Breach of Power (9 page)

E
van Makley stared
at the document attached to the email in disbelief. If it were authentic, the President's career was about to crash and burn—and his with it. Whether true or false, these were the types of allegations that ruined a politician's career. Even one as popular as Rebecca Rudd. He kept staring, afraid to blink, hoping and praying this was some sort of sick joke but somewhere deep inside, he knew it wasn't. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity, he rationalized. That was the only hope he had. Still, the tone of confidence and authority in the words caused his heart to sink.

Another thing troubling him was the fact that the attached file slipped past White House screening. Most worrisome of all was that the sender used an alternating combination of his and the President's social security numbers as the document's password. Information protected by a number of safety measures put in place by the Secret Service.

He'd worked too hard and too long to reach his position as Chief of Staff of the White House. At forty-seven a scandal of this magnitude would destroy any chance for post-White House employment. In politics, he would be the fall guy. His job was to keep these kinds of things from happening and he'd failed. He knew there was still time for damage control. His job was to protect the President. Covering his own ass at the same time was a welcome side effect.

He opened his computer's web browser and typed in
www.lovesdesperatedesire.com
. The page loaded fast and was simple with only three drop down menus. He clicked the first menu and chose his unique yet discrete user name—
First Mate
, chosen for his love of sailing. And even today, it seemed appropriate for his professional standing. The second drop down indicated coded locations. He chose
JM
for Jefferson Memorial, his usual spot. The last drop down menu was an appointment list in fifteen-minute increments starting at the closest next quarter-hour mark. If a time was grayed out, it wasn't available. He looked at this watch, 9:17 a.m., and clicked 10:00 a.m. He submitted his request, closed his browser, and started reviewing the President's schedule for the afternoon.

Within one minute he received a text:

H
e stood
and hustled to the door, told his secretary he had to run a quick errand and headed to his car. The President would be locked in her meeting for another hour so he would have time to make the meeting and return—no one the wiser.

A
bigail Love had done
business with the man on several occasions, but not since he'd become Chief of Staff. Dealing with public figures hadn't worked out for her in the past but because of some sense of customer loyalty, she would hear him out. Besides, he was a very good-looking man. One with whom she would like to spend a couple of hours alone behind closed doors.

From the shady park bench, a hundred yards east of the Jefferson Memorial, she gazed across the tidal basin, through the dogwoods, past the National Mall, beside the Washington Monument, and over the Ellipse at the White House. From where she sat she knew the distance was just over a mile.

She'd all but written Evan Makley out of her customer database since he'd risen to his current heights working for the only politician she'd ever admired. Rebecca Rudd had aggressively moved up the political ladder with a style and grace that reflected well on women. Her
No-Bull
platform seemed ambitious yet she was able to achieve most of her campaign promises within the first two years of office. Rudd was the model for women nationwide. The first female President of the United States. Even Love, a woman who spent most of her life on the wrong side of the law, appreciated the job Rebecca Rudd had done.

Slightly to her right and across the tidal basin, dozens of paddleboats were tied to the dock, waiting to be rented. The shore lined with cherry trees, which in springtime would be covered in blossoms. She wondered what business Makley could have with her. Special care must be taken this time, no slip-ups.

In her peripheral vision she saw someone moving on her left—Makley. She looked at her watch, 9:45. Right on time. Makley sat down on the bench at the opposite end from Love. Neither said anything for several minutes.

"Evan, I must say I was surprised to get your submission." She looked straight ahead, never turning to face him. Nor would he toward her. Love was very strict about that rule. "How might Love's Desperate Desires be of assistance?"

Makley reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope and placed it between them on the bench. "I have a problem."

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't." She put her hands together and interlocked her fingers making a steeple with her index fingers. "My rates have gone up. Inflation is making it harder to keep up with the Joneses."

"How much?"

"Double." Love knew if Makley or the President were in trouble, he'd readily pay her price.

"You can't be serious. That's outrageous." Makley protested.

"Take it or leave it Evan. I agreed to this as a favor for you as a repeat customer."

Makley was silent for a few seconds. "Same arrangements as before?"

"Only the rate changed. Procedure is still the same. Half now. The rest at consummation."

"No screw ups, okay? Too much at stake."

She ignored his remark. "Any special instructions?"

"To start with, identify the source with a full background check." Makley pushed the envelope toward the center of the bench. "I'll let you know what I need after that."

"Anything else?"

Makley didn't speak at first. "Can you make this a priority?"

"It'll cost you another 25%."

"Agreed." Makley stood and walked off.

Love opened the envelope and started skimming the contents. Her face felt flush with anger like the raging torrent of a flooding river. Whoever was doing this had to be stopped. She could never allow this to surface and ruin Rebecca Rudd.

Unless.

