Don't Speak Page 10

  “Are we keeping our base here or moving to Pittsburgh?” Christian asked.

  “Here for now until we determine how big this thing is and depending on what we find. You and I may head to Pittsburgh again to lend support to the local police force.” She stared briefly at each of them in turn, ending with Dante, whose gaze she held. “I shouldn’t need to say this, but I will. This case is highly sensitive. Do not discuss it with anyone outside of law enforcement, especially the media.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Washington, DC

  Her driver backed out the Lincoln Town Car in a cautious crawl. Whitney glanced over her shoulder at the reporters in front of the gate to her driveway. Most of them hesitated before moving aside grudgingly. One brave soul stood behind the car until the last second, unaware of how her driver felt about reporters.

  Whitney couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could read their lips.

  “Senator! Did you realize the bill would benefit your husband?”

  “How much money did you and your husband personally make from the bill?”

  “Are you going to drop out of the race?”

  She almost laughed at the silent movie playing out around her. The intense faces, the animated mouths.

  A man pounded his fist on the glass. She recoiled, despite the unlikelihood of his breaking through. Her driver put the car in drive. She caught his eye in the rearview mirror and nodded her thanks.

  He gave her a reassuring nod.

  Whitney disliked Washington’s love for “-gate” scandals. FOX News had been covering Graysongate nonstop since the story broke. The network demanded she quit the campaign. CNN was neutral. MSNBC supported her. Most of its commentators maintained that with all the legislation she considered, she had no way of knowing which particular bill would benefit her husband. A congressional ethics investigation was underway, and she wondered how long it would be until she received a subpoena.

  Any momentum she had been building in the polls had stopped.

  Her cell phone rang. She checked the screen. Her son.

  “Mom!”

  “Chandler, this is a nice surprise.”

  “I’m checking to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I am. Why?”

  “Because we’re getting harassed, Mom. Emma’s being followed around campus. The press is following me here like I’m on The Voice. And I saw on the news a crowd protesting in front of Dad’s company.”

  Whitney’s heart dropped. “Is Emma okay? Are you okay?”

  “She’s dealing with it like the rest of us. We’re tough. Like you. Why do they call it Graysongate? Can’t they be more original?”

  “The media are often as original as Hollywood.”

  “Like Fast & Furious? How many sequels can you make? Well, I wanted to call and tell you that I love you.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. I love you too, son.”

  “Mom? Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve arrived in Washington.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve got your own scandal! Maybe you need to hire Olivia Pope.”

  He laughed and hung up.

  Whitney gazed out the window, smiling. No, she did not need a fixer like Olivia Pope, but, like Olivia, she would indulge in a generous pour of wine later at home. She replayed the conversation with Chandler in her mind and realized something. Her son had not asked whether the allegations were true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Washington, DC

  Cole Brennan settled into his studio chair. He was in a good mood. The ratings for Cole’s show were higher than ever, and Ellison’s poll numbers had ticked up during Graysongate. Then, the unfortunate Piggygate surfaced. Cole shook his head with regret.

  Graysongate could have been Whitney’s Whitewater. What a missed opportunity. He never understood why the media made such a big deal out of boys being boys. Why did they care so much about a few pigs? People ate pigs, didn’t they? The incident happened so long ago. The media wouldn’t be satisfied until they turned all men into—what do they call them?—metrosexuals. In other words, girls.

  He received the “Go” signal from his producer.

  “Good evening, everyone. I’m Cole Brennan and next I want to talk to you about the good ol’ Post Office.

  “Liberals have said for years we must keep the United States Postal Service open. Our country was brought together by those carriers who delivered your mail and neither snow, or rain, or heat could stop them. The liberal elite’s main argument is that those people living in remote areas need the post office to pay their bills, send letters, and to receive prescriptions. For some of these small towns, the liberals moan, an inverse relationship exists between the size of the post office and its importance to the community. If we eliminate their post offices, these towns will die.

  “Well, here’s my suggestion for people living in those remote communities. Move!”

  Cole laughed.

  “The Postal Service was formed to run like a business, but it’s a money-losing business. Lots of money. When a company brings in less money than it spends, its management—or the bank, or its creditors—eventually shuts the operation down.

  “Like everything else in Washington, the Postal Service is broken. The use of email and private carriers resulted in declining volume, which is never coming back, folks. People only go to the post office when it’s absolutely necessary or during Christmastime. Furthermore, its costly, inflexible unionized workforce doesn’t give a crap about the institution it represents and continues to receive lucrative compensation packages despite the service’s horrific financial condition. Remember the good ol’ days, when President Reagan fired the air traffic controllers? That’s the kind of courage we need now.

  “To top it all off, the unions and Congress joined together in their resistance to consolidating or closing facilities or decreasing delivery from six to five days a week. A lot of this resistance from Congress, the Super Committee, and the Super Super Committee comes from those weak legislators afraid of receiving a call from Ethel Humperdinck from Podunk, Oklahoma who is upset because her post office, which services five people in a hundred-mile radius, might have to cut back its services.

