Rule of Law

by J. L. Brown

  Attending the event were athletes, entertainers, diplomats, businessmen, and fellow politicians. After a four-course meal that showcased cuisine from different geographical regions of the United States, an up-and-coming band from Fairfax County, Virginia—which has a large Thai community—played a variety of Thai and American music. From her vantage point at the center of the raised table, Whitney enjoyed a decaf coffee as the prime minister rose to go dance with his wife.

  She wished Grayson were here.

  In this room, presidents such as Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy had lain in repose, children of presidents had been married, and significant legislation such as the Civil Rights Act of 1964 had been signed. But when Whitney moved in, she thought this room would be perfect for dancing. She’d replaced the carpet installed by her predecessor with hardwood floors. The walls were repainted a stone color, the gold floor-to-ceiling draperies replaced with light blue ones. A gigantic mirror hung over the fireplace next to a portrait of Martha Washington.

  Whitney spotted Senator Eric Hampton dancing stiffly with his wife. She had read once that how a man danced is how he made love. If that were so, she could only assume watching him make love would be a painful experience. During the planning for this event, she’d told Sasha to make sure that he and Xavi were seated at tables on opposite sides of the room.

  Sasha walked over from her table on the outer edges, and bent down to whisper in Whitney’s ear. “The poll’s in.”

  “And?”

  “Fifty-six percent in favor.”

  Whitney smiled and did a fist pump under the table, her actions obscured by the table cloth. A nationwide poll on her income-equality legislation taken today showed the public now favored it by a slight majority, a huge improvement over its polling in the high teens earlier this spring. The mood on the Hill had shifted dramatically as well. Xavi had lived up to his end of the bargain, crisscrossing the country touting the legislation as if he had drafted it himself.

  More power to him.

  If that’s what it took to get it passed, then so be it. With passage more likely, the violent protests had subsided. And the media had moved on to other things.

  The band segued into “Wobble” by V.I.C.

  Whitney clapped. “I love this song. Let’s dance.”

  Sasha looked out on the dance floor, and shook her head firmly. “I’m not dancing with you. Besides, there’s something else I need to tell you.”

  “It can wait. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Whitney pulled her down the few stairs to join the front of the line dance.

  Whitney hadn’t danced since the Inaugural balls, but the rust wore off quickly. Next to her, Sasha dropped it down and wobbled lower than anyone else.

  After the song, Sasha waited for Whitney to settle in her seat, and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Now, I really need to tell you something.”

  Whitney reached for her glass of water. “What now?”

  “FOX News is reporting that the reason you lived with your aunt for a year is because you were an unwed pregnant teenager and had a baby. No wonder you and the First Gentleman live apart. He’s mad about your having a baby out of wedlock.”

  Whitney set the glass on the table with a slight tremor in her hand.

  “Everyone wants to know, Madam President.”

  “Know what?”

  “The number-one trending hashtag on Twitter. #WheresTheBaby.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

  Washington, DC

  On the way to work, Jade had stopped by the 7-Eleven where Andrew Huffman’s body had been found to purchase a big bag of peanut M&Ms. The store had reopened the afternoon after the murder. Life goes on. She slipped an M&M into her mouth and stuffed the bag in her center drawer.

  Mid-morning, she looked up from the file she was reviewing at Christian’s knock.

  “Hey,” he said, as he leaned against the door frame. Since returning to the team, Christian had been working to the point of exhaustion.

  “Get some sleep.”

  “I can’t. I keep thinking about Andrew Huffman. That could’ve been Mark.”

  She knew he didn’t need comfort. He wanted to solve this case. “What’s up?”

  “I got a hit on the blood.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Nicholas Campbell.”

  It took a few seconds for the information to click into place. “The second victim?” Jade straightened in her chair. “What the—?”

  He sat across from her. “Not just blood. Other bodily fluids were found on the sheets.”

  “Semen?”

  Christian handed her a file. “Yes.” He picked up a basketball paperweight on her desk. “And on the bedspread. On the carpet. The wall.”

  “On the wall?” She shook her head in disbelief or disgust. She wasn’t sure which. Or both. “And they’re sure it wasn’t Tyler’s?”

  He nodded, averting his eyes.

  She sat back. “You think he was raped.”

  He tossed the paperweight back and forth between his hands. “Or, maybe he was . . . gay.”

  She banged her palm on the table. “How did Fairfax miss this?”

  Christian set the paperweight back on the desk. “I don’t know. Chutimant seemed really sharp.”

  She leaned forward and moved the paperweight to its original position. “Let’s have another talk with Matt.”

  *

  “Was Tyler close friends with anyone on the team? Did he have a best friend? Or a special friend?”

  Matt Thompson scowled. “Special friend? What does that mean? I don’t think he had a lot of friends. But Jenny would know better. He didn’t talk about his teammates. At least, to me.”

  He sat across from Christian and her in the same interrogation room at the FBI. Same lawyer.

