The Lost Order

  “I want you to know that I wasn’t with Alex to have him end his marriage and be with me. The two of us being together was never discussed. Not until recently, at least. I was with Alex because I came to love him, and I believe he loved me. The decision to end his marriage, though, was entirely his own. No pressure came from me.”

  Her face carried an anxious, worried look, the corners of her mouth drawn down. Nothing about this woman seemed flighty or emotional. He believed every word she was saying.

  “You need to get to the point,” he told her.

  “Alex was really bothered in the weeks before he died. It all came from a notebook he was reading.”

  She had his attention.

  “It was about so big.” Her hands outlined a volume about seven inches tall and five inches wide. “He spent many an evening recently thumbing through it.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “His brother-in-law.”

  Whom Danny knew nothing about, other than a name, Kenneth Layne, and that he headed some political action committee associated with state legislators from around the country.

  “I’m sure you know how Alex could be with his causes,” she said.

  Yes, he did. Especially the call for a 28th Amendment. Alex had long been a proponent of changing the Constitution to ensure that every federal statute also applied equally to members of Congress. He’d hated how the legislative branch liked to exempt itself from laws imposed on everyone else, elevating Congress into some sort of ruling class. A government of the people, by the people, and for the people should live under the same rules it passes for the people. How many times had the senior senator from Tennessee said that? Alex had tried repeatedly to introduce the amendment for floor approval, but had been batted down. He recalled two years ago when his friend tried to draw attention to the issue by introducing a bill to end overly generous congressional pensions, which was met with similar negative resistance. Alex’s response—delivered on every cable news network—had been vintage. “How can the American people trust Congress to fix a broken Washington when the people in Congress don’t even live under the same rules as everybody else?”

  Indeed, how could they?

  “His comments to me about that notebook,” she said, “involved the Senate and some kind of radical change. A way to end all the problems that have been festering there lately. He talked about gridlock and never being able to get anything done, but said that what he was reading in the notebook was not the answer. I know I’m being cryptic, but he was equally so with me.”

  He knew all about the dysfunction of the U.S. Senate. Three terms there taught him how one senator, through a filibuster, could shut down the entire legislative process in both houses of Congress. He’d even used the tactic a few times himself to make a point. But efficiency had never been part of the Senate’s playbook. The House of Representatives and the presidency had terrified the Founding Fathers, every one of them deathly afraid of popular excesses. So the Senate was created as an impediment against hasty lawmaking, designed to be an antagonist to both the House and president. That was why senators were originally chosen by state legislatures, not subject to general election. When that changed in the early part of the 20th century, with the adoption of the 17th Amendment, so, too, had the Senate, metamorphosing into something the Founders would definitely not recognize.

  As president, he’d suffered its wrath.

  During the last three years of his second term the Senate blocked a major financial package, a defense appropriations bill, and housing reform, all thanks to a handful of obstructionists who wanted unnecessary amendments attached that benefited only them. At one point or another, the Senate had even allowed several federal bureaus, including the National Labor Relations Board, to lapse into defunding, again so that one member could make his own particular point. And over his eight years as president the Senate confirmed only 70% of his judicial nominees, nowhere near the 90-plus-percent that Clinton, the Bushes, and Reagan enjoyed.

  During the past four months, though, things had really escalated.

  President Fox’s cabinet choices to head Labor, the EPA, the Defense Department, and Transportation had all been filibustered with no confirmation votes ever taken. An unprecedented series of events, each championed by a different senator with a different agenda, none caring about the consequences. Even a former member of the House of Representatives, nominated to the Federal Housing Finance Agency, had been denied confirmation.

  Talk about a slap in the face.

  Only yesterday the press had reported that confirming a new head of the Federal Reserve might prove problematic. Which Wall Street had not liked to hear. The Dow Jones fell 5 percent just on the possibility of that happening. Since Inauguration Day the news channels, pundits, and social media had skewered all one hundred senators. A public opinion poll taken last week revealed that less than 12% of the country thought the Senate was doing a good job.

  So what had grabbed Alex’s attention?

  He needed this woman to explain herself. “You said what he was reading came from Diane’s brother?”

  “That’s what he told me. I know nothing about the man, but Alex was not himself over that notebook. It upset him to the point of anger, and that was something totally foreign to him. Then, two days ago, someone entered Alex’s apartment. I heard it happen and watched through my peephole.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A middle-aged white man. I never saw his face, but I did get a look at the back of his neck. He had a port wine stain on one side that seemed to wrap around. He was inside the apartment only a few minutes.” She paused. “He had a key.”

  “He could have been a staffer with Alex’s office.”

  She shook her head. “He was no staffer, and he came out with the notebook in his hand. He also carried two tote bags full of books that related to what Alex was concerned about, not your ordinary reading material. They dealt with constitutional brinksmanship, constitutional conventions, filibusters, and the history of congress. He’d bought them all at Politics and Prose.”

