Rule of Law

by J. L. Brown

  Fairfax, Virginia

  “It’s ten o’clock in the morning,” Christian said.

  “So?” Jade pushed open the door to The Stratford Arms, a bar a few miles from Christian’s house. Near a strip mall, the English-style pub was a standalone building surrounded by its own parking lot.

  The inside was dark. Pictures of current and former members of the royal family, prime ministers, English celebrities, pennants of all the English Premier League teams, and English quotes and slogans covered almost every inch of the dark brown, wood-paneled walls.

  Christian cocked his head. “Please, don’t tell me it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  “Then pretend we’re in Prague.”

  He shrugged. “Never been. As good a place as any, though.”

  The place was understandably empty, since most normal people were at work. With no one behind the bar, she called out, “Hello?”

  A female bartender slammed through the swinging saloon doors, wiping her hands with a white towel. “May I help you?”

  Jade pointed to the tap, as she and Christian grabbed stools at the bar. “Two Guinnesses.”

  “And a shot,” he added.

  “You came around quickly.” Jade signaled a peace sign to the bartender. “Two shots. Of whiskey.”

  The bartender set her palms on the bar, taking in the two of them. “Rough day already?”

  “Something like that,” Christian mumbled.

  “Then, I’ll make it a double.” She pushed away from the bar. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

  “My kind of woman,” Jade said, turning to Christian. “I thought it was too early.”

  “Well . . . since we’re here.”

  The bartender placed their drinks in front of them. Jade picked up her pint-size glass and motioned for Christian to do the same. “To Mark.”

  Christian’s jaw tensed. He looked down for a moment and back at her. “To Mark.”

  They clinked glasses, and each took a gulp. They picked up their shot glasses and drained the whiskey.

  She grimaced at the bitter, unfamiliar burn. “This was not a good idea.”

  “Actually,” he said, “it’s the best idea you’ve had this year.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she said, punching his shoulder harder than intended.

  “Ouch.”

  The bartender stood a few feet away, wiping pint glasses. Christian twirled his finger for another round.

  They sipped their beers in silence, as the bartender placed another beer and shot in front of them.

  In a quiet voice, he said, “I want to kill them.”

  She placed her hand on his arm, and stared into his anguished, angry eyes.

  “We’ll find out who did this.”

  “I’m an FBI agent,” he said, “sworn to protect and defend the United States of America.” He rubbed his eyes, hard, as if he no longer wanted to see. “And I can’t even protect my own son.” He stared at his glass. “Amanda told me that when Mark gets home from school, he runs to the bathroom. Do you know why?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because he holds in his pee all day long, too afraid to use the bathrooms at school.” He took another sip of beer. “He flinches every time he receives a text message.”

  “He’s lying about not knowing who did this to him.” She gulped another swig of beer. “I think it has something to do with you.”

  “He’s afraid I’ll kick their asses if I find out their names. It’s not like back in the day. If another student hit you, you’d hit him back. Today, you’d get in trouble for that. Suspended, because you’re trying to defend yourself. Ridiculous.” He drained the second beer and signaled for a third. “How was Seattle?”

  Jade filled him in on the electronic theft at Kyle’s company. She didn’t mention the Storm game. Or the walk back to the hotel.

  “Could it have been an inside job?”

  “Not sure yet. We interviewed the accounting staff and those with access and authorization to make a transfer of that amount: the CFO, CTO, and Ky—the managing director. Could another insider have done it? Maybe. Haven’t had a chance to send my report to Cyber.”

  “Funny how you keep getting drawn back to Seattle. Ethan was in a funk while you were gone.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Maybe it had something to do with your threatening to leave the Bureau. Or your slamming the door on him.”

  Or maybe it had something to do with receiving a call from POTUS requesting my services by name.

  “Well,” she hiccupped, “he had it coming. I’m hungry. We should order some fish and chips or something.”

  “Going all-in on this English thing, eh?”

  She called their order down to the bartender, now at the end of the bar making calculations on a pad of paper.