  “The liberals are always saying we should be more like Europe. Europe is perfect and sophisticated and humane. Well, for once, they’re right. Let’s be more like Europe. Many countries in Europe privatized or partially privatized their mail service using good, effective management and common-sense labor practices. Privatization and competition increased productivity, decreased costs, improved on-time delivery, and provided better service to everyone.

  “The Democrats want to form a committee to figure out what to do about the Postal Service. I’ll save them the time and the taxpayers’ their money. Privatize it! And do it now!

  “I only have time for one caller today. Go!”

  Cole listened to a question about Whitney’s financial tax proposal.

  “Well, I think the idea is idiotic. One, if you assess a tax on financial transactions in the US, global investors will invest elsewhere, so our stock market will shrink. Two, hedge-fund managers will trade less. Therefore, revenue will decrease, shrinking our overall economy at a time when we can least afford it. Hedge-fund managers create wealth for this country, which creates jobs. It’s a myth they’re all rich billionaires. Most of them are everyday Joes, like you and me, trying to make a living.

  “This financial transactions tax is a bad idea. Next! And I don’t mean next caller, I mean next election. You must help me defeat Whitney Fairchild at all costs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Fairfax, Virginia

  Whitney surveyed the crowd in the massive high school gym in Fairfax County, Virginia, the first in the United States to surpass six figures in median household income. Large blue and gold banners hung from the ceiling displaying years of district, regional, and state championships in a wide variety of sports. The st
udents were engaged this morning, although she suspected their enthusiasm was more from getting out of class rather than hearing her speak. No matter. Her audience was not only them, but their parents and the numerous cameras representing all the major cable news networks and local television stations.

  She gripped the podium. “Some of you will be old enough to vote in this election, which is a good thing because this election is about you and your future. Why?” She paused. “There’s a lot at stake, such as the future of our country’s educational system and how we make higher education affordable. Whether you’ll be able to find a decent, well-paying job when you graduate from college. Whether you will be able to afford to buy a home. You don’t want to live with your parents forever, do you?”

  “No!” every student yelled, as if they had rehearsed together.

  Whitney staggered back as if the volume of their voices had pushed her. She waited for the laughter to die down before returning to the podium. She smiled.

  “I didn’t think so. Just checking to see if you were paying attention.” She paused again for the appreciative laughter to subside. Her expression turned serious. “For our country, the status quo is no longer an option and no longer acceptable. We need broad, sweeping reforms in education, in how we manage the economy, in how we create a comprehensive domestic clean energy program, which will eliminate the national security risk of relying on foreign oil. We need to invest in our infrastructure, science, technology, and the middle class. We need to make sure you and your children and your grandchildren live in an environment with clean water and without pollution. At the rate we are polluting this country, it won’t be long before a medical face mask will be required to venture outside. With your help and your parents’ help, we can make the needed changes to prevent that from happening.

  “I want all of you to do something for me now. Take out your cell phone.” She paused. “I want you to post to Instagram or Snapchat your story, telling your friends to vote. If they’re not registered, tell them to register. Let’s see how many people we can reach!”

  The students cheered.

  “When you’re finished,” Whitney continued, “hold your phone in the air.”

  Whitney waited.

  A few minutes later, a sea of arms was raised, cell phones held high. The sight was overwhelming. She was glad the moment was captured on camera. “Amazing. Look around you,” she said. “You just made a difference in this election. Thank you.”

  Whitney scanned the room and leaned forward into the microphone as if she were sharing a secret with them. She softened her voice.

  “My husband and I have two children. As their mother, I am concerned about their future. ‘Our America, Our Future’ is not merely a campaign slogan to me. It’s my promise to you and to my children.” She spoke louder. “America has always been the beacon of hope. The land of opportunity where everyone through hard work and education can be whatever he or she wants to be. You can be whatever you want to be. This is your future and what I promise to give you when I am elected president of the United States of America.”

  Throughout the auditorium, students stood and gave her a standing ovation. Most were shouting, “Whitney! Whitney! Whitney!”

  She smiled and waved for a long time, before allowing Ted and her recently assigned Secret Service agents to escort her off the stage. The special agent in charge, Josh McPherson, closed in next to her. His conservative dark suit could not minimize his bulk or the gun concealed underneath his arm. Upon meeting him last month, she had developed an immediate rapport with this man and trusted his warm, confident manner.

  Outside of the high school, reporters asked if she would take a few questions. She shielded her eyes from the early June afternoon sun and nodded.

  “Senator Fairchild, what do you think of the rumor Ellison is considering privatizing the US Postal Service?”

  She gave the reporter her characteristic wry smile. “I normally don’t comment on rumors, but I find it interesting Ellison is taking policy advice from Cole Brennan.”

  The reporters chuckled. Behind her, some of the camera operators had followed her outside.

