by J. L. Brown
She waited.
Fifteen minutes after the appointed hour, a heavyset man tromped through the tall grass.
“Noah? Is that you?” he called out.
“Over here,” she said, her voice noncommittal.
“Whew, it’s dark! Why did you want to meet out here? You should’ve come over to the house.” The man’s loud voice sounded entitled and was already getting on her nerves. He finally reached her. “How was the slammer?” He looked into her eyes. “Wait, you’re not—”
Pulling out the knife from behind her back, she stabbed him in the chest. She freed it and stabbed him again.
And again.
And again.
Blood sprayed her black pullover and running tights. She didn’t care. She’d rented an Airbnb not far from here and would be ensconced in it soon.
As she continued to stab him, her mind drifted. She wasn’t thinking of him as the gurgling sounds stopped.
He was dead.
But Dev was thinking about someone else. The woman who’d ruined her life.
Strike.
The woman who hadn’t given her a chance to explain.
Strike.
Or a second chance.
Strike.
The woman who would pay.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chantilly, Virginia
“What?” Jade asked, removing her earplugs.
Max Stover stood ten yards away, sans coat and tie, dressed as if he’d come from the office. He walked past her to tap the smartpad on the wall. “I said you’re losing your touch.”
As the target drew closer, she scowled. Nine of her shots had gone through the heart. A small hole stood alone, an inch to the left of the others.
Max was right. Between thoughts of Micah’s kiss and LaKeisha’s troubles and CJ Brennan’s suicide, she had lost her touch.
She reloaded the mag and clicked it into place.
“Send it back out,” she told him, before putting the earplugs back in.
Comparable to the basketball that used to feel like a part of her hand, the heft of the weapon was familiar in Jade’s grip. She steadied her breath, held it, and fired.
Jade and her mentor shot for thirty minutes, without speaking, at the range in Fairfax County. The place was crowded because of the unexpected pleasant day. The sounds of birds chirping—and bullets whizzing—filled the air.
She loved spending time on a range, whether here or at FBI HQ. She shot every other week to stay sharp and help take her mind off things. The death of CJ Brennan had hit her hard, although she hadn’t known him, except for their brief encounter during the TSK case. Jade had gleaned most of what she knew about the young man from the media. She respected him for standing up for himself and not letting his father push him into being someone he wasn’t.
She and Max sat across from each other at a picnic table in an outdoor area where customers took breaks in between rounds. Jade drank a Pepsi, and Max drank an Orange Crush.
“Any leads in the Shakespeare case?” he asked, sipping his drink.
“No leads. No activity. Nothing. At least there’s some good news: no new murders.”
“What about Veritas?”
“Nothing in the blogs helped. We spoke with all the advertisers; they didn’t provide anything useful. He’s no longer a person of interest.”
“This isn’t over,” Max said.
She took a long pull of her soft drink. “I don’t think so either.”
“He’s cooling off,” he said, “if you call a month a cooling-off period. Perhaps he’s gone back to his normal life. Might be years before he strikes again.”
Jade raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
“No. He’ll start missing the attention, if he doesn’t already.”
The elusive Shakespeare Killer was the source of rampant speculation on cable news and social media. MSNBC broadcasted a documentary reenacting the three murders. A sick individual had created a fake Twitter account for the killer. Women from all over the world professed their love to him, offering their bodies or proposals of marriage. These women didn’t know or care whether he was married.
Or that he killed people.
What a crazy, crazy world. Or maybe it had always been this way, and the advent of social media only magnified people’s basest behaviors and instincts.
“He doesn’t want to be caught,” she said.
Max nodded. “He likes killing too much. Every murder ups the tension, which can only be satisfied by another murder. Our man will strike again.”
“Until he commits the perfect murder,” Jade murmured. A perfectionist herself, she should know. “One that can’t be topped.” After a moment of silence, she said, “Guesses to motive?”
“Robbery has been ruled out,” he said. “The murders don’t appear to be random. All the victims are not only wealthy, but also major players in their respective fields.”
“Don’t forget white.”
“Right. Did you find a connection?”
“Dante says no. Different industries. Different social circles. None belonged to the same associations or clubs or attended the same conferences.”
They both sipped their drinks thoughtfully.
Max said, “How are you adjusting to being a supervisor?”
She didn’t respond immediately.
“What is it?” he asked.
His white dress shirt, open at the collar, displayed an off-white undershirt with a wrinkled crew neck. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his slender arms.
“What if I’m not cut out for this?” she said ruefully. “I want to be where the action is. Not sitting behind a desk full time.”
“You’re a great agent.”
“Maybe so,” she said, “but I might suck as a boss.”
“It’s different,” he said. “You’re no longer a player. You’re the coach.”
“Player-coach.”
“You’ve got to accept that it’s not only about your success. Your success depends on others.” He eyed her. “Is something else holding you back?”
Sheepish, she said, “Being a supervisor is boring.”