  The bartender stopped writing. “We’re not serving lunch yet.”

  Jade leaned over the bar to look at her. The bartender hesitated and then put the pad down. She went into the kitchen, the doors swinging behind her.

  “Case in point,” Christian said. “Because you’re Jade Harrington, you don’t need to say a word for someone to do your bidding. You’re already a legend at the Bureau. Ethan doesn’t want to lose you. No matter what.” He motioned for her to pick up her refilled shot glass. “To the good guys!”

  “We usually save that toast for when we win a case.”

  “We’re going to win both of these.”

  Jade belched. “Excuse me.” She picked up her glass. “Both? Ethan says the bullying case isn’t our case.”

  “It is now.”

  “In that case . . . ” She twirled her finger for another round, as the bartender came back out to retrieve her writing pad. “Make it shots two,” she said to the bartender, holding up three fingers. “I mean two shots.”

  She snatched the first shot glass before the bartender placed it on the bar. Jade downed it, loving the burn as it went down. She grabbed the second shot glass and nodded at Christian’s first.

  “Catch up.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “Madam President, you might want to turn on the news,” Sasha said.

  Whitney gave her a questioning look, before turning on the television on the credenza in her study right off the Oval Office. Although the internal TV system in the White House showed CNN Headline News day and night, the TV in the study was normally tuned to MSNBC.

  “ABC,” Sasha said.

  On the screen, Judy Porter stood in front of an older house, one somehow familiar to Whitney. She moved closer to the TV.

  “Yes, Glenn, ABC News has been working on a feature about the president’s early years. We’ve been focusing on her aunt, Mary Churchill. President Fairchild has never spoken publicly about their relationship, or why she lived with her for a year during high school.”

  My God. That’s my aunt’s house.

  The reporter continued. “Churchill died at the age of forty-one, a year before the president was elected to her first term in the US House of Representatives.”

  Whitney stared at the house behind the reporter. The memories of her nine months there—repressed since her stay—assailed her in a way that was almost physical. Her aunt had been good to her. And there for her when her parents were not.

  “Interesting,” said Glenn, the anchorman.

  “It is, Glenn. We will continue to delve into this relationship and its impact on the president’s life.”

  “Thanks, Judy. And now to Robert in Glendale, Missouri.”

  The TV screen switched to a man in shirtsleeves standing on a road in a wooded area holding a microphone with ABC in big letters. “And that’s not the only mystery we’re trying to solve tonight, Glenn. Through our intensive investigative efforts, ABC News now believes that the death of US Representative Steven Barrett wasn’t an accident.

  “To remind our viewers, Congressman Barrett died in a one-car collision late one night
on this road”—he gestured behind him with his other arm—“in 2005. Soon thereafter, Missouri State Representative Whitney Fairchild ran in, and then won, the special election to replace him.”

  “Can you give us any details of what brought you to that conclusion?”

  “Not at this time, Glenn. We’ve turned over our investigative documents to the local police. We believe they will reopen the investigation into his death, and change the cause of death from an accident to murder.”

  “Thanks, Robert,” Glenn said. His expression turned serious. “It sounds as if anyone who stood in President Whitney Fairchild’s way didn’t have much time left in this world. Was it luck that propelled a state senator—and former housewife—to the highest office in the land? Or something else? We’ll talk about it after the break. Don’t go away.”

  Without turning around, Whitney waved her hand at Sasha. “Change it.”

  Whitney tried to still her heart. What was going on? She didn’t trust herself to move for fear her legs would fail her.

  Sasha tried to laugh it off. “There is no end to the media’s conspiracy theories.” When she didn’t respond, Sasha’s laugh subsided. “Madam President, is there something I should know?”

  Whitney still did not turn around. “Find Agent Harrington. I need to talk to her. Now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Arlington, Virginia

  Christian lumbered up the walkway to his house. His wife, Amanda, would not be happy. Jade watched and waited for him to open his front door before indicating that they could go.

