by J. L. Brown
Whitney paused a moment, taking it all in. “I guess no matter how close you are to someone, you can never really know him. Or her.”
“That’s the truth,” Jade said, a slight color rising to her cheeks. Whitney wondered why.
Jade pulled out a ragged notebook. If Whitney wasn’t mistaken, it was the same one Jade had used to interview her last year. Was the FBI’s budget that tight?
“Why am I here?” Jade asked.
No small talk for this one. “I have a proposition for you. What do you know about the cyberthefts occurring in Seattle?”
“Only what I read in the papers.”
Whitney filled her in on the contents of that morning’s PDB, which wasn’t much more than what was reported in the newspapers.
“Any evidence that the Chinese are involved?” asked Jade.
“Just suspicions. Suppositions. Rumors.”
“I’m still not sure why I’m here.”
“I want you to be the liaison between the Secret Service and the FBI on this.”
Most people were familiar with the Secret Service’s responsibility of protecting the president and other high-placed government officials, but the Service also had jurisdiction over other domains, including cybercrime. As did the FBI.
Jade shifted, uncomfortable. “This isn’t my area of expertise. Shouldn’t you be asking someone from our cyber division?”
“I’ve talked to your boss,” Whitney said. “Ethan Lawson, isn’t it? He’s approved this assignment.” She smiled at the scowl crossing Jade’s face. “Is something wrong?”
Jade glanced out the window. “He wants to distract me from the bullying case.”
“Bullying case?”
“Never mind.”
“There’s something else.”
Jade remained silent, probably thinking about what she would say to her boss next time she saw him. Whitney didn’t envy him.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the income-inequality protests taking place across the country,” Whitney said.
Jade turned back to her. “Sure.”
“Evan Stevens. A liberal blogger. Smart. Irreverent. Heard of him?”
“I’ve met him. We interviewed him about the TSK case.”
“What did you discover?”
“Not much. I read a lot of his blogs. He’s passionate about the causes he believes in. He turned out to be clean.”
Whitney crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. “It may be more than that. He seems to be . . . stirring up the masses. I believe he is one of the reasons these protests are having such a long shelf life. I am contemplating inviting him here. To talk to him.”
“Sounds like a good idea, but I don’t understand why you’re telling me.”
“I want you to look into his background.”
Jade’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you have people for that?”
“Yes, but I want you to do it. I trust you.” Whitney stood, ending the meeting. She bit back a smile. “Oh . . . and Agent Lawson said it was okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Washington, DC
She waited in the queue at Peet’s Coffee & Tea near FBI HQ. She thought about her conversation with the president and what she’d said about Landon. That you can never really know someone. Fairchild didn’t know about her relationship with him, unless he told her, which Jade doubted. No one knew, except Zoe. And it was going to stay that way.
Her phone rang. She wanted to ignore it. She needed her coffee. Badly. She glanced at the display. A 206 number. Seattle.
Stepping outside the shop, she scanned the surrounding area. “Agent Harrington.”
“Harrington, it’s your favorite detective in Seattle.”
“I only know one detective in Seattle.”
She had worked with Detective Kurt McClaine on the TSK case.
He waited a beat. “And I’m still not your favorite? Ouch.” A smile in his voice. “I need your help.”
“Another murder?”
“No. Not a murder this time. It’s about money. Someone or some organization or a sovereign nation that starts with a ‘C’ is stealing a lot of money from the good people of Seattle.”
“I heard.”
“I know. From the president.”
She frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I’m who you’re liaising with on the local level. I need you to come to Seattle. I was informed the president cleared it with your boss.”
She looked at the phone, wanting to throw it. She brought it back to her ear. “When?”
“You’re booked on a flight early this afternoon your time. I emailed the details.”
On the sidewalk, people walked around her on either side. Some of them slowed, their eyes widening when they recognized her. A woman with Asian features took her picture.
“I suggest you pack for a few days,” he said.
Jade glanced back at Peet’s. “Damn. It looks like I won’t get my coffee.”
“We have plenty of coffee in Seattle. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The White House, Washington, DC
Whitney swung her legs onto the sofa and picked up the glass of red wine from the coffee table in front of her. A healthy pour.
Is there any other kind?
A biography about Victoria Woodhull, who, in 1872, was the first female candidate to run for president of the United States—before women had the right to vote—lay beside her. She took a sip of wine, rolling it around on her tongue. Savoring it. She reflected on her conversation with Jade Harrington.
I’m sure its resolution was bittersweet for you.
Whitney was concerned. If Landon’s secret got out, her presidency would be destroyed. Or, at least, it would give the other party and the political pundits fodder to talk about for a long time. It would impact her family.
She thought about Jade. Her intelligence. Her confidence. Her swagger. She had “It.” There was something about the agent that Whitney was drawn to. A kinship.
The initial melody of Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major, op. 55, no. 2 trilled from her cell phone. Chandler.