She smiled. Sometimes Evan Makley could be so naïve. Knowledge of this, especially if she found it to be true, was more dangerous in her hands than Makley might realize.

This could be her proverbial
ace in the hole.

A very real 'get out of jail' card.

For life.

I
t was
the second late-night clandestine visit to the White House in as many weeks. Jake found himself sitting in the same seat in the Executive Conference Room in the West Wing of the White House. Francesca sat next to him. This time they were alone, Elmore Wiley was at his factory in El Paso and couldn't attend the meeting.

President Rebecca Rudd opened the door and whisked into the room, motioning for Jake and Francesca to remain seated. Evan Makley followed, closing the door behind him. He had two manila folders in his hand.

"Mr. Pendleton, Ms. Catanzaro. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope I didn't take you away from anything."

Jake and Francesca looked at each other. "No ma'am. Not at all." Francesca said.

Jake felt the President knew she'd interrupted his vacation with Kyli but assumed she wouldn't have done it without a good reason.

"The reason I summoned you two here is because a situation has developed that needs to be handled delicately and discretely." Rudd paused. "By the way, I appreciate the manner in which you two handled my previous favor. I owe you a debt I can never acknowledge."

"Yes, ma'am. It's our honor to serve you," Jake said.

"This problem has the potential to create a scathing crisis. Minority and equal rights issues have always been important to me. It's something I want to continue to protect in the same manner with which I've approached it since the election. The only way to completely eliminate discrimination is to disallow it at every level." Rudd pulled out a chair and sat down. "Regardless of heritage, race, religious affiliation, or gender, nobody…I repeat nobody, gets preferential treatment. I will not tolerate it on any level."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm aware of the progress you've made developing a clear non-discrimination policy," Jake said. "With all due respect, I don't see how a discrimination issue should involve us."

"I'm getting to that." Rudd motioned to Makley. "Evan will you start the slideshow, please?"

"Yes, ma'am." Makley started flipping switches on the same console that the President used in the previous meeting.

"Another thing I won't tolerate is hate crimes." She pointed to the ceiling. "Evan, the lights please."

Makley dimmed the lights and started the slideshow. Pictures of a disturbed gravesite flashed across the screen.

"This is Arlington National Cemetery. These pictures were taken by the Old Guard last week. After the investigation, the contents of this grave were restored to original condition and the remains reinterred. Next group please, Evan."

More of the same type of pictures but of a different cemetery.

"This is Andersonville National Cemetery in Georgia. This happened two days ago." Rudd pointed to the pictures. "Both grave sites have several things in common. First, both soldiers died in combat. Both graves were disturbed but nothing appears to have been taken. It was as if someone was looking for something but didn't find what they wanted. Both soldiers died in World War II in Germany, 1944 and 1945, respectively. But the most disturbing thing is both soldiers were black."

"And you think this is some sort of hate crime?" Francesca asked.

"Honestly, I don't know if it is or it isn't, but the media would have a field day with it and make it look like hate crimes. For now I have this under wraps so I want you two to get to the bottom of it. Evan will give you access to all the information we've accumulated thus far. I've already spoken to Elmore, he assured me this would be your only assignment until it is resolved."

Evan Makley handed Jake and Francesca each a folder. "The information in the folders is identical. Please note your contact information at both Arlington and Andersonville. They are expecting you and have been told to assist you in any way they can. Basically, they're at your disposal," Makley said.

President Rebecca Rudd stood abruptly obliging Jake and Francesca to do the same. "Mr. Pendleton, Ms. Catanzaro, call Evan with daily updates please. His direct line is in your package."

"Yes, ma'am." They both said in unison.

The President left the room followed by Evan Makley.

Jake turned to Francesca. "I hope you like cemeteries because it looks we'll be hanging out in them for awhile."

"I hate them. Cemeteries give me the creeps." She lowered her voice. "Just like Evan Makley."

J
ake assessed
the young soldier sitting at the table when he and Francesca arrived at Arlington National Cemetery. It was early and Jake had already read the file on Sergeant Blaine Roberts over breakfast. The young soldier had dark hair, brown eyes, Jake's size, 5' 10", 190 pounds and young. Jake thought he looked early twenties even though the file said nineteen.

Evan Mackley had made arrangements for a private meeting at the end of Roberts shift. The graveyard shift, literally, Jake thought. The young soldier was dressed in blue jeans, New Balance running shoes, and a green t-shirt with "Go Army" printed on front.

Roberts jumped to attention when they entered. "Sir. Ma'am."

"At ease, Sergeant," Jake said. "We're civilians, no need for military protocol here."

"Sir." Roberts faced forward still at attention. "I was told you were a Naval Officer and served under Admiral Scott Bentley at the Pentagon and that I was to extend proper courtesy, Sir."

