by J. L. Brown
“Still waiting for him to call me back.”
“Normally he’s available to take your calls or responds immediately.” Sasha eyed her. “I always thought he was sweet on you.”
Whitney was saved from responding—and analyzing why this comment pleased her—by Sean’s voice coming over the speakerphone. “Madam President, President Tamirov is on the line.”
She gave Sasha a “this is it” look before moving behind her desk and picking up the handset.
“Andrei.”
“Whitney, good morning. I hear you are having difficulty keeping the lights on.”
“With your help?”
“Why would you think I was involved in your recent troubles?”
She sat in her chair. “I could think of a thousand reasons. Were you?”
“Your recovery has been swift. Impressive. It seems the rumors of the decline of the alleged greatest nation on earth are vastly exaggerated.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumors.”
“Maybe so,” he said, “but unlike you Americans, Russians have suffered throughout history. The unforgiving cold weather. The wars and endless conflicts. The revolutions. The scarcity. Nevertheless, we always come through every challenge better off because of it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“We are a proud people, and we don’t forget even the smallest of slights. We are also patient.”
“Andrei, if I have slighted you in some way—”
“That,” he said, “was for the pipeline.”
Part III
Chapter Eighty-Four
Washington, DC
Jade strode down a path near the reflecting pool. She spotted Pat sitting on a bench underneath a shade tree, eating a hot dog.
“Late lunch?” Jade said.
“You work me too hard.”
Jade smiled before glancing around the crowded National Mall. On one of the first days of spring, people were out eating, walking, and running. Workers pecked away on their laptops. Students relaxed on the grass, studying, their backpacks lying next to them. Groups of color-coordinated tourists trekked up the Lincoln Memorial stairs.
“Here,” Pat said, handing a hot dog to Jade. “You work yourself too hard too.”
“Thanks. I forgot to eat.”
“You usually do.”
Jade took a bite of the dog, which was still warm and loaded with melted cheese and chili. “That’s good. Thank you.”
Pat waved behind her. “Food truck. One of my go-to places.”
The two ate in silence.
Finally, Jade said, “Why did you call me out here, Pat? It wasn’t to eat lunch together.”
“You’re right,” she said, lifting a file from her lap and handing it to Jade. “I found your tree.”
Jade scanned the document inside the folder. She looked at Pat. “The Liberty Tree?”
“It was an elm tree planted in Boston in 1646, on the only road into or out of the city. After the British Parliament passed the Stamp Act in 1765, a band of merchants and artisans formed a radical secret society called the Sons of Liberty, or the Loyal Nine. They hung items on the tree, including an image in effigy of the tax collector. A mob gathered and started breaking into houses, destroying furniture, raiding liquor cabinets, that sort of thing. For the next decade, Boston’s angriest demonstrations took place there, symbolizing the violent aspect of the Revolutionary War—a side that the colonists we’re still too sensitive to see.”
Jade said, “What happened to the tree?”
“The British Army chopped it down in 1775, which is why most Americans haven’t heard of it. Towns throughout the colonies planted Liberty Trees in protest. One of the founding fathers, Thomas Paine, wrote a song about the tree and its importance to all Americans.” She glanced down at the folder that now lay on the bench between them. “The lyrics are in there.”
“Anything else?”
“Thomas Jefferson tried to make the Liberty Tree a lasting metaphor.” Pat quoted from memory, “‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’”
“Sounds dangerous,” Jade said.
Pat searched her face. “What’s this about?”
Why would Zoe tattoo the Liberty Tree on her wrist?
“What about the symbol?” Jade asked, ignoring Pat’s question.
“You were right. It’s the Japanese word for ‘progress.’”
“What else?”
“I’ve also looked into Barrett’s death, as you asked. You’re right about that too—it stinks.”
“How so?”
“I obtained a copy of the original airplane manifest and compared it to the one we had on file. It’d been altered.”
Jade stopped chewing. “What?”
“Rick Cheney, the alias that Caleb Hewitt used on that flight, appeared on the second manifest, but not the first.”
“Meaning…”
“Rick Cheney didn’t replace another passenger. He was an addition.”
“So we would deduce that it was an alias for Hewitt.”
“Correct. I don’t think Hewitt was in St. Louis at the time of the murder.”
“Then where was he?”
“I don’t know,” Pat said. “There’s more.”
“Go on.”
“Since the manifest for the flight from Philadelphia to St. Louis was altered, I decided to check out the flight from Newark to Chicago.”
Caleb Hewitt had used the alias Walker G. Bush on that flight, putting him in the vicinity around the time the president’s aunt, Mary Churchill, was killed.
A sense of foreboding settled over Jade. “And?”
“That manifest was altered too.”
No longer hungry, Jade balled up the uneaten remainder of the hot dog in its wrapper and lobbed it into the trash can a few feet away. Swish. Nothing but net.
