by J. L. Brown
“I still think this is a bad idea,” he said.
“I want to see if their stories match.”
Jenny returned wearing a light-blue t-shirt and jeans. “I need to pick up the kids from school soon.”
Christian cut his eyes at Jade before turning to Jenny. “We came by to check on you.”
“We just left the police station,” Jade said. “We saw Matt.”
“They’re wasting their time. Matt wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“They asked him where he was the night Zach Rawlins was killed.”
“I could’ve saved them the trouble. He was here with me. Watching TV.”
“How do you remember which night it was?” Jade asked.
“Because it’s what we do every night. We’re not the most exciting couple in the world. No one would ever create a reality show about us.”
“What about the night Nicholas Campbell died?”
“Same.”
“And you’re sure he was with you the entire time?” Jade pressed. “Both nights?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Matt is capable of murder?”
“No, I don’t. He’s a big teddy bear.” She gestured to Christian. “Like him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Washington, DC
“Jade, come in.”
“I wanted to update you on—” She stopped in the doorway of Ethan’s office. He wasn’t alone. “I can come back later.”
Before she turned, his guest stood.
She processed several observations about him at once.
He wore an FBI-issued badge on a lanyard around his neck. Tall, the same height as she, his biceps filled out his suit jacket. His skin was the color of light mocha. The absence of a wedding ring.
He returned her stare, his eyes, gray and mesmerizing.
“I can come back,” she repeated.
“No,” Ethan said, “I want you to meet Micah Alexander.”
She shook his hand. “Jade Harrington.”
“I know who you are,” he said through straight white teeth. A slight British accent tinted his words. They held each other’s gaze until a throat cleared. She looked over at Ethan.
“Micah just graduated from the academy,” he said. “Today’s his first day. He just joined the department.”
Jade turned back to the new agent. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
“Ethan, I’ll catch you later.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Take Micah with you. I’ve assigned him to your team.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Seattle, Washington
Chief Financial Officer David Smith rushed from the CEO’s office of the technology company at which he worked and down the hall to his own corner office. His employees were accustomed to seeing him hustling up and down the corridors.
He strode straight to his chair and dropped his writing pad on the desk. He spun the chair to the credenza behind him and logged onto his laptop. Checking the time in the bottom-right corner of the computer screen, he opened the browser. He navigated to the Pacific Coast Bank website, where his company kept its operating and payroll checking accounts.
He glanced at the time again. Ten minutes to make the train to Sea-Tac for his four o’clock flight. The train wasn’t always on time. He may have an extra two minutes. Worst-case scenario he could call a cab, but like any good CFO, he would rather spend $2.50 than $45 of the company’s money for the same service. Plus, it was faster these days to travel by train than car with Seattle’s worsening traffic.
He clicked Transfer Money, selected From the Operating Account, and typed in 1,000,000. He clicked To the Payroll Account. It wasn’t the exact amount of payroll, but enough to cover it. He could transfer the excess back later after his payroll accountant finished reconciling all the adjustments.
Spinning the chair back to his desk, he removed the security token from the center drawer. He pressed the blue button. A six-digit access code appeared in the digital display. He punched the code on the laptop’s keyboard and hit Enter. The Transfer Successfully Completed page displayed on the computer screen. He emailed this page to his controller.
With care, he logged out of the bank’s website and closed the browser. Tapping the Windows button and the letter L on the keyboard to lock his computer, he swept the laptop off the docking station. He stuffed it into the bag, and shoved it down the handle of his suitcase.
He grabbed his suit jacket off the hook on the back of his office door with one hand and breezed out the door with the suitcase and laptop in the other.
Thank God, transferring significant sums of money was easy and fast these days.
He would make the train.
*
As David Smith hurried to the University Street train station, the million dollars he just transferred was not deposited in the company’s payroll account at Pacific Coast Bank.
Instead, the funds jetted to Switzerland, then the Cayman Islands, London, and four other locations before ending up in a different Seattle bank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Quantico, Virginia
It had been over a year since Jade had visited Behavioral Analysis Unit 4 of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime in Quantico.
Standing in the doorway of Max Stover’s office, she watched him work. His hair was thinning, with only faint blond wisps remaining on top. Max was a supervisory special agent. Most people would call him a profiler. One of the agency’s best. He was also Jade’s mentor and godfather.
Without looking up, he said, “Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to sit down and tell me why you’re here?”
Jade entered his office and removed a stack of papers and folders from the solitary guest chair, glancing around to figure out where to put it. He waved at the floor.
“How did you know it was me?”
He pointed to his ear. “I could tell by the sound of your walk. No one walks like you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Max stopped writing and placed the pen on his pad of paper. He pushed his glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose and looked at her. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“You look pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“Paler than usual. You need to get out more.”
“Now that that’s cleared up, why are you here?”
