Cherry Blossom Capers Page 4

  Jack thought for a moment. “But if the royal family arrives sooner, that means any threat will follow them.”

  Steve nodded. “And it might tick off our conspirators enough to step up their plans.”

  Which meant that Jack needed to get through the employee files as soon as possible. Determine if any of them had connections to Anqara at all. It seemed unlikely, but then he reminded himself of the unlikelihood of seeing Tara again. Yet here they were, paths crossed.

  “Hey, Courtland. Over here.” George motioned Jack in his direction. “You need to see this.”

  Jack strode over to George’s desk. “What is it?” “You’re not going to like it.” He tapped on the screen. “It’s about your pretty chef friend.”

  Jack tugged a stray chair over and sat down beside George. “What are you talking about?”

  “We just got this in from her e-mail. Did she mention anything about a Trevor Bradshaw back home in Texas, coming to Washington in a week, ironically, at the time of the State Dinner?”

  “No, she didn’t tell me anything. She agreed to keep an eye out for something suspicious.”

  “Look at this e-mail from her cousin.” George pulled some pages from the printer and handed them to Jack. He scanned the first page.

  Hey, Cuz,

  I’m comin’ to DC. I’ll only be in town for 1 weekend, but I was hoping we culd see each other. Its been awhile. I know your working a lot at the white house. Maybe I can get a tour. It wuld be wild to meet the president. I culd give him a piece of my mind since he aint got one of his own. Sometimes a southern boy needs a butt-whoopin’ to set him strait, know what I mean? LOL TTYL

  Trev

  “Okay, so the guy can’t spell and his grammar stinks. What’s wrong with that?”

  They saw their share of wackos who talked big, yet nothing ever came of it. The silent ones who slunk around on the fringe of things—they were the ones to worry about and much harder to crack.

  “We’ve run a tail on Trevor Bradshaw and started pulling his financials. He’s been buying materials that could be transported easily enough without suspicion, but could be assembled on the other side to make a bomb.”

  Chapter 4

  Tara’s foot slipped, and she skidded into a pile of slush as she trudged into the entrance of Cherry Blossom Estates. That’s it. She was going to use some vacation time after the State Dinner and fly home to Texas for a long weekend. At least there was no snow there and she could maybe break out her sandals for one day and let her feet breathe.

  In a couple of months the cherry blossoms would be the first heralds of spring. Tara could hardly wait to resume her outdoor three-mile runs every morning. Her treadmill wasn’t the same. The scenery never changed, the air not as fresh.

  Tonight wasn’t movie night, but she almost considered calling Ciara and Susan to see if they’d like to come over anyway, especially after her meeting with Jack that afternoon. She wanted the support of her friends. Nah, she’d be fine. There were other more pressing needs in their neighborhood.

  She squinted over at Mrs. Bickler’s brick condo, where a light shone in the window. EMS had taken the elderly woman to the hospital not long ago. She’d had a stroke. Tara shuddered at the idea of what might have happened if Susan hadn’t noticed Mrs. Bickler’s change in routine and checked on her. The sweet woman likely wouldn’t have survived.

  The door to Mrs. Bickler’s condo opened and a brunette with long hair, a sweater bundled about her, emerged.

  “Hello!” the woman called, her breath making puffs in the air. She held up a covered dish. “Tara, isn’t it?”

  Tara paused and tried not to shiver. “Yes, that’s right.” Oh. Her storage container.

  “Thanks a million for that casserole.” The woman crossed the space between them, minding the occasional slick patch. “I’ve been too busy to cook lately.”

  “You’re definitely welcome. Samantha, right?” Tara hoped she hadn’t guessed the woman’s name wrong.

  “Yes, Samantha Steele.” Samantha handed Tara the glass dish with its lid.

  “How’s your grandmother doing?” Tara should have asked sooner about Mrs. Bickler’s condition, but with her schedule being so crazy, she hadn’t noticed if anyone was home.

  “She’s doing well. The doctor’s really happy with how well her function is coming back so far.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. So how much longer do you think you’ll be here?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve actually applied for an internship at Mount Vernon, so I may be back with my kids as early as this summer.”

  “Super. Well, keep in touch. Susan and Ciara and I will be glad to have another friend in the neighborhood.”

  “Will do.”