“Hewitt hated the Bush administration,” Jade recalled. “Rick Cheney represented Dick Cheney. Walker G. Bush was obviously George W. Bush. We copped Hewitt for both murders, tying them in with the TSK murders. Someone handed us a gift wrapped with a bow.”
“And we opened it,” Pat said.
Jade paused. “It’s more than that. Evidence tampering of this magnitude would need to come from the highest of levels.”
Pat nodded. “That’s why we’re eating lunch out here.”
“And Barringer asked us to stop looking into the Barrett case.”
The two women looked at each other for a moment.
Pat stood. “Be careful, Jade.”
She walked away.
Jade glanced down at the folder.
A feeling of dread came to life in the pit of her stomach. And, if she were being honest, not a small amount of fear.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Arlington, Virginia
“Hey,” Blake said.
Jade had been shooting around on the court at the park by her house. It was dusk, the basket swathed in shadows. During her routine, she thought about her conversation with Pat earlier that afternoon. Holding the basketball in one hand and her phone in the other, she sat cross-legged underneath the basket. No need to worry about being hit by a stray ball. She was the only one on the court.
She was disappointed that none of the usual crowd had showed up. She loved playing ball with the fellas. Well-earned respect reflected in their eyes when they realized—or knew—that she could (still) hold her own. It gave her a sense of pride. And she could use a vigorous game about now.
Blake’s call surprised her.
“Hey, yourself,” she said.
“How’s your investigation going?”
Instead of the Shakespeare case, she contemplated the Barrett and Churchill cases. Which weren’t officially her cases. Or open ones, for that matter.
“It’s going. Still at home?”
“Yes,” Blake said, “in bed, where I’ve been spending a lot of time.”
“Are you up for visitors yet?�
�
“No,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m still not ready.”
“When are you returning to work?”
He sighed. “Not sure I’m ready for the pressures of the White House yet either.”
“I hear you.”
She enjoyed the quiet of the park. The crickets chirped. Through the trees, she saw lights coming on in some of the townhouses. A squirrel darted onto the court and stopped to look at her. Finding nothing of interest, he moved on.
“I’ve been doing a little digging into what Judy was working on.”
“Blake…”
“She was onto something.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“You did call.”
“Right.” He hesitated. “I don’t think Congressman Barrett’s death was an accident.”
Of course it wasn’t. “Why do you say that?”
“At first I believed the news reports. An unfortunate accident for him, and serendipity for the future president. I checked in with the police in Clayton, Missouri. They’re now saying that it wasn’t an accident, but they are tight-lipped about the details. After the congressman died, Fairchild ran and won the special election to replace him.”
“Everyone knows about the special election. Are you saying there’s a connection?”
“I think there is. Yes.”
“There was no assurance she would win,” Jade pointed out.
“Maybe not,” he said, “but a significant amount of money for her poured in from outside the state. I’m still trying to track down the sources of the contributions, but it was a disproportionate amount for a special election House race, especially back then for an unknown, unproven candidate.”
“You’re talking about the president.” She paused. “Your boss.”
“I don’t like corruption. Something about this stinks. My boss and mo—” He hesitated. “Notwithstanding.”
“And what?”
“Nothing.”
“You think someone was behind her getting elected?”
“Someone,” he said, “or something.”
*
Jade picked up Card from the sheet of paper on the couch next to her. The cat possessed an uncanny ability to sit on whatever she was about to read. Kissing him on the top of his head, she placed him in her lap.
She reread Thomas Paine’s song about the Liberty Tree, which ended:
But hear, O ye swains (’tis a tale most profane),
How all the tyrannical powers,
Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain
To cut down this guardian of ours.
From the East to the West blow the trumpet to arms,
Thro’ the land let the sound of it flee:
Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer,
In defense of our Liberty Tree.
She’d heard of Thomas Paine, of course, and read Common Sense in high school. That didn’t mean she remembered any of it. Tapping a key to bring her laptop to life, she googled his name and clicked on his Wikipedia page.
Common Sense was originally titled Plain Truth.
Was this connected to Veritas?
After a few hours of reading about the man and his work, she understood why Zoe identified with him. A lot of his views were progressive: human rights, progressive taxation to combat poverty, egalitarian society, world peace, social security for the elderly and the poor, the evils of arbitrary government, combating illiteracy, the need for insurances against unemployment. Paine was staunchly antislavery and believed in religious tolerance.
“‘Every religion is good that teaches man to be good,’” Jade read aloud.
She liked that.
Paine sounded like Zoe’s kind of founding father. Was that why she’d tatted the Liberty Tree on her wrist? Zoe didn’t need a reason to do anything, but a tattoo was a permanent declaration. At least, until it was removed.
The tattoo must represent something political. Politics was Zoe’s life. Why was she seeking liberty?
And progress.
