by J. L. Brown
His producer signaled Cole: five seconds left.
“Well, everyone, we’ve run out of time. This is Cole Brennan protecting your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Join us again tomorrow for ‘The Conservative Voice.’”
He stood.
“That’s a wrap.”
He left the studio. “Great show, Mr. Brennan,” said several of his young employees. He ignored them as he sauntered down the hall to his spacious office.
Cole sunk into the leather executive chair behind his desk and spun to remove a cigarette from the humidor on the credenza behind him. He didn’t light it because of the stupid regulations that governed the workplace. How could the government tell him he couldn’t smoke in his own office?
He scanned the walls lined with pictures of him with former Republican presidents, the current Senate minority leader and Speaker of the House, every important new person in the conservative establishment, and celebrities like Clint Eastwood and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Most celebrities were Socialists, but some, like Clint and Arnold, weren’t afraid to come out of the closet and stand up for American conservative values.
His eyes rested on the photograph of his hero, former President Ronald Reagan. Well, he was trying to “win one for the Gipper,” all right. Next, he settled on a picture he had taken with singer Gloria Estefan. Unlike some conservatives who preached family values, but lived quite the opposite, Cole believed in them and had never cheated on his wife. The singer was beautiful and charming, though. He smiled at the memory of meeting her.
Cole’s eyes landed on a photograph of himself with President Richard Ellison. He scowled and shook his head. Ellison needed to get with the program. He hit the speed-dial button for the White House residence.
The president came on the line. “This better be good.”
“We need to meet.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“About what?”
“The game plan.”
“This isn’t a damn football game.” Ellison exhaled. “Never mind. When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll leave instructions with your secretary.”
Cole hung up, grabbed his jacket, and put it on over his pale green polo shirt. Ellison didn’t like being told what to do, but so what. Ellison owed Cole. Cole was the kingmaker. With the support of his millions of listeners, and his influence on the financiers of Republican candidates, he put Ellison in office. And he could take him out. Ellison sometimes forgot that.
He should take the stairs from the third floor, but he had never met an elevator he didn’t like. Yes, he needed to lose a few pounds—okay, maybe a hundred—but he was, as they say, fat and happy. Except when he thought about Ellison.
As the elevator car descended, Cole thought about ways to eradicate income inequality from the nation’s political discourse. The country had more important issues to address.
Correction: more important conservative issues.
CHAPTER FIVE
Arlington, Virginia
“What’s that noise?” Jade’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Ethan Lawson, said through the cell phone. “What are you doing?”
Jade glanced down at her gray Stanford basketball shorts and her black sports bra. The sweat glistened on her triceps and flat stomach. She stopped dancing.
“Nothing,” she said, muting “Holiday” by Madonna.
He hesitated. “Okay . . . I hope you’ve been enjoying your vacation.”
She looked around the living room of her two-story Arlington townhouse. Her collection of ‘70s and ‘80s albums were spread over the hardwood floor. A stack of books she planned to read this week towered high on the coffee table. She normally didn’t have time for her favorite things.
“It’s a staycation, and it hasn’t started yet.”
“It’s already over, I’m afraid.”
She sat on the sofa. “What happened?”
“The Pittsburgh Police Department needs a consult on the murder of a local radio personality. You are it. I’ve booked you and Merritt on a flight out of Dulles. You leave in three hours.” He hung up.
She moved to the kitchen where Card, her cocoa-colored cat, squatted, attacking the Purina ONE in his bowl, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Card was short for Cardinal, the nickname of her alma mater.
Jade wasn’t close to a lot of people, but she loved this cat.
She picked him up and stared into his eyes.
“Sorry to interrupt our vacation, but I need to go. I’ll call your girlfriend to look after you while I’m gone.”
She gave him a squeeze and a kiss and set him down. He rushed back to his bowl to resume eating, as if he had never been interrupted. Jade tried not to take it personally.
She called as she left the kitchen.
“You rang?” said a female voice, sleepy, playful.
“I need you to check on him.”
“Card?” Zoe, her best friend, asked.
“Just for a few days.”
“You owe me one.”
The sudden silence indicated she had hung up.
CHAPTER SIX
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
President Richard Ellison settled into his driving stance. Everyone around him remained library-quiet as he twisted his hips and raised his golf club high overhead. The whacking sound as the club met its target at the wrong angle was followed by the cracking sound of the ball slicing to the right and into the trees. A high-pitched squeal emitted from behind the president. The sound seemed incongruous with the big body from which it came.
Laughing, Cole Brennan said, “You can’t drive worth a shit, Richard.”
The rest of the foursome, Senator Eric Hampton and Representative Howard Bell, remained stoic as Ellison walked off the tee.
Cole swaggered up, placed the ball on the tee, and swung. The sound was true, and the ball sailed straight down the fairway.