Max chuckled. “I could see why you would think that.” He paused. “How’s Micah doing?”
“Not bad.”
Max smiled.
“Okay,” she conceded. “He’s going to be good.”
“I know. I taught him.” Max wasn’t bragging. He was stating a fact.
A man in a blue T-shirt and jeans walked by, his arm around his young son. They carried matching guns. Max followed them with his eyes. His wife had left him last year after thirty years of marriage. Was he thinking about being childless or something else entirely?
Still looking at the pair, he said, “I’ve watched you two in meetings.”
We have a winner. Something else.
“Who?”
“You and Micah.”
“Why would you do that?”
“That’s what I do. Observe.” He peered at her over the top of the soda can. “You two have become close.”
Does he know about what happened at the pub?
She squinted at him. “What are you saying, Max?”
“Be careful, Jade.”
Tamping down her temper, she said, “Give me some credit. I don’t shit where I eat.” She thought briefly of Kyle. Well, not in the same restaurant.
“You need to retain the respect of your staff. If they think you and Micah are—”
“I get it,” she said tersely.
Jade wasn’t sure what angered her about Max’s suggestion. His observation? The vibrating phone in the pocket of her black tracksuit pants saved her from continuing the conversation.
Pulling it out, she glanced at the display and smiled, even though the call surely portended bad news. She answered.
“It’s been a long time,” said the voice.
“My favorite detective. How are you?”
“I fell for that one before,” said Detective Kurt McClaine.
�
�What’s up?”
“Wish I weren’t the bearer of bad news, but unfortunately, that seems to be the basis of our relationship.”
“What’ve you got?”
He sighed. “One with your name written all over it.”
“I’ve been promoted. I no longer work cases. Besides, I’ve spent way too much time in Seattle.”
Two of Jade’s most recent major cases had taken her to the Pacific Northwest city, where she’d worked with McClaine. And met Kyle.
Focus.
“You’re going to want to come out here.”
“Tell me why.”
“I’m at a scene. The victim’s name is Blayze Tishman.”
She gasped.
Blayze Tishman retired last year as the CEO of a software company, the number three company in the Fortune 500. He’d recently bought a professional football team with plans to move it to the Bay Area.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“It’s bad,” McClaine said. “The vic’s messed up. The perp left a note.”
“A sonnet?”
“Let me count the ways.”
“That’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
“Don’t you know? I was never good in English,” he said. “See you in Seattle.”
He hung up.
Jade called Dante.
“Call the team together,” she said when he answered, looking at Max, “and tell them to pack their bags. I’ll meet you at Dulles.”
Her next call was to Pat. “Check out Veritas’s timeline for a tweet about Blayze Tishman.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Casper, Wyoming
“President Richard Ellison and First Lady Nancy Ellison, President Timothy Hartman and First Lady Elizabeth Hartman, and President Edward Middleton and First Lady Barbara Middleton, I am honored and delighted to give the opening remarks today.
“I love to read, and libraries are one of my favorite places to spend my time.” She paused. “Especially lately.”
The one hundred people in attendance laughed. The troubles Whitney had experienced in the infancy of her presidency weren’t a secret, nor was her love of reading. Although it was no longer news, the media still accompanied her on monthly trips to independent bookstores.
“Richard and I were involved in a hard-fought presidential campaign, but through it all, he comported himself with integrity and always treated me with respect and dignity. Although we don’t agree on many issues—”
“None!” her predecessor joked, standing next to her, his tan, weathered face relaxed.
The crowd laughed again, harder this time.
Whitney joined in. “We weren’t as far apart as he led you to believe. Richard was the rare breed of politician who put our country first, who considered issues on their merits rather than toeing the party line. He served as the governor of this great state of Wyoming, as its senator, and finally as our president. He loves his country, loves his family, and loves his ranch.”
She remembered fondly her visit there last year. It wasn’t far from where she stood now. She took in the scenery through the glass walls: miles of Wyoming dirt and cottonwood trees. A mountain in the distance. She scanned the guests, catching the eye of several familiar faces. Friends and foes alike.
“No matter how much you prepare for the presidency, you aren’t truly prepared. A president, as soon as he or she”—she smiled—“sits behind the desk in the Oval Office, has a greater appreciation for all those who served before her. I want to thank Richard for being a resource for me, and now, a friend. This beautiful library represents him. Strong, angular, sturdy, and well crafted.”
“You forgot out to pasture,” he quipped.
She waited for the laughter to die down.
“The Richard Milhous Ellison Library is a monument to his legacy, for the benefit of his constituents and neighbors, and for posterity. God bless all of you and God bless the United States of America. Ladies and gentlemen, President Richard Ellison.”
After the ribbon cutting, Whitney, Richard, and the other former presidents retired to a small room off the main one.
“What’ve you been up to?” asked former president Timothy Hartman. “Golf?”
Richard shook his head. “I’m not much of a golfer.”
“Not sure how you can live out here.”