“This is a nice surprise.”
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
She envisioned her son sitting, one leg bobbing up and down with nervous energy. His bangs flopping down on his forehead.
Whitney glanced at the briefing books stacked on the end table, untouched, and then back at her glass. “Taking a break from work. And you?”
“I have some good news, and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
Gripping the phone tighter, she tried to remain calm. “Bad.”
“I’m not graduating until September. I can’t get all my credits in without summer school.”
Whitney exhaled. “That’s not bad. I think it takes six years now for the average student to graduate, so you’re still ahead of your peers.”
“I didn’t know it was a competition, Mom.”
“It’s always a competition. What’s the good news?”
“I’ve decided to work for Dad after graduation.”
She smiled. “That’s wonderful! He’s going to be happy.”
“He is. I told him.”
“I’m proud of you. What made you choose the family business?”
“I couldn’t get a job anywhere else.” Before she could respond, he said, “Just kidding. It seemed like a good way to learn how to run a big business. Besides, I don’t want to end up like those protesters.”
“What protesters?”
“The ones on TV. Protesting that income-inequality bullsh—stuff. I want to make my own money. Someday own my own business. Be in charge of my own destiny.”
She placed her glass on the table. “Sometimes being in charge of your own destiny is not enough, son.”
“Sorry, Mom, I just don’t buy that. You and Dad always taught us that if we worked hard, good things would happen. To not wait for anything to be handed to us. To go after what we want.”
&n
bsp; Whitney chose her words carefully. “I still believe that, but there’s more to it. Some people are born into a bad situation that is difficult to rise above. Others encounter bad luck: financially, a health crisis, the unexpected death of a provider. There are systemic issues within our economy that allow the wealthy to become wealthier, and everyone else to stay the same.”
“The wealthy get a bad rap. It’s not their fault they’re rich. I can’t wait to be one of them.”
“Well—”
“Mom, I need to go. I’ll call you again soon. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She looked at the phone display. Chandler was gone. She placed it on the sofa and picked up her glass. The person on the phone did not sound like her son. Their normal playful banter, absent. He sounded like a damn Republican.
She finished the rest of the wine in one gulp. The president of the United States crossed the room to the refrigerator to retrieve another bottle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Seattle, Washington
Declining the receptionist’s offers for a seat or coffee or water, Jade and Detective Kurt McClaine stood off to the side of the sleek, gray front desk. McClaine, with his blond, unkempt hair, gold earring, cheap suit jacket, jeans, and a tattoo on his neck peeking out of his customary t-shirt, looked more like a handsome rock star than a detective.
“You brought the sun,” he said. “That doesn’t happen too often in May.”
“I don’t think I had anything to do with it,” Jade said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said the tall woman walking toward them. “It’s rained for three weeks straight. And, please, forgive the good detective. Talking about the weather is what we Seattleites do best.” She extended her hand to McClaine. “Good to see you again.” Her green eyes focused on Jade. Extending her hand, she said, “Kyle Madison.”
Her grip was firm. Jade held her gaze. “Special Agent Jade Harrington.”
The woman turned. “Follow me,” she said over her shoulder. She didn’t wait to see if they complied.
Jade liked that.
Something flickered in McClaine’s eye as he gestured for Jade to walk ahead of him. She followed Kyle down a long hallway, taking in the shimmering medium-length black hair, the expensive, fitted dark suit, and the high heels. She noticed everything, except the sway of Ms. Madison’s hips.
Kyle’s office, in the same décor as the reception area, was gray and white and black, save a red rose in the slim vase on her desk. Elegant, but impersonal. No pictures. No knickknacks. No plants. Nothing to reveal more about the woman.
Except the rose.
After they were seated, McClaine said, “Ms. Madison, can you—”
“Hold that thought,” the executive said, as she pushed a button on the phone on her desk. “Kevin, can you bring in some tea, please?” She turned to McClaine. “You want me to tell Agent Harrington what happened.”
He nodded.
Kyle leaned back in her chair. “I manage a venture-capital firm. We help social media entrepreneurs turn their dreams into reality by providing Series A financing so they can reach more customers, increase revenues, and grow their businesses. We’re selective in the companies in which we choose to invest. You’ve heard of most of them. Our approach is different. We invest in the people, not the—”
Jade interrupted the sales pitch. “Where are your tombstones?”
A discreet knock on the door postponed the answer. The receptionist entered and placed the tea service on the desk.
“Thank you, Kevin,” Kyle said.
He left. She lifted the silver-plated tea pot that appeared as if it cost more than Jade’s monthly mortgage payment. Kyle looked at them. “Tea?”
They both shook their heads.
She poured a cup for herself. “To answer your question, I don’t need to be surrounded by visual reminders of my successes. It keeps me hungry.”
“How big is your typical fund?”
“Our last one was one billion.”
McClaine whistled.