Jade’s eyes drifted to the wooden triangle frame perched on a shelf of her bookcase. Jonathan Harrington’s sacrifice. A soldier had handed the flag to her at her parents’ funeral.
What did Zoe say that time? Something about a new guard for future security? She googled this phrase and got a hit on the first link:
… it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.
Part of a sentence from the Declaration of Independence.
Jade leaned back, frowning.
Her doorbell rang.
Visitors to her home, unannounced or otherwise, were rare. She set Card and the paper aside. Looking through the peephole, she saw Pat Turner glancing over both shoulders.
Jade opened the door. “How do you know where I live?”
Pat gave her a look that said I know everything. “I need to talk to you,” she said.
Jade opened the door wider. “Come in.”
Pat shook her head. “No. Let’s go to that park you’re always talking about.” She mouthed, Leave your phone.
Grabbing her keys, Jade pulled a light jacket over her Stanford Women’s Basketball T-shirt and Adidas track pants. The night was cool but pleasant. The two women didn’t speak as they walked along the sidewalk, then cut between a break in the townhouses to travel the short distance to the park.
Pat didn’t stop walking until she’d arrived at the center of the court. The lights surrounding the court were off. Jade could barely make out Pat’s face.
“I found an encrypted file hidden on Judy Porter’s computer,” Pat whispered.
“What was in it?” Jade whispered back.
“I haven’t been able to open it yet.”
Jade put her hands on her hips. “Then why are we here?”
“Because of the name of the file.”
“Which is?”
“Paine,” Pat said.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Washington, DC
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Dante asked the next morning.
Jade stood in Dante’s doorway, as he used to when she occupied this office.
Christian slid in next to her. “Morning. What were you talking about when I got here?”
“What we can do to flush out Shakespeare,” she said.
“That rhymed,” said Micah, standing with them in the now crowded hallway. “Almost sounds like a couplet.” He rapped: “What were you talking about when I got here? What we can do to flush out Shakespeare.”
“She’s a poet and doesn’t know it,” said Dante.
Christian moved his head to an imaginary beat. “Don’t mess with Jade if you can’t abade.”
Micah looked puzzled. “Is ‘abade’ a word?”
“I might have just made it up,” Christian replied.
Jade rolled her eyes. “I’m leaving.”
She turned, hiding her smile, and headed down the hallway, while her team continued to make up rhymes behind her.
She’d been thinking about this plan for some time. She was desperate. There hadn’t been any movement on the Shakespeare Killer case. Barrington was still griping about her solve rate. The drumbeat of his impatience—and the public’s—rumbled louder.
Picking up the handset in her office, she checked the Seattle number and dialed.
Three rings. She was about to hang up when he answered.
“Yeah.”
“This is Agent Jade Harrington.”
“What do you want?”
“Now that’s not very nice. Not even ‘Seattle nice.’”
He didn’t laugh.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said.
“What?”
She told him.
There was silence for several moments.
“If I do it, will you get off my case?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I can do that
,” said The God of Veritas.
*
“Tell me about the Liberty Tree,” Jade said.
Zoe, puzzled, said, “What are you talking about?”
Jade pointed at Zoe’s wrist. “That.”
Zoe scoffed. “It’s a tree. I like trees.”
“Since when?”
“I’m an environmentalist. Always have been. What of it? Why are you questioning my tattoo? I can tat whatever I want on my body. A naked woman or a—”
Jade held up her hand. “Stop.”
Zoe closed her mouth.
“The tree is significant,” Jade said. “It’s a symbol of the American Revolution. Rebellion. Of a dark side of US history. Why is it tatted on your wrist?”
Zoe examined her wrist, pouting, a look Jade had seen many times before. “I wanted a tree. It’s no big deal.”
“I think it’s a big deal and means a lot to you.” Jade leaned forward and placed her hands on the counter that separated Zoe’s kitchen from the rest of her Adams Morgan apartment. “Who’s the artist?”
Zoe swept her arm toward the living room. “Can we at least sit down?”
She went to sprawl on her favorite circular wicker chair with beige cushions, perching her feet on the coffee table. Jade sat on the couch. For once, she didn’t grab the round orange pillow and start shooting it like a basketball. Zoe looked at the pillow and back at Jade.
“This must be serious,” Zoe said.
In contrast to the minimalist decor in Jade’s townhouse, Zoe’s apartment was eclectic: walls of indigo, eggplant, and lime. Bookshelves crowded with African knickknacks obtained during her time in the Peace Corps.
The aroma of patchouli incense did not put Jade at ease today.
She gazed at the new posters on the wall. One had a 1950s-looking woman flexing her bicep above the words “ERA Amendment Now,” the legislation that passed during Fairchild’s first year in office. The other showed an arcade gallery from the point of view of someone holding an assault rifle. People were the rotating targets. Underneath was the word “Enough,” the name of the gun reform bill that didn’t pass after the elementary school shooting.