  In the driver’s seat, Zoe was leaning forward watching him, too. “I know I’m not supposed to ask any questions, but why were the two of you getting drunk on a Wednesday morning? And, most importantly, why didn’t you call me to join you?”

  Jade turned to her. The best decision she had made this morning—contrary to what Christian had said—was realizing that she was too drunk to drive. She had called Zoe to come pick them up at the pub.

  Jade burped. “I’m. Not. Sure.”

  Zoe laughed and put the car in drive. The acceleration caught Jade by surprise. The back of her head bounced off the headrest. She cracked up laughing. Zoe glanced over at her before turning her attention back to the road.

  Mesmerized by the numerous colorful bracelets on Zoe’s arm, Jade stole a glance at her friend. Zoe’s hair stuck up all over the place. On purpose. Stopping at a traffic light, Zoe turned to her and smiled, brightening up the car’s interior.

  “You’re beautiful,” Jade said.

  Her best friend in college—and since—shook her head and laughed again. She turned on the radio.

  Jade started moving her head to the beat of the music. “Uh, uh.” She sang the first line of the song.

  Zoe stared at Jade, her mouth open. “You must be drunk.”

  “I. Think. You’re. Right.”

  As the Nelly song, “Hot In Herre” played, Jade sang and danced and tried to take her shirt off. Zoe laughed until she cried, trying to keep Jade’s shirt on with one hand while driving with the other. Eventually, after Jade promised not to undress, Zoe joined in.

  Windows down, they sang classic R&B songs at the top of their lungs and chair-danced, just like they did in college. Their own version of car karaoke.

  *

  Parked in front of the townhouse, Zoe glanced at Jade’s door. “I’m not carrying you in there.”

  Zoe, at five three, weighed no more than one-ten. At slightly over six feet, one hundred and sixty pounds, Jade towered over her.

  She uncharacteristically put an arm around Zoe, and they zigzagged into the house. Jade zeroed in on the Japanese journal on the sofa, open to the latest haiku she’d written. She grabbed it before Zoe could notice it and stuffed it under a cushion, before stumbling onto the couch, willing herself not to throw up.

  She hadn’t told Zoe about her poetry hobby.

  Zoe left and returned with a thin, worn blanket from the upstairs hall closet. When she bent over to lay the cover on her, Jade glimpsed a tattoo on Zoe’s chest.

  “What’s that?”

  Zoe glanced to where Jade pointed. “Oh. I got a new tattoo.”

  Jade peered closer, but the design became less focused rather than more. “It doesn’t look new.”

  “Because you’re drunk. Be right back.”

  She left again and came back with three Advil tablets and a glass of water. “Swallow.”

  “Thank. You.”

  Zoe strolled over to Jade’s bookcase. The books were arranged in alphabetical order and aligned at the edge, library style. “Next time you’re out of town, I’m going to rearrange these.”

  “Where’s my phone?” Jade had not checked her voicemail messages in Seattle. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  Zoe dug through Jade’s jacket, thrown in a heap in the foyer. She brought the phone to her.

  “I’m going to go,” Zoe said. “I need to get back to work. Eat something when you wake up. Call if you need me.”

  She headed for the front door.

  “Okay.” Jade navigated to her voicemail messages, an almost insurmountable task in her condition. She checked the screen. Ethan. Ethan. Ethan. She couldn’t talk to him drunk. She’d call him later.

  She frowned at a 206 number she didn’t recognize.

  It wasn’t McClaine. She didn’t think so, anyway. Pressing the voicemail icon and speakerphone, she placed the phone on the hardwood floor.

  “Hi. This is Kyle.” Jade’s eyes popped open. Too late to grab the phone to click it off. “I’m calling to make sure you arrived safely back in Washington, and to tell you how much I enjoyed last night. I’ll see you again soon.”

  She stared at the ceiling. Waiting. The front door had not opened. A creak from one of the wood panels on the floor in the foyer. The jangling of Zoe’s bracelets slowly drew closer, and then her face filled Jade’s line of vision.