“What do you know about bullying?”
Max shrugged. “Bullies are insecure. Bullying gives them power over someone or a group of people. A power they lack in other aspects of their lives. Sometimes, a bully has been bullied, and often models what has been done to him or what he sees others doing.”
“Or her.”
As a bullied kid, she never realized her attackers could have been victims, too. At the time, she hadn’t thought much about them at all, except hoping they would all go away or die. She didn’t tell Max any of this. He knew her history.
He nodded. “Women, too. If we’re talking about kids, sometimes the victim’s friends—or frenemies—are the meanest bullies of all.”
“And with the Internet and smartphones, bullying is a twenty-four/seven endeavor.”
“Your home is no longer a sanctuary. There is no safe place.”
“You heard about Christian’s nephew.”
Max nodded.
During the conversation, she had straightened all the items closest to her on Max’s gray metal desk.
“They posted photos,” she said, “on the Internet of him in the locker room shower.” She told him about the Twitter account, and the texts from the girl who played a joke on him.
Max watched her straighten, a smile-grimace etched on his face. “Bullying is different now than when I was growing up. Than when you were growing up. It’s more psychological and socially cruel. Bullies target vulnerable groups like special-needs kids or LGBTQ kids or weak kids. And they keep coming up with crea
tive ways to bully. It’s more commonplace. Some of our politicians are the worst bullies of all.”
Last year, a billionaire businesswoman threatened to oppose the incumbent president in the Republican primary. According to her, everyone in the GOP establishment was either a liar, a cheater, stupid, or out to get her. No segment of the population—except for Caucasians—escaped her wrath.
“Entertainment,” Jade added.
“And games. Bullying behaviors in games are explained away as trash-talking. All these things desensitize kids—heck, all of us—to violence. By the time a child reaches eighteen years of age, she or he has watched two hundred thousand acts of violence.”
“What can we do about it?”
“Adults could set a better example. Better enforcement of school policies. Tougher laws. There’s no federal law against bullying. But at the micro level, victims need to tell someone and not stay silent. So they know they’re not alone. And parents, teachers, and bystanders need to say something when they see it.”
Jade aligned files she’d already straightened. “I wish bullies could channel that creativity and energy into something useful. More productive. Like becoming an FBI agent.” She stopped and admired her handiwork.
Max glanced at his files. “Are you finished?”
She pulled her hands away. “Yes.”
He removed his glasses to polish them and squinted at her. “You shouldn’t take this case personally.”
She examined her hands, her complexion the product of a black father and Japanese mother. The physical scars had long since healed. Her parents never knew about the bullying. Now that they were dead, they never would.
“I was a mixed-race Army brat. Always the new kid on the block. Always an outsider. It’s hard to forget.”
“What do they know about the perp?”
She relayed the skimpy information they had obtained so far. The killer, most likely right-handed, used a blunt instrument to murder his victims, and then severed their genitals.
“That wasn’t in the paper.”
“Two victims, Zach and Nicholas, both bullied Tyler Thompson, Christian’s nephew.”
“I like that you still use the victims’ names like I taught you. It humanizes them.”
“They were human beings. With lives. With hopes and dreams. What else would I call them? What do you make of the mutilations?”
Max didn’t react to the shift in topics. He picked up his pen and started gently tapping it on his notepad. “We could hypothesize about that one all day. The obvious reason is the perpetrator is exacting revenge. Could these boys have raped Tyler? But it sounds as if most of the bullying wasn’t physical. Maybe it has something to do with the baseball team. Any signs of resistance?”
Jade shook her head. She then described the scratches and bruises inflicted on all three victims before their deaths.
“Antemortem?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded. “I’ve seen them on other members of the baseball team, too. The living members. I believe that other kids are involved. And that they may be in danger.”
“Not much to go on,” Max said.
“Not much is right. Christian and I interviewed the parents of Zach Rawlins. His mother is a perfectionist, and his father is a bully.”
“Dangerous combination. Zach most likely never felt comfortable in his own skin. Since he wasn’t perfect, his parents couldn’t see him for the person he actually was. Always judging him.”
Jade looked away. Like I judge myself.
After a moment, she cocked her chin toward the paperwork on his desk. “What are you working on?”
“Serial-killer case in Wisconsin. Someone is kidnapping, raping, and killing girls from trailer-park homes spanning a three-county area.”
Jade’s stomach clenched. “Get him.”
“I will.” He paused. “Everything else all right?”
“Great.” She got up to leave.
“How’s Micah doing?”
“You know him?”
He nodded. “I trained him.”
“Hmph.”
“He’s going to be good, Jade.”
“As good as I am?”
“No one’s that good.” He smiled. “But I wouldn’t sleep on him, though.”
“You don’t even know what that means,” she said.
“I still teach, remember?”