“Tell me what happened,” Jade said.
“Obviously, a lot of money flows through here. In. And out. My CFO discovered that our account reconciliations had been slightly off consistently for months. Not by enough to cause alarm, so he didn’t think it necessary to inform me. It’s crazy around here. All the time. The companies, investors, entrepreneurs in residence. He chalked it up to minor errors by his staff. Rounding. A few days ago, he realized they weren’t errors.”
Jade leaned in. “How much was stolen?”
“One million dollars.”
She glanced at McClaine and then back at Kyle. “They were testing your internal control systems to see if any red flags would be raised. When there weren’t, they struck.”
Kyle nodded. “That’s what my CFO said.”
“We’ll need to talk to him.”
“Certainly.”
Jade turned to McClaine. “Any luck tracing the money?”
“Your local brethren are working on it. Nothing, yet.”
To Kyle, Jade said: “Talk to me about your systems.”
“I’ll have you speak with my IT director. He will be able to help you much better than I could.”
Do only men work for you?
“Agent Harrington,” Kyle said, “as I told the detective,” nodding at McClaine, “it’s imperative that we keep this quiet. I don’t want to spook our investors. We’re about to embark on raising our largest fund ever. In my business, trust is everything.”
“I understand.”
Kyle rose, a signal for them to leave.
Jade stayed seated. “I wasn’t finished.”
Kyle hesitated before returning to her chair.
“We need a copy of your financial records for the last year. And I want to interview everyone in your accounting department.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I’ll also need copies of your personal financial records during that period.”
For the first time, the confident smile faltered, hardened. “I’m the victim here.”
“Standard procedure,” McClaine reassured her.
“To rule me out. I get it. Are we finished?”
Jade stood. “Now, I’m finished.”
“Now . . . I’ll show you out.” Kyle strode toward the door, again not waiting to see if they followed.
Back out front, she spoke to the receptionist, and turned back to them. “Kevin will make arrangements for you to talk to everyone.” She shook their hands again. “I would appreciate your locating my clients’ money as soon as possible, and bringing the criminals to justice.”
“We’ll do our best,” McClaine said.
Kyle turned toward her office and then back as if realizing something. “Agent Harrington, when are you going back to DC?”
“Tomorrow. Why?”
“Would the two of you like to join me tonight for a Storm game?”
“We don’t have time,” Jade said.
From McClaine: “What time’s the game?”
“Seven.”
“We should be finished with our interviews by then,” he said.
“Perfect.”
“But I can’t make it,” he said.
Jade gave him a sharp glance.
Kyle’s penetrating gaze turned to Jade. “When was the last time you took in a WNBA game?”
When I was in the league. “It’s been a while.”
“Splendid. Then, you must come.”
She didn’t particularly like how McClaine set her up. Or the look that passed between him and Kyle. Jade should spend the evening drafting interview reports and preparing for her early-morning flight tomorrow.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Fairfax, Virginia
Mark Merritt was late. Since running in the hallways was forbidden, he half-ran, half-walked down the empty school corridor, headed to his last class of the day. His homewor
k was unfinished, but he’d worry about that when he got there. He couldn’t be late. For every minute late, the teacher forced you to write a one-page essay. Mark didn’t like to write. There was little he liked about school lately.
Almost there. His class was on the second floor, first classroom on the right.
He was going to make it.
As he passed by the stairwell, with his foot almost on the first step, the top of his t-shirt sliced against his throat. He couldn’t swallow. The person who’d grabbed him from behind pulled him backward. He tripped over an outstretched foot, his feet leaving the floor. He heard laughter. His head banged against the linoleum, an instantaneous explosion of pain followed by tiny stars.
That hurt.
He was dragged under the stairs.
Touching the back of his head, he felt a bump forming. He opened his eyes and saw three people. They looked like boys, but their heads blocked out the overhead lighting so he couldn’t see their faces. It was dark. Without warning, he felt an intense pain in his side. He cried out.
Someone kicked him again. “Shut up!”
The now-familiar pain inflicted on his other side.
Something wet and unpleasant hit him in the face and started trailing down his cheek. He hoped it wasn’t spit.
“You’re so lame.”
“Dork.”
“Fag.”
Each utterance, followed by a kick, composed an off-beat rhythm to their attack. The boys continued to converse.
He was not invited to participate.
“Retard.”
“You take up space.”
“Wasted oxygen.”
“Everybody hates you.”
“Everyone wishes you were dead.”
“Why don’t you go choke on some pills like your cousin?”
Someone crouched beside him. “Your dad should mind his own business.” Mark thought he recognized the voice. Losing consciousness, he couldn’t process it.
He was punched in the face.
Whimpering, he tasted something like metal. Blood. His tongue touched the top of a tooth where it met his gums. It was loose.
He tried to raise his arms, but to no avail. The punching and kicking continued. He gave up. He lay still, praying it would end soon.