  “Why is Kyle calling you?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Fairfax, Virginia

  “Man, I gotta go,” Joshua Stewart said.

  “We just tapped a new keg,” said the boy hosting the party who had been talking to Kaylee Taylor. “Come on, man. One more beer.”

  “Nah. I can’t. I’m leaving with my parents to go visit my aunt and uncle in Bel Air tomorrow morning. Early.”

  “Okay. Hold up. I’ll walk you out.” To Kaylee, he said, “Be right back.”

  The living room looked nothing like it did when Joshua arrived. All the furniture was pushed against the walls, including a lamp without its lampshade. The plush white carpet was now spotted with yellow splotches of draft beer.

  William Chaney-Frost surveyed the damage. “My parents are going to kill me.”

  “Yep.”

  Outside, they crossed the front porch and bounded down the stairs, stopping at the end of the walkway that bisected the yard.

  “Great party, man,” Joshua said, although he hadn’t had a good time at all. Same shit, same people. Staring down at the sidewalk, he kicked at a small rock wedged between the cracks. “Do you ever . . . think about T?”

  William glanced around the deserted suburban street. “Yeah. All the time.”

  “He wasn’t a bad guy.”

  “No.”

  “Sometimes, I can’t sleep. I have nightmares.”

  “Easy. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was. I—”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I think about what happened to Z and Nic . . . Aren’t you scared?”

  William put his hand on Joshua’s shoulder and squeezed. Comforting at first. Until it hurt. “No. It’s just a coincidence. Our boys were in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one’s coming after us. Take it easy.” He gave Joshua the killer smile that drove the girls at school crazy. William could have any girl he wanted. Must be nice. Another squeeze of his shoulder commanded Joshua’s attention. “Got it?”

  Joshua shrugged him away. “I
got it. What about that kid?”

  “He’s young. He’ll get over it.”

  “That lady FBI agent made me nervous.”

  “She made me hot.” William patted Joshua’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay. Trust me. Go have fun with your family. I’ll catch ya on Monday.”

  “Okay. Later.”

  Joshua ambled down the sidewalk in the direction of his house.

  “Hey!” William shouted. Joshua stopped and turned. “The cage is a go next weekend.”

  Joshua nodded without enthusiasm and resumed walking. He popped an Altoids mint in his mouth to cover up the beer smell in case his parents were still up. They usually didn’t wait up for him.

  The conversation with William hadn’t made him feel better. He’d been T’s best friend on the team, though that wasn’t saying much. They hadn’t been that close. But still. Joshua’s face grew warm remembering the shame he felt when he saw the pictures of T circulating on the Internet. Tyler didn’t deserve to be treated like that. No one did.

  A car started up behind him, but Joshua paid no attention to it. Probably one of his classmates who shouldn’t be driving. They had all seen the don’t-drink-and-drive videos.

  He didn’t agree with what his teammates had done to T. What he had done to T.

  I should’ve spoken up. Should’ve stopped it.

  Now, instead of the quasi-friendship with T, shame was his constant companion.

  He passed the last house on William’s street and kept walking. In the new subdivision, Joshua’s parents had built a house one street over on Cedarbrook Way, the lone house on the street so far. He stepped off the curb to cross. Still lost in his thoughts, he didn’t bother to look both ways.

  He didn’t hear the car coming.

  And then he did.

  It accelerated toward him, its headlights blinding.

  Joshua froze in the intense light.

  The driver saw him. Right? “Stop! You drunk ass!”

  He realized—too late—the car was not stopping and not going to swerve around him. The automobile hit him. As he propelled upward on impact, his coat caught on the emblem of the car’s hood. The coat ripped away. He continued to roll over the hood and up the windshield. And then he was airborne. His head smacked the asphalt. Every bone in his body felt broken. And he had a massive headache. A pool of liquid spread under his head, seeping into his shirt. He felt all these things, which meant—