She stood. “I need to go.”
“A piece of advice. Forget the victims were bullies. You’ve got a killer to catch. Get. Him.”
“I will.”
She nodded and moved toward the door.
“Jade,” he said. She turned to look at him. “Thanks for straightening my desk.”
Over her shoulder, she said, “You’re welcome,” and strode out the door.
Halfway down the hallway, she heard Max shout from his office: “I was kidding!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The White House, Washington, DC
In the Oval Office, Whitney reviewed her chief of staff’s proposal one last time. She crossed out the sections that would hurt middle-class families, including the elimination of the mortgage-interest deduction for homes under one million dollars. She made her final changes in the margin of the document.
To be palatable to the other party, distribution of income must benefit the wealthy in some way. With her revisions, she thought the proposal would be amenable to Hampton. Bell didn’t matter as much.
Sean, her secretary, buzzed her. “Madam President? Ashley Brennan is here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Cole Brennan’s wife.”
“Oh, yes. Send her in.” Whitney had not seen or heard from Cole since she had appeared on his radio show late last summer. She had never met the wife of the radio talk-show host, and had been surprised by her request for a meeting.
“Mrs. Brennan.”
“Whitney . . . Madam President, thanks for taking the time to see me.”
Whitney gestured toward the sofa, as she sat in a nearby chair. Ashley Brennan, blonde and beautiful and a decade younger than her husband, carried herself like the model she once had been. In an Hermès dress, she perched near the edge of the sofa, her legs crossed at the ankle, à la Jackie Kennedy.
“What can I do for you?” asked Whitney.
“My husband hasn’t been kind to you on the show these last few months . . . well, ever, but I’ve always admired you from afar. That you stand for what you believe in. I voted for you.” A small smile. “Cole doesn’t know that, of course.”
Whitney crossed her legs. “I’m surprised, but flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be. As Madeline Albright said, ‘There is a special place in hell for women who do not help other women.’ I still believe that.” She paused. “I’m here about our son. Cole Jr. CJ. You may have heard that he came out. That he’s gay.”
“I did.”
Ashley hesitated. “He . . . was beaten up. Badly. Yesterday. By a bunch of boys at his school.”
“Oh, Ashley, I’m sorry.” She placed her hand over the woman’s hands. “Is he all right?”
A shrug. “He’ll be all right. Nothing broken. Doctors said the bruises on his face will heal. He’ll still be handsome. He’s strong. Stands up for what he believes in.” Ashley glanced at Whitney. “Like his dad.” That smile again. “But opposite.”
“What can I do for you?” When someone called or visited her, the person wanted something.
“CJ is a good kid. Never hurt anyone. Bullying has to stop. Not just for my child, but for all children.”
Whitney retracted her hand. “It is a problem, the pervasiveness of bullying in our schools. In our workplaces. In our politics.” She bit her lip, but said it anyway. “On the radio.”
Ashley didn’t respond. The silence lengthened. Whitney thought she had gone too far.
“I don’t always agree with what my husband says. But he is my husband. And I support him. Always. He’s devastated by what’s happened. But he f
eels helpless. He doesn’t know what he can do about it.” Her eyes, vacant and sad, implored Whitney nevertheless. “Is there something that you can do? Can you strengthen federal laws to stop bullying?”
Whitney bit back her comment this time, choosing to ignore the irony that Ashley—like many Republicans—opposed the federal government’s intervention in the lives of US citizens in almost everything, except for women’s reproductive rights. And when they needed something.
“There is no federal law against bullying.”
“Can you create one?”
“This Congress would be an obstacle. I may need your husband’s help.”
Ashley Brennan’s back straightened with resolve. Whitney suspected that many people underestimated this woman.
“You’ll have it.”
“But there may be something I’ll need in return.”
*
“To make this work, we need to align our interest groups. Just like the New Deal Coalition. Labor, minorities, intellectuals, liberals, and small businesses. We must be the party of prosperity. Like back in the Thirties.”
Whitney pumped hard on the elliptical in the gym in the White House residence as she spoke. She glanced at the electronic dashboard. Fifteen minutes to go.
Sasha shifted on the bench she had pulled up close to the machine earlier. “No luck with Hampton or Bell, so far.”
This didn’t surprise Whitney. In addition to the inherent intransigence of the two congressmen, Sasha’s direct approach rubbed some people the wrong way. Particularly men.
Whitney smiled. “I guess you didn’t take my advice and feed them a spoonful of sugar.”
“I always did prefer hot sauce.”
“I tried to tell you.”
“I was never a great listener, either.”
Whitney’s legs continued to pump. “At the end of the nineteenth century, the economic inequality prevalent throughout Europe at that time almost caused a socialist revolution.”
“Met with them and their LDs a few times.”
“The gap in wealth has not been this wide in the United States since the Great Depression.”