Protecting Justice (The Justice Series Book 4)
Page 1
Protecting Justice
by
Misty Evans
&
Adrienne Giordano
Other Books in the
The Justice Team Series
Stealing Justice • Cheating Justice
Holiday Justice • Exposing Justice • Undercover Justice
Protecting Justice
Copyright © 2016 Misty Evans and Adrienne Giordano
ISBN-13: 978-1-942504-08-5
Cover Art by Sweet & Spicy Designs
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
Editing by Gina Bernal, Patricia Essex, & Angel Cleary
By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.
Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Table of Contents
The Justice Team Series
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgements
More from Adrienne and Misty
About the Authors
Dedication
To all those who keep us safe and protected.
Chapter One
The place smelled like Heather. Scents of lilac and vanilla. A cheap, but fragrant perfume her sister had loved since high school.
The doorbell rang for the twelfth time mixing with the drone of voices. People, food, a constant barrage of visitors. That’s what happened when someone—particularly a United States senator—died. Friends and family gathered.
From her spot at the front window, Fallyn let her father have his moment greeting the newcomers in the foyer. All the while, out on the tiny front lawn, the press fought over a few feet of grass and badgered guests as they approached the front door.
Two hours earlier, Fallyn’s plane had landed in DC and she’d gone into fixer mode, giving the press a statement, making sure her father had his meds, dealing with calls from the coroner and finding creative ways to fit the shitstorm of visitors into her sister’s 900-squarefoot brownstone.
Jordan Lomax squeezed between Senator Morgan’s staffer and a woman Fallyn didn’t know. The young woman’s Latino features were devoid of makeup, her hair in its normal braid. As Heather’s trusted assistant and family friend, Jordan had been the one to find Heather’s body. She’d also been the one to organize the casseroles and other food streaming through the door all morning.
“Fallyn,” Jordan said, “there’s someone who’d like to pay their respects to you personally.”
All she wanted was for everyone to leave. To give her a moment to catch her breath and process.
The look on Jordan’s face, though, told her it was someone important. Of course it was. Everyone in Washington had known Heather. “I’ll be right there.”
She took a moment to glance out the window. Damned press. After greeting whoever was looking for her, she’d have to deal with them. Call the cops or figure out some other way to clear them from the lawn. A lot of people in this town owed her favors. She needed to cash in and get rid of the vultures.
Staying close to the wall, she angled around an armchair and spotted a man in a black suit with an earpiece—Secret Service—waiting at the bottom of the steps.
Secret Service meant one thing. The president.
He must have come in the back way.
Taking a steadying breath, Fallyn entered the foyer. President Abraham Nicols was shaking her father’s hand, Eric Pasche beaming as the packed house of visitors hovered close, listening in on the president’s words.
“She’ll be sorely missed,” Nicols said to her father. Secret Service formed a circle around them, keeping the visitors at a respectful distance. “Her legacy won’t be forgotten.”
He’d been one of Heather’s biggest fans.
Behind the president stood Ryan, the president’s grown son, staring at her over his father’s shoulder. His gaze connected with hers and froze for an instant.
She’d been getting looks like that since she’d been here—people struck by her identical appearance to her twin.
Ryan stood tall, broad shoulders filling out his Air Force dress uniform. The medals adorning his chest created an array of colors indicating they had a real-life hero in their presence.
He skirted his father and held out a hand. “You must be Fallyn.”
She accepted his handshake and mustered a smile. He didn’t know her, but she knew him. His father had asked for a favor concerning him not long ago. “And you’re Ryan.”
“Home for a few days leave and wanted to pay my respects.” His sad smile seemed sincere. “My father thought a lot of your sister. I did too. She was a big supporter of the armed forces and everyone knew it. We’re so sorry.”
A lump formed in Fallyn’s throat, as if she’d swallowed a peach pit, rough, and painful. “Thank you.”
A pitiful, useless comment, but what else could he say?
The president moved over to them and reached out to embrace her. She flinched, then realized her faux pas. Abraham Nicols didn’t go around offering hugs to just anyone and she’d have to suck it up or risk an embarrassing situation.
Reluctantly, she went into his embrace and gritted her teeth. She hated being touched, and she didn’t have that kind of relationship with the president. If they’d been out in front of the reporters, she would have known it was nothing but a political move on his part. Knowing him, it still was.