Hampton and Bell took off in one cart. The president folded his tall, lanky frame into the passenger side, next to Cole. As he drove, Cole marveled at the championship golf course of Andrews Air Force base on this lovely spring day, basking in its military presence: the servicemen in uniform, the flags, order.
The Secret Service followed them in a cart at a discreet distance.
Ellison remained silent.
The president had the lean, sinewy build and handsome, rugged, weather-lined face of a cowboy. What one would expect of a man from Wyoming. Still sporting his tan, despite his many years in Washington, Ellison’s lined forehead illustrated his troubles. With the country’s deficit problems and the rising tensions with China, who could blame him?
Cole regarded the president. “Richard, I’m glad you sliced the ball again, because I needed a little word with you. One on one.”
Ellison continued to stare through the cart’s windshield.
Cole cleared his throat. “Even though this is an election year, I feel you’re straying off the reservation.”
“Get to the point.” Ellison’s Wyoming drawl was more pronounced when he was irritated.
“Okay, then. You need to stop talking about this left-wing income-inequality bullshit. Why do we always let the other side frame the political discussion? The rich get richer, because they work harder. They deserve to keep the spoils from their efforts. I never saw my dad growing up. He worked on Wall Street. He worked all the time to provide his family a better way of life. He doesn’t owe anyone anything.”
“Interesting word choice, Cole. ‘Spoils’ means plunder, taken from an enemy in a war or from a victim in a robbery. Don’t say that in public or you’ll give some activists the ammunition to resurrect the ‘Occupy Wall Street’ movement.”
“Cut the shit, Richard. You know you’re not my first choice, but you were the only alternative at the time. None of the wingnuts could win the general election. But I put you in office, and I can take you out.”
“Are you threatening the president of the Unit
ed States?”
Cole realized he needed to tone it down. He stole a glance at the Secret Service men in their cart. One of them may have been a woman, but he wasn’t sure. “I know you’re tired of Washington and want to retire to your ranch, but we need you for four more years. This election is bigger than you and me. The future of our country depends on you.”
“I’d stop pointing your finger at me if I were you.”
Cole dropped his hand back on the steering wheel. “No more income-inequality BS. Your constituents don’t care about it.”
“They should.”
“What’re you going to do? Raise taxes on the rich? Increase the federal minimum wage? Switch parties?”
The president remained silent.
“Listen to me. I need you to be vocal in your support of pro-life issues. At least two justices will be named to the Court next term, and we’ll finally be able to overturn Roe v. Wade. We’re close on passing ‘personhood amendments’ in Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Montana, and Colorado. Why can’t you be more like Hampton?” Cole smiled and waved at Senator Hampton standing near the green. The senator returned the wave. “Richard, if you don’t get with the program, I swear I’ll support someone else.”
“Who? The uncontrollable billionaire businesswoman? The Libertarian wingnut? Or the governor who has destroyed his state, but has the saving grace of being a minority?” He laughed. “Although he doesn’t seem to remember he’s a minority.”
The knuckles on Cole’s hand were white against the black steering wheel. He seethed inside, afraid to release his grip. He stopped the cart at the edge of the fairway.
Ellison was staring at him. “Face it, Cole, you’re stuck with me.”
Cole released his tight grip, glanced at Ellison, and then into the trees where the president’s ball had disappeared. “This is your stop.”
The president paused before alighting from the cart, turning to face Cole. “You’re right. This election is bigger than you and I. Maybe we should cease pushing the social issues and focus on important things. Like the deficit and entitlements.” Ellison’s jaw clenched. “By the way, I’m a pretty good hunter. Next time, why don’t we go hunting? I don’t miss.”
Ellison stepped out of the cart to hunt for his golf ball.
“Ellison,” Cole said. He waited for the president to turn around. “Don’t make me run.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Miami Gardens, Florida
“I am committed to helping the poor and the disenfranchised realize the American Dream. Yes, we will extend a hand in need, but the American ideal will not be handed to you on a silver platter. You must earn it.”
Whitney scanned the huge crowd at Sun Life Stadium, home of the Miami Dolphins and the University of Miami Hurricanes football team.
“Welfare is not a permanent solution. All of us must take personal responsibility for our own lives. That’s the best way to strengthen our families, our communities, and our nation. Under the Fairchild administration, workfare programs will be created to help welfare recipients receive the training they need to facilitate their return to the workforce.
“My administration will not forget that creating legislation is the fundamental job of Congress. It’s appalling to me that every year this body is creating fewer and fewer laws. The role of lawmakers seems to have been forgotten among all the politics. Our major issues must be resolved, and the journey will not be easy. But as John F. Kennedy once said, ‘Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future.’
“Ladies and gentlemen, as your president, I will accept the responsibility of restoring the United States of America to a country we can be proud of once again. A nation respected and admired by every other nation as the greatest and most powerful on earth.”
