by J. L. Brown
In other news, his thirteen-year-old son had returned home unharmed.
No ransom was demanded.
And there was no mention of who had abducted him.
Whitney would partake of a celebratory cigar after Sasha left.
Earlier that evening, they had enjoyed a steak dinner in the Residence dining room, prepared by the White House chef. Now, in the West Sitting Hall, Whitney sat on the sofa with her legs tucked under her; Sasha sat in a matching chair. The television in the corner was muted.
Raising her glass of wine, Whitney acknowledged the compliment. The bottle, three-quarters empty, rested on a side table next to the couch.
“How’s the First Gentleman?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Whitney said as she poured more wine into Sasha’s glass.
Sasha hesitated, then said, “‘I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go.’”
“Lincoln,” said Whitney, who had read everything she could about the sixteenth president.
“‘Look to the Lord and his strength.’ 1 Chronicles. You should try it sometime. It might help.”
“I guess if He helped Lincoln, He could help me.”
Shaking her head in a tsk-tsk sort of way, Sasha said, “Don’t shade scripture. Have you prayed about it?”
“No.”
“Is he coming back?”
“I guess I shouldn’t joke about whether that’s a lowercase or uppercase h, but to answer your question… the decision isn’t only up to him.”
“Is he behaving himself?”
Sasha was referring to Grayson’s previous affair.
Whitney shrugged.
Sasha had become more than just an employee during Whitney’s first year in office. Whitney considered Sasha a friend, and, in her position, she didn’t have many of those. The saying was true: it’s lonely at the top. Regardless of how close they were, however, she was uncomfortable talking to Sasha about her relationship with her husband—or lack thereof.
Sasha took in the room. “I could get used to this.”
Whitney raised an eyebrow. “Do you have aspirations?”
Sasha’s smile was uncharacteristically vulnerable as she gazed into her glass. “Possibly.”
Whitney raised her eyebrows. Sasha rubbed some people the wrong way; diplomacy wasn’t her strong suit.
“I started out in politics,” Sasha continued, “to give a voice to people who didn’t have one, but over time, it’s become something more.”
“This job requires persistence,” Whitney said. “A steady hand. Someone who keeps her head and can make decisions when everyone else around her is losing theirs.” She paused. “You would make an excellent president.”
Her chief of staff’s eyes widened. “Thank you, Madam President.”
Sasha understood that it was more than a compliment. It would take a strong, resilient, and persistent woman to be the first black woman president of the United States of America.
Something on the television caught Whitney’s eye. She exhaled and said, “What is she up to now?”
Judy Porter stood in front of a dark, wooded area, speaking into an ABC microphone.
Reluctantly, Whitney grabbed the remote off the glass table and turned up the volume.
“As previously reported, coincidences and conspiracy theories have swirled around our current president during the campaign and throughout the infancy of her presidency: The death of her aunt. Her mysterious teenage pregnancy. Her meteoric rise in politics. But I believe it all started right here”—the reporter gestured behind her—“with the mysterious, and still unsolved, death of Congressman Steven Barrett.”
Whitney stilled her face, not moving her eyes from the television, knowing Sasha’s eyes were on her.
“A source within the local police department told me that the FBI’s inquiry into the congressman’s case was dropped, and all local efforts were to cease. The order came from up high. No reason given. Attempts by state legislator—now Congressman—Cameron Kelly from the 87th district to discover what happened were stonewalled. I wonder by whom?”
Judy scanned the forested area, then looked back into the camera’s lens. “I will tell you this. I won’t stop digging until I find out what happened here. Our viewers deserve to know. The American people deserve to know. This is Judy Porter reporting from Clayton, Missouri. Back to you, Glenn.”
The camera cut to the anchorman in the studio.
Whitney forced a laugh as she picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “Speaking of persistence…”
Sasha shrugged. “She’s a woman. She has to be.”
As Whitney took another sip of her drink, Sasha swept her phone off the table and sent a quick message.
“Problem?” Whitney asked.
A shake of the head. Sasha set her phone facedown on the table and picked up her glass. Before taking a sip, she peered at Whitney over the rim of her glass. “Why won’t she let this go, do you think?”
Biding time, Whitney poured herself some more wine. Sasha, her glass half full, waved away Whitney’s offer for a refill.
“Perhaps she doesn’t have a personal life,” Whitney said, settling back into the sofa, “so she’s consumed with mine.”
Staring at the blank screen, the chief of staff mumbled something.
“What was that, Sasha?”
Sasha shook her head.
It had sounded like, “Or perhaps where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Arlington, Virginia
Jade entered her townhouse and stood in the foyer for a moment. Waiting. The house was empty. The quietness enveloped her.
Her cat, Card, was staying with Zoe. It was weird when he wasn’t there to greet her. With his unconditional love and complete dependence, he was more than a pet. He was her family.
