple times if necessary.
Employers had started hiring in anticipation of the legislation’s passing; unemployment would surely fall when Whitney received the next report. She imagined the discussions being held tonight between Senator Hampton and his lackey, Representative Howard Bell. Senator Sampson was no longer around to commiserate with them. As Sasha had expected, he had resigned last week.
A win. Finally.
Secret Service Agent Josh McPherson opened the door to the Residence and said, “Have a good evening, ma’am.”
“You too, Josh.”
He retreated.
Placing her briefcase on a stand in the foyer, she spotted the suitcase and travel bag.
Her eyes scanned the room until they met her husband’s. Sitting on the sofa, he wore slacks, a white shirt, and jacket without a tie. A gin and tonic sat on the glass coffee table in front of him.
“Business trip?” she said, closing the door.
“No.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“This is your home.”
“I’m needed in Missouri.”
She hadn’t moved. “Is it the bill?”
Put America Back to Work resurrected the infrastructure program from her defunct legacy legislation, allowing the federal government to administer grants and loans for building and repairing highways, bridges, parks, and low-income housing. Small and midsize businesses would be incentivized to bid on these projects. The increase of the minimum wage, on a regional basis, survived. Whitney still didn’t know how Mo had convinced the conservative members of her party to agree to that provision.
Well, she had some idea.
“My brother’s going to need some help figuring this out,” Grayson said. “Our business—most businesses—won’t be able to absorb the increased costs.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the jobs initiative? Your commitment to the American people?”