The crowd stood and applauded. Whitney waved in its direction and left the podium. She shook hands with people lined up on either side of the red carpet laid down for the occasion. The hot Florida sun pressed down on her in her cream blouse and navy-blue suit. After posing for pictures, she walked into the coolness of the large, cavernous hallway of the stadium where her advance team waited. Sarah, her body woman, handed her a bottle of water.
Whitney gave her a grateful nod, took a long sip, and turned to her campaign manager, Ted Bowling.
“That seemed to go well.”
Ted shook his head. “Well? Better than well . . . that was great! You were great!”
Ted had the remarkable ability to cough and talk at the same time. He lit a cigarette, and lifted his chin to exhale.
“They loved you! And your hair looked fabulous. The way the wind teased it, . . . it was majestic. Magnificent. We’ll poll it, but I think you should wear your hair down from now on.”
“And, perhaps, the speech resonated with them as well.”
Ted missed the rebuke. He touched her elbow.
“We need to get going. Xavi is meeting us at the next stop.” Xavier “Xavi” Fernandez was the Independent governor of Florida.
They walked past the player locker rooms and headed outside to a Lincoln Town Car. Ted took a final puff on his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, and began to grind it with the ball of his shoe.
Whitney stopped. “Pick that up.”
Ted paused in mid-grind and bent to retrieve it.
Whitney turned and smiled and waved to the people seeking one last glimpse of her before ducking into the car. Ted climbed in the other side. She patted her forehead with a handkerchief and smoothed her hair before leaning her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes.
Her cell phone rang. She eyed the digital display before hitting the button. “Yes?”
“Senator? Landon. Senator Sampson called. He has a proposition for you.”
“Did he tell you what it is?”
“No, but he wants to meet with you first thing when you get back from your trip.”
“Anything else?”
“We’re getting calls.”
“About my speech?”
“A lot of people aren’t too happy with the workfare program idea. Some are complaining you sound like a Republican.”
“Hillary Clinton once said, ‘I have a conservative mind and a liberal heart. I fight for change within the system.’”
“What do you want me to tell Sampson?”
“Tell Sean to set up a meeting.” Sean was Whitney’s receptionist and scheduler.
“Yes, Senator.”
She hung up.
“What did Mr. Perfect want?” Ted asked.
“Not now, Ted.”
“As you wish. Here are the talking points for your meeting with Xavi.” He started to hand her a sheet of paper.
Whitney raised her hand to ward him off. “Give me a minute.”
She turned from him and gazed out the window at the bleak landscape. Florida had broken a record for its number of days without rain. The land was dry, everything brittle. Scientists attributed the lack of rain to global warming. She needed to develop a centrist global warming message for her platform.
As she continued to gaze out the window, she wondered, What was Senator Sampson up to now?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Pittsburg Police Lieutenant John Cooper held the door for Jade and fellow special agent, Christian Merritt, as they entered Angelo’s. It was an Italian restaurant in the Golden Triangle, Pittsburgh’s downtown center.
Cooper, in his late forties, had an almost transparent complexion and a slight paunch. He nodded at the hostess.
“We’re looking around.”
She smiled and they headed toward a table close to the entrance.
“The group sat at this table. Sells sat here.” He put his hands on the back of a chair facing the front of the restaurant.
Jade removed a red peanut M&M from the small bag she kept in her gray slacks and slipped
it into her mouth. She glanced through the window.
“The UNSUB must have been watching him through the window.” She scanned the restaurant, eying the waitstaff. “Did you check out all the employees, Lieutenant?”
Cooper stared at her longer than appropriate. Jade, accustomed to stares, ignored it.
He found his voice. “Uh . . . , call me Coop. My friends do.”
Was he blushing?
“Yes, we did,” Cooper continued. “They were either working or had an alibi.”
“Were the alibis verified?” Jade asked. “Corroborated by others?”
“Of course,” Cooper said, his words clipped.
Christian, his hair cut military-short, crossed his arms in front of his muscular chest. “What was the radio show about?”
“The rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer.” Cooper shrugged. “I’m not sure why that’s news to anyone.”
“What about the callers that night?” Christian asked. “Any that caught your attention?”
“None, yet, but we’re still checking. Most of them weren’t too happy with the topic of the show. Heck, Sells didn’t seem to want to talk about it, either. He was a pretty big deal around here. He was singlehandedly trying to revive conservative talk radio in Pittsburgh. Could’ve made some enemies along the way. After dinner, he told everyone he needed to use the john and to order another round of beers. He never returned.” He cocked his head. “This way.” He led them toward the back. “The restaurant doesn’t have its own restrooms, so customers use the ones in the building.”
He held the door open to a hallway and turned right. They arrived at the bathroom at the end of a long hall. Cooper knocked on the door and peeked in.
“Anyone here?” He motioned for Jade and Christian to follow. “We know Sells used the bathroom. We found a partial print on the inside door handle and a handprint on the wall over the urinal. His co-workers said he was drunk. We figured he needed the wall for support. No prints on the faucet; it’s automatic.”