She set her bag down and started down the hallway toward the kitchen. She’d fallen asleep during takeoff and hadn’t eaten on the plane.
As she opened her refrigerator and peered at the slim pickings, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Dante.
She’d just left him at the airport. Was there a lead in the Tishman case already? Did Pat find something?
“Don’t bother unpacking,” he said, his breath heavy from running or walking fast.
“I haven’t, but I’m hungry.”
“Grab something on the way. Shakespeare struck again.”
She froze, her hunger pains replaced by a sinking sensation. Closing the refrigerator door, she said, “It hasn’t been a week yet.” Heading toward the front of the house so she could race upstairs to take a quick shower and pack some fresh clothes, she said, “Where are we going?”
“Missouri.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Clayton, Missouri
“What’s her name?” Jade said.
“Judy Porter. Washington driver’s license.”
“State?” asked Dante.
“DC,” said the detective from the Clayton PD.
Jade, Dante, Max, and Micah gathered around the body. Jade had commissioned a private FBI plane, and they were on the ground in St. Louis three hours after she received Dante’s call.
The local police had waited for them.
“As soon as we saw that”—the detective pointed to a piece of paper attached with a safety pin to the victim’s shirt—“we called you in.”
She scanned the area. A well-lit vacancy sign illuminated the front entrance. The body lay beside a dumpster in a parking lot behind the motel, where a putrid combination of trash, grease, and pizza filled the air. The asphalt was littered with needles, chip wrappers, cigarette butts, and dented soda cans. Dried blood formed a circle underneath the upper part of the victim’s body.
“Who found her?” she asked.
“Maintenance guy. He was taking out the trash earlier tonight and spotted the body. He dropped the trash,” he said, pointing at two large green bags,
“and called us. Claimed he didn’t touch the body.”
“Print him?”
“Yep. He’s in the manager’s office, if you want to talk to him.”
“We do.”
She inclined her head toward the victim. “Was she staying here?”
“There’s a room registered in her name, yes.”
Something was missing. “Where’s the murder weapon?”
“No sign of it.”
The knife had been left in each of the other victims.
Jade crouched next to the body. Rigor mortis had set in. What appeared to be knife wounds marked the victim’s left side. Her breath caught when she saw the auburn hair and pale face, the eyes void of life.
“Judy Porter,” she said.
“That’s what I said,” the detective said roughly.
She looked up at him. “She’s a reporter. From ABC News.”
He stared at her blankly. “I only watch Fox.”
“Why was she here?” Jade asked.
Shaking his head, he excused himself. He walked ten yards away, already on his cell phone.
Jade had never met the reporter and didn’t watch her broadcasts often. She remembered the president telling her that ABC News was preparing an investigative report on her political ascendance after the mysterious death of Congressman Steven Barrett. Fairchild had privately asked Jade to find out what the network knew.
Judy Porter’s presence wasn’t a coincidence. Neither was her death.
Someone crouched down next to her.
“He’s decompensating,” Max said. “Organized killers plan their attacks. Planning is part of the fantasy. The other murders appeared to be planned.” He pointed at the knife wounds. “This attack was sloppy. Disorganized. Unplanned.”
“Judy was a reporter,” Jade said, “albeit a national one, but I don’t think she would be considered wealthy. At least not in the same class as the other victims. Unless she had money we haven’t found out about yet.”
“We need to catch him,” Max said.
Jade stared at him. She understood. Looking over at the detective, she said, “Where’s the manager’s office?”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Clayton, Missouri
The man in the maintenance uniform sweated profusely. Although it was warm in the crowded manager’s office, Jade suspected his discomfort was primarily due to the presence of law enforcement. In addition to Jade, Dante, Max, and Micah, there was the Clayton police detective, two police officers, and a pretty Hispanic woman in a motel uniform who worked at the front desk. After interviewing her, Jade realized she might be needed. The woman spoke fluent Spanish and English. Although Jade spoke passable Spanish, this interview was too important to allow any room for mistakes. She was grateful for the assistance.
The front desk clerk said Judy and her cameraman—or rather, “the woman and the guy with the bulky camera”—entered and left the motel several times over the past two days. The pair had not eaten in the motel’s restaurant or swam in the small pool. Motel employees said Judy wasn’t rude but intense; her mind always seemed focused elsewhere.
The motel’s maintenance man was also Hispanic. Jade guessed Mexican. He was stocky, with black hair and a mole dotting his cheek. She pegged him for early forties. From his behavior, he might be working in the country illegally.
Or he was just nervous because he was brown.
“There are a lot of people in here,” Jade said to him. “We’re here to catch a murderer. That’s all. You’re not in any trouble. Do you understand?”
The woman translated. He still didn’t respond.
Jade stared into his eyes and said to him in Spanish, “We’re not ICE.”
“I have children,” he said.