  “The history of the United States Postal Service is inseparable from the history of our country,” she continued. “I believe a role for the Postal Service in America still exists. I do not believe privatization is the answer. Small, rural towns and island communities would suffer irreparable harm. Private companies will find these areas unprofitable to do business, so they won’t deliver to those locations.”

  “If you were president, what would you do?” shouted a reporter in the back.

  “When I am president,” she said, “I would consider partial privatization as a possibility, but only in combination with compensation reforms and a reduction in overhead costs. Consolidating post offices, reducing hours, and approving select retailers to offer mail services will save taxpayers five hundred million dollars per year. We must end prefunding requirements for retirees and allow the Postal Service to manage its own health-care costs, instead of Congress. My team is evaluating all of our options and putting together a plan to save the Postal Service while making the agency more efficient and cost-effective.”

  “Senator Fairchild,” said an older, female reporter named Judy, “how come your family is never on the campaign trail with you?”

  “Well, as you know, both of my children are away at college, receiving an education and having a great time. The last thing they want to do is hang out with Mom on the campaign trail. Campaigning may be fun for us, but not so much for them.”

  The reporters laughed.

  Whitney smiled and continued. “As for my husband, he has a pretty important job himself and employees who depend on him. Well, thank you all, I must be—”

  Judy persisted. “Senator, I have one more question.”

  “Okay, one more, but then I must be going.”

  “Senator, speaking of your husband, is there any truth to the rumor he is having an affair?”

  Whitney hesitated for a moment—only a moment—and recovered. She turned to face Judy, who had been covering her campaign for the last nineteen months.

  “I haven’t heard that one, but no, none whatsoever. Whoever planted that lie does not know my husband. Or me. You surprise me, Judy. I would think for as long as you’ve been in this business, your sources would be better.”

  Judy stood her ground, but with compassion in her eyes. “With all due respect, Senator, why don’t you ask your neighbor in Missouri about it?”

  For the first time, Whitney’s voice faltered. “My neighbor?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Washington, DC

  Jade examined her own notes before glancing at her team seated around the conference-room table.

  “I called all the medical examiners and didn’t find out anything new,” Jade reported. “Williams, Sells, LeBlanc, and Paxson were killed as a result of blows to the head by a blunt instrument. Strands of hair were found at the LeBlanc and Sells scenes. The hairs found at the LeBlanc scene were Caucasian. No results back, yet, from the Sells case. And we know all the victims’ tongues had been cut out.”

  “Since there’s been no evidence of resistance, could the killer have known all his victims?” Christian asked.

  Max nodded, thoughtful. “It’s possible. Or he—or she—could be one of those trustworthy or charming, Ted Bundy-looking types.”

  Jade turned to Christian. “What do you have?”

  “So far, not much. We scoured thousands of reservations at airports, hotels, and rental car agencies in both Baton Rouge and Houston. Nothing. The perp could’ve used assumed names.” He threw his pen on his notebook. “If only we had a photo.”

  “Agreed,” Jade said. “Get a list of the students who attended the school at the time of the murder. Maybe a name will jump out at us or we can cross-reference it later.”

  She glanced at Pat.

  Pat shook her head. “None of them went to the same school, liv
ed in the same location, or worked together previously. None belonged to the same associations or attended the same conferences, as far as I can determine.”

  “Austin?”

  “I’ve listened to hours of tapes and haven’t found any instances where the same person called both victims, yet.”

  “What about the college radio station?”

  “The good news is the station did keep its recordings. I talked to the current manager and he said its audience back then was limited, mostly students at Chattenham and residents who lived in the town. The audience for the Pittsburgh radio station is also local.”

  Christian leaned in, peering over at Austin. “Any calls stand out to you?”

  “The majority of the callers agreed with the radio talk-show hosts. It’s almost cult-like; it’s scary. Sometimes callers disagreed with the host and were shouted down by other callers. Few disagreed. I am trying to follow up on them as best I can, but these callers only give a first name. Bottom line, nothing.”

  “What about the blogs and newspaper articles?” Jade asked.

  Austin shook his head and sat back.

  The theme song from Miami Vice trilled from a cell phone. Everyone glanced at each other and then at Dante, who seemed more surprised than anyone. He fished the phone out of his pocket and pressed the ignore button. He glared at Pat.

  Pat was typing on her computer. “Don’t look at me.”

  Dante glowered at Jade.

  Jade cracked a smile. “Don’t look at me, either.”

  Austin joined in the laughter, holding up his arms as if surrendering. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  Christian stared at something interesting in the file on the table in front of him.

  Dante scowled. “Very funny, Merritt.”

  Christian winked at Jade.

  Jade never allowed herself to depend on anyone, but Christian always seemed to know the right thing to do or say at the right time. Zoe was her only friend, but at work, Christian was her rock. She turned to Dante. “Talk to me.”

  Dante glared at Christian one more time before flipping through the pages of his notebook. He leaned back in his chair and began to read. “As you recall, the victim—”