  Tara waved as Samantha trotted back to the other townhouse. Maybe what Jack asked of her wasn’t such a hard thing. Just as Susan had noticed the change in Mrs. Bickler’s routine, she could keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary at the White House.

  But what could she do? And she didn’t like the idea of ferreting information from Mart. Jack did have a point. When she’d learned that she’d been given a promotion instead of Mart, he’d dropped their friendly banter and had turned to clipped responses. However, why wait until now to get revenge, especially if he was leaving to work for a chef and restaurateur like Eric Ripert?

  She continued along to her back door.

  A pair of men emerged from around the side of the town-houses. Both wore nondescript coats of dark gray, one taller and stocky, the other man barely as tall as she.

  “Ms. Whitley.” The short one held up an identification. “Agent Smith, FBI. We need to ask you a few questions about your cousin Trevor Bradshaw.”

  Tara gripped the casserole dish like a security blanket. But she’d given up Blankie, her flowered patchwork quilt made by her nana, years ago. “Right now?”

  “Right now. I’m Agent Durbin.” The tall one flashed his own ID, his voice reminding her of Darth Vader. A cold breeze sliced through her coat.

  “Do—do you mind if I call my friends to join me? They—they both live just across the way, and I’d feel better if at least one of them were here.” She tried to suck in some of the cold air, but she felt like she was breathing in through a straw.

  The shorter agent spoke first. “Go right ahead.”

  Did these men know Jack? Why wasn’t he here, if he was on the investigation? She set the casserole dish on the step and peeled off her gloves.

  She called Ciara first. “Ciara, I know it’s almost suppertime, but could you come by for a few minutes? The FBI are here—and they want to ask me some questions.”

  “I’ll be right over. Don’t say a word to them about anything until I get there.” The line went dead, and Tara stared at her phone.

  The click of a door across the way made her, and both agents, look in the direction of Ciara’s townhome. Ciara scurried off her small deck and headed across the courtyard in their direction.

  “Here I am.” She wore a skirt and nylons, making her fuzzy slippers look out of place. Her silk blouse was covered by a turquoise blue cardigan. “I just got home not too long ago.”

  “Thank you.” Tara owed her, big-time. She’d definitely make Ciara a batch of her gourmet brownies as a big thank-you.

  “Not a problem.” She faced down the agents. “Ciara Turner, attorney at law. Do you have a warrant?”

  The tall agent’s lips twitched as if he were stifling a grin. “Ms. Turner, Ms. Whitley’s not been charged with anything.”

  “Ciara, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking to them. Agent Durbin, you said something about my cousin, though. Trevor?” Tara pulled out her house keys, then took the casserole dish from Ciara.

  “We’ll talk inside, if you don’t mind,” said Agent Smith, motioning for the women to proceed ahead of him.

  Tara’s heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest as she tucked the dish under one arm, then unlocked her door. “Please come in.” She snapped on the l
ight as they entered the living room. Definitely not how she expected to kick back tonight and try to relax. Plus, she was due for her weekly phone call home. If she was late, Mom would worry.

  The pair of agents settled themselves onto each of her wingback chairs. Ciara took one end of the love seat. Tara went to the kitchen counter to set down the casserole dish along with her purse, then returned to the living room.

  Tara nearly offered to make them coffee, but thought better of it. “So, you mentioned my cousin.”

  “Have you heard from Mr. Bradshaw recently?” asked Agent Smith. His even gaze almost made her feel guilty.

  “Yes, I have. He’s going to be in town. A convention of some kind, for a history club. He’s into Civil War reenactments. I told him if I was free, I could maybe meet up with him and show him the sights.” Although truthfully, she wasn’t sure how well that was going to work.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “At our last family reunion about seven years ago, not long before I left to work in Paris in 2005. I haven’t seen him since. My dad and his mother are brother and sister. But you probably know that already.” A light clicked on in her head. “You’re working on the case with Agent Courtland.”

  They exchanged glances. “Yes, we are,” Agent Smith said, pulling some papers from a file he carried. “During our background checks, some interesting information has come to light about your cousin. We read the e-mail he sent you.”