But hugs were part of the process too. Everyone wanted to hug her right now.
“My condolences, Fallyn,” Nicols said close to her ear. “Heather was special.”
Fallen pushed aside the emotions his words stirred. The guilt. “Yes, she was.”
If I’d only come to see her like I promised a hundred times. If I’d only picked up the phone.
The ‘if onlys’ were pointless, but their hovering presence, like the visitors hanging on every word by President Nicols, was a familiar weight. Fallyn had a lot of ‘if onlys’ in her past, especially where her identical twin was involved.
She tried to pull back, but Nicols wasn’t done. “I’ll be at the funeral. Send my office the details.”
The two men begged off, and a moment later, hurried out the front door in a hail of goodbyes, the Secret Service clearing the way through the reporters.
That’s what I need. A couple of big, burly guys to clear that lawn.
The media weren’t going to be chased off, though. Just like the swamp of people inside Heather’s house.
For a moment, Fallyn fought the urge to yell and tell them all to get out. Her heart hurt and her head was pounding. A part of her had been ripped away and she needed a moment—or maybe a billion moments—to figure out where she went from here.
Work the case. Stay focused.
It was her motto when Pasche & Associates’ clients went spinning out of control. When you ran an elite consulting firm specializing in crisis management and media relations, every client—from the Bible-thumping politician coming out of the closet to the junkie actor returning to rehab—could make or break you. One wrong move and you could do irreparable damage to their careers, their lives, their families.
Jordan touched her back. “Can I get you something? A soda? Some green tea?”
From the time she was a kid and their mother had left them, Fallyn had been driven to fix other people’s problems. She was good at it, too, the best. Her firm’s multi-million dollar net income the past two years and its list of high profile clientele proved that.
Like her sister, power sped through her veins like a steam engine. Fallyn had even taken care of a few private messes the president had gotten caught in, making them disappear.
Talk about being in good with the most powerful man in the world. The paycheck had been sweet, but the fact the prez owed her a favor was even sweeter.
Yes, she was the best fixer in the country. Maybe even the world.
If only I could bring Heather back. “No, thanks, Jordan. I need to make some calls. I’m going upstairs.”
Her father’s voice cut through the room. “You’re working at a time like this?”
Silence fell. All eyes swung her way.
Heather had been his golden child after their mother, Christina, had left him. With Heather gone—Fallyn still couldn’t stomach the word dead—he’d taken to his bed and dumped all the funeral arrangements and other responsibilities on her. Carl and Jordan had managed to get him up and moving and over to Heather’s place by the time Fallyn had arrived, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to get him out of bed when the time came to bury his daughter.
“I need to make arrangements with the funeral home, the florist, and the caterer,” Fallyn said, giving her father the stink eye. “You’re welcome to help.”
Dad turned up his nose, brushed past her on his way to the kitchen.
The front door opened—a guest leaving—and Fallyn heard a commotion on the lawn. She strode to the door and peeked out.
A fight had broken out between two of the cameramen. They traded insults along with fists, falling in a heap on the ground. Fallyn lost sight of them as the crowd closed in, ringside seats.
Oh my God. This is frickin’ ridiculous.
Hustling upstairs to Heather’s bedroom, she placed a call to an old college friend, Caroline Foster. Recently, Caroline had left her position with the FBI and now worked for Justice “Grey” Greystone.
Greystone ran a secret agency specializing in bringing certain criminals to justice. Specifically to people who thought they were above the law. One of Fallyn’s clients had run afoul of Greystone’s team last year, and after seeing the evidence on her client—and the confidence in the former FBI profiler’s eyes—Fallyn had advised her client to get a lawyer rather than a spin doctor.
“Fallyn,” Caroline said after she answered, “I’m so sorry about Heather. What can I do?”
This is what friends—real friends—did. They dropped everything to help. “The press is creating chaos on the lawn. Where do I get decent security guys in this town? Mean ones who aren’t afraid to get their feathers ruffled?”
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll have the best in the biz on your doorstep.”
Had she been in New York, on her home turf, she’d have the situation rectified already. Here in DC things took longer. “Thank you. One more favor.”
“Anything.”
“Can I borrow your hacker? There are files on my sister’s tablet I need help with.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I owe you.”
Fallyn disconnected, tossed her cell phone on the bed. Heather’s bed. The one she’d died in.
