The Divide Read online

  Chapter Six

  New York City, New York

  Sebastian Scofield laughed at Hasad Nasir’s joke, although the city’s mayor wasn’t that funny. Earlier that evening, Sebastian had announced—to loud applause from the crowd of wealthy businesspeople, athletes, and entertainers—that he would make a significant donation to the sponsor of the fundraiser, a children’s literacy foundation, and match all donations up to $25,000 per gift.

  Laughing with Nasir now would make the ask easier later.

  Sebastian loved the city. The lights. The people. The restaurants. The museums. Broadway. Times Square. The city that never slept, like him. Working almost one hundred hours a week at his day job as the founder and managing director of a hedge fund, Sebastian lived for the nights. For these dinners. He’d better, since he attended one almost every night. He loved the schmoozing, the clinking of glasses, turning on the charm, meeting new people, asking them for their money. His Rolodex, or, rather, the extensive contact list on his smartphone, contained the names of every influential person in the city, the cause or causes important to them, and what story would yield their maximum donation. Sebastian believed in the causes he supported, especially when they benefited him, his company, or his political beliefs.

  But that was his secret.

  Most of all, he enjoyed being seen. A picture of him sitting next to and laughing with the mayor would be on the front page of the New York Times style section tomorrow. Possibly the front page of the entire paper.

  They would definitely make Page Six.

  After a main course of filet mignon, curried potatoes, and asparagus, a chocolate hazelnut tart was served for dessert. He admired the building’s architecture, including the thirty-foot-high glass and cast-iron dome above him. The men—and some women—were in tuxes. Other women wore gowns and expensive jewelry. A chamber quartet played quietly in the corner. A server exchanged his empty champagne flute for a full one.

  Over the floral centerpiece, he grinned at his wife, sitting across from him at the oblong white linen–covered table. Her black dress matched her hair. The sizable diamonds around her neck, in her earlobes, and on several of her fingers—including the rock on the ring finger of her left hand—sparkled in the light of the multitude of fixtures overhead. She gave him a crisp nod. She understood why he was laughing.

  The program was wrapping up. After the host’s closing remarks, Sebastian stood and clapped along with everyone else in the ballroom.

  Outside, at the top of the steps near the entrance of the New York Public Library, he and his wife, who was bundled in a white fur coat, shook hands, air-kissed both cheeks, and said goodbye to the who’s who of the city.

  “Scofield!” someone called out to him. “You did well tonight!”

  “Thank you!” he said. Someone had told him the event raised over four million dollars.

  Touching his wife’s back, he bent to whisper in her ear that it was time to go. As he did, a stab of pain spread through his lower back. Odd. In his midfifties and in excellent health, he had never suffered from back pains before.

  “Excuse me,” said a gentleman wearing a formal hat pulled down low over his forehead. He picked up an event program and handed it to Sebastian.

  “You dropped this.”

  “No, I…”

  Sebastian’s fingers clutched a strange object protruding from his back. His coat was wet. When he brought his fingers in front of his face, they were covered with a dark liquid. If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like blood.

  Mine?

  Lightheaded, he started to fall. He reached out for his wife to steady himself, his hand leaving red prints on the sleeve of her white fur coat. When he hit the pavement, his wife’s scream sounded far away. Footsteps rushed toward him. Images of people towering over him began to converge, then grew hazy. Fingers pressed against his throat, checking for a pulse.

  Sebastian Scofield fell into a deep sleep from which he would never wake.

  Chapter Seven

  New York City, New York

  Acting like any other successful businessman late for another appointment, Devon hurried down the steps, bumping into and apologizing to people. Some of them were on their cell phones and barely noticed. The first scream curdled as Dev ran down 42nd Street. Other screams joined in, as well as loud voices shouting commands. Her deed had been discovered.

  She didn’t stop running, and she didn’t look back.

  In the middle of the block, she cut through Bryant Park, her men’s dress shoes tapping on the walkway that surrounded the lawn. She passed the fountain and emerged on 40th Street. Slowing her gait, she blended in with the other pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk: businesspeople headed home, theatergoers, shoppers carrying bags, people going out for food and drinks, residents walking their dogs, dog walkers walking other people’s dogs.

  Androgynous, Dev had always been able to blend in, passing for a man or a woman, white, Hispanic, Asian—even a light-skinned black person. An asset in her career.

  Previous and current.

  A homeless man covered with a blanket sat against a building, his legs spread in a V. Next to him, a trash bag was stuffed with clothes. He was reading a book in the light of a streetlamp. A John Grisham novel. A Time to Kill.

  How appropriate.

  The man met her eyes. Watchful. Wary. Knowing.

  Dev stopped and took off the black coat she’d worn to the fundraiser. The victim’s blood was most likely on it. Destroying the coat would be the smart thing to do. Instead she handed it down to the man, who gripped the coat in both hands in front of his chest. Jaws clenched, he nodded his head.

  A careless act, but she didn’t have the heart to burn it or throw it away. Not when he needed it.