"Sergeant, that was a long time ago. I'm on my third employer since the Navy."

"Yes sir. All impressive, sir."

"Very well, Sergeant." Jake pointed to two chairs. He and Francesca sat down. "Please sit down now Sergeant or this will take a very long time. We will dispense with the formalities and protocol for the purpose of this interview. Is that understood?"

Roberts sat down. "Understood, sir."

"This is Francesca Catanzaro. She and I are partners on this investigation. I don't know how much you've been briefed but this incident garnered the attention of some major movers and shakers in D.C. I know you've been up all night so we'll try to keep this brief."

"I'm fine, sir."

Jake opened his folder and pulled out a notepad and placed it on the table in front of him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen. He pointed to a briefing sheet from the folder. "It says here you're assigned to a mission called Task Force Christman. I'm not familiar with the mission, can you brief us on it?"

The next ten minutes were spent in a question and answer about the purpose of the mission mandated by Congress to validate each plot in the cemetery. Jake could tell the young soldier was nervous in the beginning but the more he spoke about his job the more at ease he became.

"Before each shift," Francesca asked, "do you get some sort of briefing?"

"Yes, ma'am." Roberts said. "We have a mission brief at 2100 hours every night which lasts about thirty minutes. Our assignments are made then."

"If there is a funeral scheduled for the next morning, wouldn't the grave be dug the day before?" She asked.

"Yes, ma'am. At the beginning of each shift when our survey areas are assigned, we're each given a call sheet. The call sheet indicates where any open graves are located, which I verify visually. The call sheet also indicates any graves that are recently covered. New interments alert me to soft earth so I avoid walking directly on top of the grave."

"Has anything like this happened to you before?" Jake asked.

"No, sir. I've run into rabbits, foxes, and even deer but this was the first time I'd come across an open grave that wasn't marked and flagged off."

"Flagged off?" Francesca asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Every open grave for next day ceremonies are covered by an open tent in case of rain and a yellow flagging tape is wrapped around it to serve as a warning so no one would accidentally fall in."

"Like you did," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. Like I did." Roberts smiled for the first time since the interview began. "But this grave wasn't listed on the call sheet, nor was it covered or flagged."

"And as we now know," Francesca said, "was vandalized."

"Which brings me to my next question," Jake asked, "how often does this happen? I mean, obviously there has been vandalism from time to time at Arlington, right?'

"Yes sir. Over the years we've had markers disappear, graves disturbed, markers defaced or broken. The cemetery has had instances of flowers being moved from one grave to another. We've even had a few instances of things being placed on graves in the middle of the night."

"What about grave robbers?" Francesca asked. "Just the other day I read an article about organ harvesting in Europe. They were stealing corpses right out of the morgue. Bodies that weren't embalmed were dug up the same night they were buried."

Roberts' smile disappeared. "There have been some instances in the past, but until the other night, it had been many years. And technically, this one wasn't a robbery. It's officially classified as a grave disturbance. Nothing appeared to have been taken. All his remains and personal effects were still inside the casket. I can tell you the family was pretty upset but the dead man's wife vouched for everything in the casket. The man died in an explosion and was mutilated so the ceremony was closed casket."

"When was that?" Francesca asked.

"He died in 1945 and was originally interred here at Arlington in 1946. His remains were moved thirty or so years later to their current location."

"Are remains moved often?" Jake asked.

"Not anymore. Reasons do come up that predicate moving remains from one plot to another. I imagine there will be quite a number of moves in the near future as Task Force Christman reveals more mistakes."

"How many mismarked graves have you found?" Francesca closed her folder, a signal to Jake that she had no more questions.

"Personally, only one. Collectively the Old Guard has found a couple of dozen. Not bad considering there are nearly 300,000 grave markers dating all the way back to the Civil War."

Jake noticed the sergeant's bloodshot eyes. He'd been awake all night walking through the graveyard verifying markers and was visibly tired and ready for some rest. But the young soldier had not complained. Jake thought he might have seen the man suppress a yawn once or twice but he maintained a professional attitude throughout the entire interview. "One final question."

"Go ahead, sir."

"What do you personally think happened to this grave?"

"I think it was kids, sir. Maybe some sort of prank, like a fraternity initiation or something."

"Thank you, Sergeant. You're dismissed," Jake said.

After the young soldier left the room Jake turned to Francesca. "I don't think I buy the fraternity prank theory."

"Doesn't ring true to me either." Francesca tucked her hair behind her ears.

"How's this for a theory?" Jake said. "What if the corpse is not the target?"

"Come on, Jake, that's ridiculous. If the remains aren't the target then how do you explain that all the caskets belong to black men?"

"Maybe to throw us off track." Jake smiled.

"Off track of what?" Francesca held up her finger. "Face it, Jake. This really could be a hate crime."