  He knew the bookstore, a DC staple.

  “I know that because I picked them up for him. He was definitely researching something specific.”

  “Alex didn’t share a thing about what was written inside the notebook?”

  She shook her head. “He kept that to himself. I think it was one of the things he really liked about me. I never pried. I knew my limits.”

  “You realize that there could be a logical explanation for what happened. Wouldn’t his wife have a key to the apartment?”

  “I’m sure she does. And there’s this.”

  She reached into her coat pocket and removed a chain with a gold locket attached.

  A cross within a circle.

  She handed him the necklace. “I found this in his trash can.”

  Like himself, Alex hated jewelry, which explained why neither of them ever wore a wedding band. His refusal used to drive Pauline nuts, who never went anywhere without her rings. He meant no disrespect. It was just that jewelry aggravated him, so no ring, watch, or necklaces.

  “Any idea what it is?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I found it the day after he left to come back here to Tennessee. About a week before he died. I kept the apartment up for him when he was gone. Tidied up, made sure there was food in the refrigerator when he returned. I saw it in the trash—I don’t know why—but I fished it out. Why I kept it, I don’t know. But I planned to ask him about it at the right moment.”

  “What about those limits?”

  “I suppose they were violated.”

  He’d read the press accounts. Five days ago, Alex had taken a walk in the woods behind his house. By dusk, when he hadn’t returned, Diane became worried. Two hours later a sheriff’s search party found his body downriver where it had washed ashore. An autopsy revealed no evidence of foul play. Tennessee’s senior U.S. senator had drowned after falling into the river. Where it happened
was anybody’s guess, the whole thing sudden, tragic, and senseless. And sure, there were no witnesses and the circumstances raised questions, but accidents in these hills happened all the time.

  “Why do you think Alex was murdered?” he asked.

  “The day before he left for Tennessee, he told me that he had to make sure something monumental didn’t happen. So I stretched those boundaries again and asked.”

  He waited.

  “His answer was cryptic. He told me that if we make ourselves sheep, the wolves will eat us.”

  “Benjamin Franklin said that.”

  “I know. He told me. I pressed a little and he admitted it had to do with what he’d been reading. He left the notebook on his desk in the apartment, with all those books I mentioned.” She pointed to the pendant. “The notebook was brown leather with that symbol embossed into its front cover. A bit too coincidental, don’t you think?”

  He did.

  “The man who went inside the apartment took only the notebook and the books. Nothing else.”

  “And this is why you think Alex was murdered?”

  “He didn’t just fall off a cliff,” she said. “It makes no sense. And that man, with a key to the apartment, might prove my point.”

  Hard to argue with the logic. “What do you want me to do?”

  “He was your friend. He talked about you with great respect. I was his friend. We owe it to him to find out how and why he died.”

  “Diane has no idea about you?”

  She shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I never once spent the night, and we never were out in public together. It’s a quiet building, where people stay to themselves, so we were never disturbed. And Alex wasn’t what anyone would call overly controversial.”

  “Except that he wanted to overhaul Congress.”

  She smiled. “Who wouldn’t? But he never got anywhere. You know that. I imagine he seemed more an amusement than a threat.”

  Another reason his old friend could have never been president. Voters liked candidates who actually got things done.

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  “Taisley Forsberg.”

  “You realize that I may have to compromise you in order to look into this.”

  “I know, but we have to learn the truth about what happened to him.”

  Maybe so. Yet he had only this woman’s word about the man in Alex’s apartment. It could all be a lie. Still, Taisley Forsberg had tapped into his own lingering doubts, ones that had clouded his brain ever since he first heard the bad news. For the past few minutes his internal radar had been on red alert but he’d detected no lies, no embellishing flourishes to provide a stronger feeling of truth. In fact, everything he’d heard carried the strong odor of fact.

  She was right.

  Alex Sherwood just didn’t fall off cliffs.

  And that notebook from Diane’s brother. About some monumental change? What the hell?

  He’d been invited to the Sherwood house.

  Maybe he should put in an appearance.

  “How do I find you?” he asked.

  She handed him a business card and he saw that she was a lawyer with a DC firm. One he knew. “My cell phone number is on the back.”

  He still held the necklace. “May I keep this for a bit?”

  “It’s yours now.”

  She reached for the door handle to leave.

  He grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s better you and I aren’t seen together.”

  “I’m a big boy, I can handle it. Tell me where I can drop you.” Then he decided to treat her like a big girl, too. “I meant what I just said. Diane Sherwood may have to learn about you and Alex.”

  A sadness crept onto her face, the eyes shining, tears finally running down her cheeks. “Alex is gone, and regardless of what she thinks might have happened between us when he was alive, I would hope she would want to know how and why her husband died.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cassiopeia plunged into the thick Arkansas woods, doing as Cotton had asked, making enough noise to draw the sniper’s attention.