  While he struggled to his feet to try it on, she continued walking. After a couple more blocks, she hailed a yellow cab. Ten minutes later, she entered the revolving doors of a hotel in Chelsea.

  Just inside, a uniformed doorman greeted her. “Welcome back, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  He eyed her tuxedo jacket. “Bit nippy out.”

  Shrugging her shoulders almost apologetically and praying there wasn’t blood on her pants, she said, “Thought I’d risk it.” She pointed a thumb vaguely to the south. “Formal dinner in the financial district.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” he said. “Good night.”

  “It already has been.”

  “Oh… killer deal?”

  Dev smiled. “Something like that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Washington, DC

  “You wanted to see me, boss?”

  Jade looked up from the case file she was reading. A major difference in her new role was that she had to be aware of the facts of all the cases in the department, not just her own.

  Special Agent Dante Carlucci poked his head into her office. His brown hair was cut short, all the curls gone. He looked handsome. And happy.

  She didn’t care for the new nickname, but it was better than chiefette or chief.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  In the guest chair across from her, he leaned back, spreading his long legs. “What’s up?”

  “Comfortable?”

  “Yeah.”

  He’d missed the rebuke.

  “Barringer came to see me,” Jade said.

  Dante raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

  “He’s not happy about our close rates. Since Ethan left.”

  “We’re working as hard as we can.”

  “But not as smart as we can.”

  Frowning, he said, “What are you saying? You think it’s my fault?”

  Jade straightened the five pens in front of her into perfect formation. “I’ve been trying to run this office like Ethan did, but it’s not working. There’s someone missing.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “You?” He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  She stopped messing with the pens
. “I need someone to replace me.”

  Dante scowled. “I get it. You’re promoting Merritt.” He started to rise. “Whatever.”

  “Sit down,” she said, reaching into her center drawer and pulling out a small unopened bag of peanut M&M’s. Jade threw it at him.

  He caught it and looked at her questioningly. “I don’t like M&M’s. Or peanuts.”

  “It’s a metaphor. Go put them in my desk.”

  His expression remained blank.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “While I’m acting as Ethan’s replacement, you’re acting as mine.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded.

  A grin, wide with wonder, crossed his face, then dissipated. “Is this a joke?”

  “No,” Jade said. “I think you’re ready to take on more responsibility.” She waved him away. “Now, go claim my office before I change my mind and give it to Merritt.”

  He hustled to the door.

  “Hey!” she said.

  He turned, his expression communicating that he was prepared for the punchline.

  “This doesn’t mean I like you now or anything.”

  Dante laughed. “I got it. Boss.”

  *

  Later that morning, during her team’s weekly meeting, Jade listened as each of her staff presented updates on their current caseloads. Sitting around the oval table in the conference room were Christian, Pat, Micah, and Dante. Absent was Max Stover, a behavioral analyst out of Quantico, Virginia, who wasn’t technically on the team but worked with them on high-profile serial killer cases.

  Interrupting them occasionally to ask for more detail or suggest they pursue a different angle, Jade waited until the updates were finished before saying, “I have an announcement.”

  “A new case?” Micah asked, his slight British accent a feather against her skin.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve been trying to do my job and Ethan’s job since he left. It’s too much.”

  “Even for you?” Christian asked.

  “I thought you could do everything,” Micah said.

  “Someone needs to take over my responsibilities,” she said.

  “Be in with a chance?” Micah asked.

  From a chair leaned back at its customary forty-five-degree angle, Dante said, “What the hell does that mean? Can’t you speak English?”

  The second question was asked without irony.

  Shaking his head, Micah stared at Dante. “Hopeless.”

  “Someday,” she said to Micah. Glancing at the rest of the expectant faces, she steeled herself. Inclining her head toward Dante, she said, “Effectively immediately, Dante is your acting supervisor.”

  Pat stopped typing. She peered over her glasses at Jade and mouthed, “What the fuck?”

  With a look of horror, Micah said, “Shite!”

  Christian’s face transformed from a look of horror to one of amusement. He laughed. “You got me.”

  Jade said to him, her tone soft, “There wasn’t time to tell you.”

  Christian’s laughter died as his eyes narrowed. “You’re serious.”

  She gave a slight nod.

  Dante smiled sweetly at Christian. “You may call me ‘Daddy’ if you’d like.”

  “Shut up, Dante,” Jade said, glaring at him.

  Pushing back his chair, Christian shot a look at Jade and walked out of the room without another word.

  Micah watched him leave and turned back to Jade. “I feel as if I’ve seen this movie before.”

  He was referring to a time during the bullying case, when Christian had words with Dante and walked out of a team meeting.

  “Me too,” Dante said. “It’s my favorite movie.”

  Chapter Nine

  The White House, Washington, DC

  From behind the nineteenth-century Resolute desk in the Oval Office, President Whitney Fairchild watched her chief of staff’s mouth move, an actor in a silent movie. She was thinking about Blake.

  Across from her, Sasha, a former Texas congresswoman, stopped talking, her lips pursed. Whitney prepared to hear it.