Her breath became ragged, her vision tunneling to the intricate pattern of the comforter.
Five hours. It had only been five hours since Heather’s body had been discovered.
The thought, mixed with the sensory overload, brought a flood of memories. Some good, a whole lot bad. She glanced around the bedroom. Small, conservatively decorated like the rest of the place, it drew Fallyn in. Her gaze landed on the framed 4x6 photo on her sister’s nightstand. Fallyn’s knees buckled and she lowered herself to the bed, her eyes still on that damned photo.
The two little girls, cheeks rosy from the heat of a summer day, stared back at her. Back then they were naive and blameless, Heather’s curls tangled in the breeze with Fallyn’s as they tipped their heads together. Arms around each other’s necks, the girls in the picture seemed happy. The best of friends.
Identical twins, yet the two of them couldn’t have been more opposite.
Heather was dressed in a cute sundress and matching sandals, Fallyn was barefoot. Her shorts and favorite ragged t-shirt were dirty and stained. In her eyes was the rebel already taking hold.
How could you leave me, sis?
A tear puddled at the corner of her eye and Fallyn brushed it away, setting the photo back on the nightstand. The doorbell downstairs rang again and her father’s voice echoed over the din of the crowd downstairs.
I should go to him. Be by his side.
But Eric Pasche didn’t want her comfort.
He wanted his favorite daughter back.
Jordan and her father, Carl, were by his side, sentries ready to do battle for him. They’d loved Heather too. Carl, Eric’s longtime friend, and Jordan, personally knew everyone coming through the door. While Fallyn had built her career on fixing problems, this was one problem those two were better at.
Early indications were that Heather had suffered a myocardial infarction, but Fallyn’s bullshit meter was pegged. What twenty-seven-year-old woman in good health had a heart attack while sleeping? Sure, Heather had put on a few pounds since being elected to the Senate, but she was hardly overweight. She never smoked, rarely drank, and had never had so much as heartburn.
Maybe the stress got to her. Maybe if I’d been more supportive…if I hadn’t moved to New York…
The words whispered through Fallyn’s thoughts, an endless loop of guilt tormenting her. Her overactive brain circled back to those three little words. It’s my fault.
She should have known Heather was stressed. Should have known she was on the verge of having a heart attack. They were twins, for God’s sake.
Out on the lawn, the muffled sounds of arguing rose to the second floor. Damn reporters.
Part of her wanted to go off on the media for acting like children. A part of her—the fixer in her—wanted to walk out and use her skills to turn them into her allies. Give them the story they were chomping at the bit to run on the six o’clock news.
Heather Pasche: The Senate’s ‘It Girl.’
A strong proponent for women’s healthcare and equal pay, Heather had also campaigned strongly for many of the economic issues American males held dear. She worked tirelessly on the Foreign Relations Subcommittee, and before that, the Ethics Committee, squaring off across the table from a couple of Fallyn’s most elite clients.
Heather might have only been twenty-seven, but she was going places, making a name for herself in the world of p
olitics. Some said she’d be the first female president if Hillary didn’t beat her to the West Wing.
Now, all that was gone. Heather wasn’t going anywhere but into a box in the ground.
Enough.
Fallyn hopped off the bed, ran her hands over her forehead. None of this self-pity accomplished anything.
Work the problem. That’s what she’d do. Tend to the details and give her sister the send-off she deserved. Starting with her appearance. Heather would want to be buried in something nice.
She strode to the closet, scanned the modest selection of her sister’s suits. Dark blue, gunmetal grey, more blue. One black. Several skirts and a bevy of matching slacks. Two-inch heels in the same monotone colors.
How professional.
How boring.
Blouses offered a bit more color. Pink, purple, red. A dozen different white ones. Several black and blue. Fallyn was fingering a red blouse, holding the sleeve up to the gunmetal gray jacket, when she heard movement behind her.
“Thought I’d check on you,” Jordan said, filling the closet doorway. She handed Fallyn a cup of tea and the scent of lemon drifted to her nose. “See if you needed help with anything for tonight. You’re staying here, right? That’s what your dad said.”
The woman had been crying again, her red-rimmed eyes and the dark shadows under them a testament to her loyalty and devotion to Heather. While she might have landed the job with Heather because their fathers were friends, Jordan had proven to be a genuine ally.