  Thompson didn’t seem to know what had occurred in his son’s bedroom. She thought about how to broach the subject now.

  “What about his room?”

  “What about it?”

  “You mentioned the last time we spoke that Jenny spent hours on his gravesite. Does she ever sit in there? In his room?”

  A vigorous shake of the head. “Neither of us can go in there.”

  She began carefully. “Mr. Thompson, did Tyler ever have someone come over? Spend the night?”

  “No. Like I said, I don’t think he had a lot of friends. Why? Why do you keep asking about this?”

  “We found semen in your son’s bedroom.”

  He blinked. Thompson rose, making his chair tip to the floor. The impact was loud in the quiet room. “Wh— what did you say?”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Thompson.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  Jade gestured to the space where his chair had been. “Please.”

  He retrieved the chair and sat.

  “We believe your son had sexual intercourse in his room.”

  “And you’re trying to find out—”

  “The semen belonged to Nicholas Campbell.”

  He started to rise again, but his attorney placed a hand on Thompson’s forearm, restraining him. “None of this is making sense. And what? Are you thinking he was gay?”

  “Possibly,” she said. More quietly, “Or raped.”

  Matt Thompson’s eyes darted around the room with nowhere to land. She gave him a moment to process what he’d just heard. If he already knew this information about Tyler, he deserved an Academy award.

  Christian looked up from his notebook, his eyes anguished. “Did you kill those kids, Matt?”

  Thompson stared back at him, unflinching. “No, I did not.” His eyes pleaded. “You know me, man.”

  “Mr. Thompson.” Jade waited for him to look at her. “Would you be willing to take a polygraph test to prove it?”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

  Washington, DC

  Jade, Pat, Christian, Max, Dante, and Micah were back in the same conference room at the Bureau discussing a su
rveillance plan for William Chaney-Frost and Sam Carter.

  They never had celebrated the resolution of the cybertheft case. There hadn’t been time.

  Max pushed up his glasses. “Are you more concerned that William will get killed or that he’s the killer?”

  Jade paused. “Either we’re going to protect him or we’re going to arrest him.”

  “Or both.” Pat typed on her computer. “He doesn’t seem too concerned about getting whacked himself.”

  “I still say this is a waste of time,” Dante said.

  “You’re welcome to leave,” Jade said.

  Dante remained in his seat.

  She rested her forearms on the table. “I believe this is what we need to do to catch this killer. Does anyone have a better idea?”

  She looked at each of them in turn.

  No one said anything.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Crickets.”

  “I think we should shadow Carter,” Christian said.

  “And William,” said Micah.

  The team spent the rest of the afternoon planning the Carter-Chaney operation.

  At one point, Christian threw his pen onto his notebook. “Dante might be right for once. This could be a waste of time.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dante said.

  “I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Jade said. “Especially with kids’ lives at stake.”

  Christian shook his head. “You’re right. But how long can we protect these kids, though?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Or until Finance tells us to stop,” Pat said, typing.

  Max, always soft-spoken, said, “This vigilante will not stop until he has accomplished his mission.” The other agents quieted and turned to him. “If there are any other bullies out there that victimized the Thompson boy, their lives are in danger.”

  “Then, we can’t stop until we’ve accomplished our mission,” Jade said. “Dante, you and Micah shadow William.”

  Dante stood and looked at Micah. “Let’s go.”

  Micah remained seated. “I want to stay here with Jade.”

  Dante laughed. “What? You have a thing for the boss?”

  “Shut up, Dante,” Jade said.

  “I just want to learn from the best,” Micah said.

  Dante stopped smiling, his expression almost hurt.

  Micah was right. He was a junior agent assigned to her. She had an obligation to teach him all she could. She also thought it would be good for Christian and Dante to work together. She looked at Christian. “Go with Dante.”

  Christian’s eyes questioned hers, as he pushed back from the table. “Sure.”

  Dante glanced at Micah as he followed Christian to the door, humming the chorus to “When a Man Loves a Woman.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

  Fairfax, Virginia

  Jade drummed her fingers on top of the door near the driver’s side-view mirror. Her open window let in the mild night air, the temperature breaking after another scorching summer day. “How long does an AAU basketball practice take?”

  Micah glanced over at her. “I would think you should know.”

  “The time seemed to go faster when I played.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  Jade shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “What do you do to fill that void?”

  Those eyes. “I work.”

  He got the hint. He scrunched down in his seat. “Thompson passed. What now?”

  The results from Thompson’s polygraph had come through that morning. Unless he was a gifted actor or found a way to cheat the test, Matt Thompson was innocent of the murders of Zach Rawlins, Nicholas Campbell, Joshua Stewart, and Andrew Huffman.

  “Back to square one.”

  They returned their gaze to the building just as a bunch of tall boys walked out of the gym.

  “I guess practice is over,” Micah said. “Why didn’t you want to shadow William?”

  Jade wasn’t sure herself. “Wanted to check this kid out myself.”