  “Have you listened to a word I said?” asked Sasha, a look of annoyance on her dark-complexioned face.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I knew you weren’t listening,” Sasha said. “I told you that you’re too thin, we might have a lead on the attack, and I’m concerned about the New New Deal.”

  “I missed all that?”

  “Apparently. Do I need to tell my momma to bring you some real food? Put some meat on those bones?” Sasha slid her arms down the side of her body and shimmied. “These curves didn’t come from eating kale.”

  Whitney held up her hand. “Stop shimmying.”

  Her appetite had suffered in the wake of the terrorist attack as she continued to have nothing substantive to report to the press. The guilt wasn’t helping either. She still didn’t know who was responsible, much less brought anyone to justice as she had promised the American people she would.

  None of the usual suspects—ISIS, Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, Hamas, Hezbollah—had claimed responsibility.

  Because she’d avoided the press’s questions about Blake’s condition, citing HIPAA concerns, reporters started calling her aloof. Unapproachable. Cold. Some nicknamed her the Steel Lady in an unflattering mimicry of the Iron Lady, the former prime minister of the United Kingdom, Margaret Thatcher.

  Last week’s State of the Union address—her first—hadn’t gone well. Although the Democrats clapped at everything she said and stood at the scripted moments, the response was subdued. The Republicans hadn’t bought what she was selling, and neither had her own party.

  “Do you have something to tell me?” Sasha asked.

  “As far as?”

  “About Blake.”

  “He’s in better spirits.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I know what you meant.

  Not ready to confide in Sasha about Blake’s parentage, she said, “‘Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.’”

  “Who said that?”

  “Emily Dickinson.”

  Hands on her hips, Sasha said, “Are you trying to tell me to not be so curious? To mind my own business? Because you are my business.”

  “That’s the great thing about quotes,” Whitney said, smiling. “You can interpret them however you wish. Now, tell me about this lead and why you’re worried about the New New Deal.”

  Chapter Ten

  Washington, DC

  She’d put off this visit long enough.

  Shifting the Audi to park, Jade exhaled and stared at herself in the rearview mirror, smoothing the top of her light-brown hair. She hadn’t seen Blake Haynes since the terrorist attack over six weeks ago. They’d planned to meet up when he returned from New York.

  She’d called to check on his condition a few times, but the hospital wouldn’t release any information. She could have gained access through the president but didn’t want to be obligated to her.

  Jade didn’t want to owe anyone anything.

  The administration, through its acting deputy press secretary, Lena Smith, would not comment on Blake’s condition.

  Jade and Blake had seen each other before the attack. They weren’t dating. Or friends. She wasn’t sure what they were, but she enjoyed being with him. He was intelligent. And he made her laugh.

  With her promotion, she hadn’t had time to visit him until now. At least, that’s what she told herself. In truth, she was reluctant to face him, and not because of the changes to his face and body. What was she afraid of? Although she’d been a psych major in college, she didn’t spend much time analyzing herself.

  She got out of the car and locked it, the beep loud in the silence of the underground parking garage. Her eyes lingered on each gray concrete pillar as she imagined the possibility of someone hiding behind it.

  Professional habit.

  Jade entered George Washington University Hospital and wended her way to the informat
ion desk. Clearing her throat, she waited for the nurse manning the station to look up.

  “I’m looking for Blake Haynes.”

  “Your name?”

  “Jade Harrington.”

  “Relationship to the patient?”

  “Uh… friend.”

  “One moment please.”

  The young man tapped several computer keys and then spoke into his headset. Personnel were being paged over the intercom system and directed to various areas of the hospital. After a moment, he looked at her.

  “What room is he in?” Jade asked.

  The nurse searched her eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re not on the approved visitor list.”

  “Can you double-check? I’m sure he wants to see me.”

  He sighed. “Mr. Haynes left specific instructions. He doesn’t want to see you.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “Maybe so, but you’re not seeing him today.”

  @TheGodOfVeritas: It’s no secret that the Carr brothers and their Super PAC are behind the push to repeal the #NewNewDeal They should feel #shame

  Chapter Eleven

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Whitney picked at her Cobb salad.

  “You’re quiet,” Grayson said.

  Putting her fork down without eating, she took a sip of wine. “I’m sorry, darling. A lot on my mind. How was your day?”

  Grayson sat across from her at the dining room table in the Residence, his light-brown hair grazing his forehead. A fire blazed in the fireplace, warding off the chill. One of her favorite paintings, a woman with a child sitting on her lap, hung over the mantel.

  “We’re finally making progress,” he said. “I met with business leaders from across the Metro area again today, and we’re close to finalizing the plan. I’ll have something on your desk by the end of the month.”

  Grayson’s cause as First Gentleman—or the First First Man, as the mainstream media called him, or the First Dude, as the alternative media called him—was to oversee a major initiative to provide job and business training to the long-term unemployed. Although initially averse to taking on his First Gentleman duties, he had since embraced them with the same fervor as his former position: CEO of Fairchild Industries, a family-owned global biotechnology company. He’d relinquished the job to one of his brothers so he could join Whitney in the White House.