Jade touched his hand. “I won’t let anyone take you away from your children.”
Or take your children away from you.
Seeing something in her eyes that convinced him to trust her, he gave her a slight nod.
He relayed the same story he’d told the detective. He hadn’t seen anyone in the parking lot. After dropping the trash bags, he ran back to this office and told the manager about the dead woman.
“Close your eyes,” Jade said, waiting. “Trust me, por favor.”
He hesitated, then obeyed her instructions.
“Visualize the scene again,” she said. “What do you see?”
He licked his lips.
The agents were quiet as they waited.
“A truck,” he said in English, his eyes still closed. “Or an SUV. Black. Idling out on the street near the entrance. When I stopped near the body, it took off.” The man opened his eyes in wonder. “I forgot all about that until now.”
The front desk clerk started to repeat what he’d said, but Jade raised her hand. His English wasn’t perfect, but it was perfectly understandable.
“In which direction?” Jade asked. “Where did it go?”
“Norte. North.”
Dante, who’d been leaning against the wall, straightened. “Did you see the license plate? The driver?”
The man shook his head. “Too far away.”
Jade thanked the witness and the woman. She tried to be patient as she waited for them to leave the room. A tingle had started in her fingertips and was spreading up her arm.
Their first break.
To the detective she said, “We need to find that vehicle.”
*
Dante used the key card the manager had given him to open the door to a second-floor room. All the motel’s rooms faced the parking lot or the street, all the doors and staircases exposed to the elements. He flipped on the light switch.
Scanning the room, Jade wondered if the television network had fallen on hard times.
Why had Judy Porter stayed here?
The carpets were threadbare and stained, the furniture mismatched. Brown stains from past leaks blotched the ceiling tiles. A germaphobe, Jade gladly donned nitrile gloves as they spread out to examine the room. Micah took the closets, Dante checked out the bathroom, Max examined the bed, and Jade headed straight for the desk.
The room had been dusted for fingerprints, but Jade wasn’t hopeful that anything useful would come back. A motel room contained hundreds, possibly thousands, of prints. And the killer might not have entered the room.
The desk’s surface was spotted with water stains and cigarette burns. A laptop sat open next to a stack of papers. Jade shuffled through it. It appeared to be a transcript. After a cursory scan of the first page, she set it aside for later. A briefcase—one of those old, battered college professor ones—leaned against the desk. Sitting in the chair, Jade sifted through it. Nestled among the pens, Judy’s press badge, pads of paper, and folders was a tape recorder. Jade took it out and set it on the desk.
She hit Play.
“I live in the neighborhood,” said a male voice. “I was out walking my dog.”
She turned up the volume to drown out the sounds of the TV in the next room and the traffic outside.
“What did you see?” said a woman’s voice. Jade imagined the concerned-reporter expression on Judy’s face.
“I was on the other side of the road.”
“How far away were you?”
A pause. “Thirty yards. Fifty at the most.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“A car came toward me.”
“Was it speeding?”
“Not really.”
“And?”
“All of a sudden, an SUV came out of nowhere and sped up so it was even with the car. At first I thought it would pass, but then it almost seemed like…”
“What?”
“It wanted to race.”
Silence from the recorder. While Jade had been listening, the other agents had gathered around her.
“And then?”
“Both of them sped up, as if they were racing. Then the SUV bumped the car. The car almost went into the ditch but corrected itself. The SUV bumped it harder
. The car swerved again before righting itself. The SUV bumped it a third time. This time the car couldn’t right itself. Not sure why the driver didn’t use his brakes. The car slammed into a tree. It had been going at a good clip by this point. The car looked like one of those old musical instruments.” Finger snaps. “An accordion. That’s it.”
“You said ‘his brakes,’” Judy said. “Did you see the driver?”
“A woman wouldn’t drive like that.”
Judy paused. “What happened then?”
“The SUV stopped up the road. A man got out and walked back to the wreckage. He squatted and looked inside. I saw the airbag through the shattered window. Smoke came out from under the hood. Like it was going to blow. The man didn’t try to help whoever was inside. He stared for a while and then walked back to the SUV and drove away.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look. It gets dark out here. He was wearing a coat. It looked like leather. Dark slacks. Short hair. Military or ex-military.”
“What did you do then?”
“I picked up my dog and ran back to my house.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Cell phone service isn’t that great out here.”
“Is that the reason—”
“I ran… because I was scared. Something about that guy screamed Special Forces. Or an assassin or something.” Silence. “I have a family. A new grandson. Thought it best to mind my own business.”
Jade let the recording continue, but the rest of the tape was dead air.
She was well aware of what she’d just heard.
Judy Porter was interviewing an eyewitness to the murder of United States Congressman Steven Barrett.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
St. Louis, Missouri
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds: Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
—Bard of Avon
It was early or late, depending on how you looked at it.