  Here they were, back in the fray.

  Together.

  Both she and Cotton seemed to thrive off excitement. They liked to say otherwise, but they were only kidding themselves. This assignment had particularly interested him, and he’d opened up a little about his middle Georgia family and their connections to both the American Civil War and the Smithsonian Institution. Learning about his past was important to her. So when he’d asked if she’d like to come along, she’d never hesitated.

  A shot rang out.

  She stopped her advance.

  Acting as bait was a little foolish, since there was always the possibility that a stray round could find her or another shooter might be around. She regretted messing with Cotton, not telling him she was outside the incinerator and working to get him out. He’d obviously been assaulted, the knot on his forehead serious enough that a doctor should take a look. But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not his way. On the plane trip from DC he’d told her about his mother’s relatives, part of the old landed gentry who’d supported the antebellum South and fought with the Confederacy. His father’s family had been from the northern part of Georgia, their loyalties divided between North and South, their history not as clear.

  Her own parents had boasted a strong Iberian and European connection. She’d been raised to know and appreciate her heritage, though her parents eventually discarded some of it, choosing a path far different from their ancestors. Ultimately she, too, had made choices, some good, others bad, and had dealt with an assortment of lingering demons. Cotton had played a big part in some of that resolution. She’d resented and fought his involvement and tried to deny how she felt but, in the end, realized that her destiny seemed locked with his. Which now did not bother her one bit.

  He was an extraordinary man.

  They’d been through a lot together. Each had saved the other more than once. He showed her nothing but love and respect, and she did the same for him. If that was a sign of weakness, then weakness it would be.

  She restarted her way through the underbrush, making noise, generating movement one way, then slipping quietly to another, hopefully leading the bullets to where she’d just been instead of where she was headed.

  Another round cracked, the bullet whining through the trees behind her. The ploy seemed to be working. Cotton was headed for a trail leading up the ridge and she spotted another way up just ahead, one that also wound a path to the shooter. She decided to make her way there and climb from the other side. Together they could pincer their assailant.

  Her life was definitely exciting. She lived in a French château, where she was rebuilding a 13th-century castle using only tools and materials available 800 years ago. Her family’s business ventures were operating on a solid footing, generating hundreds of millions of euros annually. Her father had left her the company as his only heir, apparently confident she could handle things. And she had. Occasionally she made an appearance to keep in touch, but by and large she allowed the managers freedom to operate.

  She grabbed a couple of hand-sized rocks and heaved them off to her left. Both created the desired noise and attention. A shot came their way and she used the moment to hustle unnoticed for the base of the ridge. There was no defined trail, and the terrain was not steep enough to defeat a hasty climb. She hugged the ground and, using the trees and foliage for cover, headed up. This was not good for her clothes. But luckily she’d dressed in jeans, boots, and a durable shirt. Thankfully, she’d also piled her long, dark hair into a bun that kept the strands off her face. Her brow was slick, her eyes stinging from salty sweat. She’d passed on makeup today, but rarely used much anyway.

  She considered herself lucky to have found someone like Cotton. He was a few years older, tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-blond hair, with a handsome face full of responsibility. No sags existed in his cheeks, no traces o
f a double chin. His green eyes danced with delight and always seemed to captivate her, as did his fight to keep the depth of his feelings to himself, which had clearly become harder for them both. Each move he made seemed judged and balanced, with no pretensions. Once there’d been a time when she’d wanted no one to invade her loneliness. When she became angry at her own weaknesses, and her heart rebelled. But after what had happened between them of late, she’d decided not to make the mistake again of thinking she could live without him.

  Normally, it could be difficult to get him to leave Copenhagen. Saving the world was no longer his thing. He’d done his tour with the Magellan Billet, working twelve years as one of Stephanie Nelle’s Justice Department agents. As he liked to say, That’s someone else’s problem now. But there were issues that clearly attracted him. More and more it had become simply a matter of making money. Everyone had to eat, and his skill sets were definitely in demand. Here, though, the attraction had been a connection to his family’s heritage.

  And one ancestor in particular.

  Angus Adams.

  Who, she’d learned, had been a Confederate spy and also went by the moniker Cotton.

  She shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and kept to her crawl, the firing from above halted. Pinpricks of moisture glittered the fine hair on her arms. Cotton had to be making his way up the other side so she stopped and lay still, close to the warm ground, giving him time to take the lead.

  She knew only a little about the Smithsonian Institution. One of the largest repositories of artifacts and information in the world, with a global reputation for excellence. Just to say the words invoked visions of history, mystery, and adventure.

  And here they were.

  Right in the middle of one.

  But it wasn’t quite as glamorous as books and movies liked to depict.

  She was lying belly-first on parched dirt, among thick foliage heavy with heat and bugs, someone above her shooting with a rifle.

  Would she marry Cotton?

  A strange thought given the circumstances.