“Casper too dull for you?”
“I’ve been here for only an afternoon,” said Hartman. “It’s great to see you again, but I’m ready to leave. I miss the buildings. The action. I want to see cars, not cattle.”
Although Hartman had lived in California for most of his life, he’d moved to New York City after his term in office, where he now headed up a foundation named after him. He also jetted around the country, giving six-figure—sometimes seven-figure—speeches. He hadn’t been president for over a decade, but the economic prosperity the country enjoyed during his presidency was still a reverent memory for the public.
The three men and Whitney comprised the most exclusive club in the world—the Presidents Club—an unofficial group of the current and former living US presidents. This was the first time during her presidency that all of them had been together.
“Don’t talk about our cattle,” Richard said. “Besides, the fresh air might do you some good.”
“With all this dust? No thanks.”
They quieted as a server placed four glasses on the table. He poured a dram into each glass and left the bottle of Macallan.
Whitney and Richard thanked him before he quietly retreated.
“Retirement treating you well?” Hartman asked.
“Can’t complain.”
The four presidents sat in white-cushioned chairs around a low square table. Despite the modern decor in the rest of the library, this room was bathed in beiges and browns. Built-in bookcases lined the walls with books and artifacts from Ellison’s time in office.
They were alone, their secret service details just outside the door.
Hartman raised his glass. “To Richard!”
“To Richard,” Whitney and Edward Middleton echoed. Richard nodded in appreciation. The three of them clinked glasses with Richard and each other. Swirling the scotch around in her glass, Whitney lifted it to her lips. She sniffed before taking a small sip, savoring the flavors of dried fruit, wood smoke, and spice.
Middleton looked at Richard. “Milhous, huh? Did your parents hate you?”
Richard Ellison laughed. “Nixon helped push through the Civil Rights Act of 1957 the year before I was born. My mother loved him. My father, not so much.”
Middleton shook his head. “Richard Nixon, what a character.” He turned to Whitney. “How’s it going with you?”
“Slower than I expected,” she said.
The three men laughed at the understatement. Her legislative achievements—except for the Equal Rights Amendment, the Anti-Bullying Act, and the slimmed-down New Cubed—were few.
“The job’s getting harder,” Middleton said. “Harder than in my day. With social media. The pace of the world. Terrorism. Cybercrime.”
“Mass shootings,” added Hartman.
Richard shook his head. “I disagree. Washington’s experience was the toughest. He had no predecessor. Heck, he didn’t even have a country—just a bunch of rebellious colonies. He had to make it up as he went along and set the precedent for all who came after him. If he’d messed up, who knows where this nation would’ve ended up.”
“What about Franklin D.?” Hartman said. “He lifted us up out of the Great Depression and steered us through World War II.”
“True,” Whitney said. “And then there’s Lincoln.”
His accomplishments—including holding a divided country together—didn’t need to be voiced.
“What about me?” Richard asked.
The three other presidents stared at him.
“You?” Middleton said.
Richard said, “Why do you all look surprised?”
“You didn’t have it so h
ard,” Hartman said.
“I had Cole Brennan always jabbering in my ear,” Richard said, taking a sip of his drink.
“That’s true,” Middleton held up a hand, conceding.
“Good point,” said Hartman.
“You got off easy,” Richard continued, looking at Middleton, his Republican colleague. “At least you still had some moderates left in Congress.”
After debating for a time who truly had it the toughest, Whitney said, “Perhaps my plight isn’t so bad.”
Richard leaned forward, reaching for the bottle. He refreshed their drinks, then sat back and crossed his legs, cradling his glass, looking at her. “How can we help?”
With which problem?
She thought about Grayson, Chandler, Emma, Min, Tamirov, and Cameron.
“Perhaps there is something you can do,” she said.
“Name it,” Richard said.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Seattle, Washington
Jade slowed her pace to allow McClaine to catch up to her.
With his long blond hair and small silver star-shaped earring, McClaine didn’t look like your typical detective. Over his slight frame, he wore jeans and his customary T-shirt, today’s edition light blue with Safer in a Sanctuary City emblazoned in neon-green lettering. A tattoo snaked partway up his neck, reaching higher since the last time Jade saw him.
The footsteps of Dante, Micah, Max, Christian, and Brian Anderson, the local agent, crunched behind her.
McClaine had met Max and Christian during the Robin Hood case. Earlier today, Jade introduced him to Dante and Micah at the Seattle FBI office. He already knew Anderson.
Both cars were parked on the shoulder. Stepping over the guardrail, the detective and the five agents carefully waded their way down through the tall grass toward the water’s edge.
“The vic was found there,” McClaine said, pointing at a patch of trampled grass the size of a large man.
Jade crouched next to the indentation, the surrounding area littered with cigarette butts and craft beer cans. She didn’t see any footprints. “Did it rain last night? Or was it that sprinkle stuff you Seattleites call rain.”
McClaine smiled. “The sprinkle stuff.”