  One of the kids headed toward a used Volvo. He waved goodbye to his teammates, glanced around the parking lot, and then opened his car door. The boy was handsome. With a skin tone the color of sand, he could pass for Caucasian at this time of night and at this distance.

  They were parked several rows away from the Volvo.

  “That was odd,” Micah said. “What was he looking for?”

  The Volvo entered the line of cars to exit the parking lot. She put her car in reverse, and joined the line as well, several cars behind the Volvo.

  From the lot, they followed Sam Carter at a discreet distance. The kid drove perfectly, using his turn signal when appropriate, stopping at every stop sign without rolling, demonstrating all the Virginia DMV rules to perfection. His driver’s ed teacher would be proud.

  He parked on the street in front of his parents’ house. Jade parked two blocks away. The tall, lanky kid sauntered up the driveway and disappeared into the house.

  Two hours later, he hadn’t reappeared.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Sean buzzed her. “Madam President, someone is here to see you.”

  “Someone, Sean? Really!”

  He had already hung up.

  Whitney was surprised. Sean’s professionalism was normally impeccable. She replaced the handset a little harder than necessary.

  Before the interruption, she had been gloating. Privately. Earlier that day, she had invited a reticent Senator Eric Hampton to the Briefing Room as a sponsor of the New New Deal Coalition legislation. He wouldn’t be able to resist a photo op with her. Or, more accurately, a photo op televised to a nationwide audience.

  He hadn’t disappointed her. He accepted.

  One of the doors to the Oval Office opened. She started to rise, still not understanding—and disturbed—that Sean hadn’t announced her guest according to protocol.

  Wearing a gray business suit, white shirt with a spread collar, black silk tie, and carrying a matching gray fedora hat, her husband walked in with one arm behind his back.

  “Grayson?” she asked, shocked.

  She came around her desk and met him halfway. He whipped his arm in front of him. Flowers. Lilies. Her favorite.

  She accepted the bouquet, breathing in the sweet, heavy aroma. “What is this? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? It’s not on the schedule.”

  “Schedule, schmedule. We’ve been living according to schedules for too long, my darling. Surprise!”

  He hugged her. She breathed in his familiar scent.

  “I’m going to kill Sean.” She pulled away slightly. “You’re smiling, so the kids must be okay. Why are you here?”

  “To see you. Can’t I surprise my wife?”

  “I have never known you to do anything without a reason. How long will you be visiting?”

  “It’s not a visit.” He sat, crossed his legs, and draped both arms over the top of the sofa. “I’m here to stay.”

  “Stay?”

  “I’ve heard about the rumors. About the baby. And your aunt.”

  Whitney’s heart dropped. She was not ready to have this conversation. “I’ve been meaning—”

  “I turned over the reins of Fairchild Industries to my younger brother for the duration of your presidency. Whether that’s four years or eight. I realized that my family needs me. My immediate family. That you need me. You’re more important to me than the business.”

  Whitney was still trying to comprehend this turn of events. “Are you sick?”

  He laughed. “No. I’m in perfect health.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “What the First Ladies did before me. Get involved in causes. Maybe take up golf.”

  “Golf?”

  She was conflicted. The joy of him living with her was offset by the fact that they hadn’t lived together for years, not since Whitney left Missouri to join
the United States Congress.

  She was used to living alone.

  Sean entered carrying a vase, two glasses, and a bottle. “Trade.”

  He handed her the Taittinger and the glasses and took the flowers from her. He arranged them in the vase on an end table.

  When he finished, he said, “I’ve cleared your schedule for the next hour.”

  He gave her a sly smile and left.

  Grayson reached for the bottle.

  “Wait,” she said.

  She sat next to him, took his hand, and stared into his eyes. “I need to tell you something.”

  He searched her face. “Aren’t you happy?”

  “I am,” she said. “I’m glad you’ll be here. In fact, I’ll love it. To share this”—she motioned with her hand to take in the room, the Oval Office, her presidency—“with you. It’s not about that. It’s about Landon.”

  “Landon?”

  “Open the champagne. This may take a while.”

  *

  Grayson spooned ice cream into her mouth. “You need to tell the kids at some point.”

  “I know.”

  Whitney tasted his strawberry ice cream, for once not caring about her weight or that she was eating after eight p.m. Food consumed after eight inevitably stuck to her hips forever.

  It was now after nine.

  She sat on a stool at a stainless-steel table in the kitchen on the lower level of the White House. She had dismissed the remaining kitchen staff. She didn’t come down here often, the eeriness unsettling in such a large empty space late at night.

  Grayson sat on a counter, his ankles crossed. He had changed into jeans and a t-shirt. His sandals lay stacked on the floor beneath him, where he had kicked them off earlier.

  He finished the rest of the ice cream, jumped off the counter, and placed his bowl in the massive industrial sink.

  Sitting on a stool beside her, he gently took the spoon from her hand. He scooped up the last of her mint chocolate chip ice cream and slipped it between her lips.