  “My cousin? I figured I’d be screened, but my family members, too?” Tara stood, then accepted the papers from the agent. She scanned the e-mail. “Trevor’s, well, sort of a conspiracy theorist. He’s not a fan of the current administration, from what you can see. He thinks that President Franklin and his policies are being disloyal to the South. But is this enough to be considered a threat? If you could hear some of my family members start talking politics at a barbecue, you’d know everyone has some kind of an opinion. It’s the Civil War debate all over again.”

  Oh great. They couldn’t possibly think that her cousin was going to try something at the White House. She continued. “I mean, I didn’t vote for the president and I disagree with some of his policies, but I love my job. I love where I am. Just because someone disagrees with someone else doesn’t make them a threat.” She glanced down again at the e-mail. Insulting the president’s brain, or lack thereof. Oh boy… and mentioning a “butt-whoopin’ “?

  “Ms. Whitley, he’s been ordering a number of materials online, enough to make a small explosive unit. He can transport these items with him and obtain the rest of the ingredients locally.”

  The skin on her arms prickled. “You’re not serious. Trevor?”

  “We’re completely serious,” Agent Durbin said.

  All this time, Ciara sat beside her, but her gaze bored into both agents, then snapped over to Tara.

  “What—what am I supposed to do?” Tara asked.

  “Let us know when he contacts you again, especially if he gives you any flight information or where he plans to stay while in the area.” The short one’s expression thawed a few degrees. “Courtland’s told us you’ve been giving your full cooperation and assistance, and we appreciate that.”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  “Our cards. Call us anytime.” The short one stood and glanced at his compadre.

  “Anytime,” echoed Agent Durbin as he stood.

  Tara stood as well, pocketing the cards they gave her. She’d gathered quite a collection of FBI business cards in the past twenty-four hours. The idea would have made her chuckle, but for the expressions of the agents standing not three feet away.

  “Well, um, thank you. I’ll definitely let you know.” She assumed the interview was over. They acknowledged her, then Ciara, with a pair of nods before leaving out the front door.

  Ciara turned to face her as the door clicked behind them.

  “First FBI Jack, and now these guys. You’re under their microscope for sure.”

  “I know. Trevor is a goober and has a mouth on him, but he wouldn’t build a bomb.” Tara shivered again. “And even though I haven’t done anything illegal, nor am I about to, I can’t help but feel nauseous at the thought of being under surveillance. Big Brother, watching me. Reading my e-mails. Showing up here now. What if they’ve bugged my home?” She glanced around the room, looking at the wingback chairs, the eclectic mismatched end tables and lamps.

  “Well, next movie night’s at my place,” Ciara said. She raised her head and followed up with, “You hear that?”

  Tara burst out laughing, even while her stomach wound itself into a slipknot.

  Some guys kicked back with a cold one after work, but Jack preferred spending an hour or so at the firing range. When it was just Jack and his Glock, facing a target from ten yards, everything else seemed to vanish. Rounds weren’t cheap, but it was better than drowning his sorrows like a few people he knew along the way.

  He’d recently been contacted by an old buddy of his from their college days as criminal justice students. Nick Porter was a security guard at Mount Vernon now, of all things. What had happened to the street cop he’d known? Working security, telling people to please not touch the antiques. They’d lost touch until Jack came to the Washington bureau.

  In the years since they’d known each other, Nick once had a wife, a kid, had done the entire family thing. But not anymore.

  Jack couldn’t imagine the knife gouge to the heart that losing them must have been for Nick. Being a police officer, or any law enforcement officer, came with a measure of risk. Another reason Jack had pulled away from Tara. That, and he didn’t want to have regrets like George.

  His feelings for her had scared him worse than any horror movie. Not since his days in the Academy had he felt something—no, someone—consume him. While in Paris, he could see it, see them together, as long as he blinded himself to the reality of the danger he’d put her in, and himself. He used to pray to find a wife, someday, in the right time. But maybe for some, it would never be the right time. Like him. In the end, he’d told God he wouldn’t do that to a woman and walked the other way.

  Sure, plenty of guys in the FBI were married. But Jack had seen the toll the job could take on a relationship. Saw it now, in the agent across from his desk.

  “Did Natalie call you back?” he asked George.

  “Nah.” He shrugged. “But it’s all right.” Their targets returned to them on mechanical arms. George reached for the paper to see where he’d hit.

  “You can always call her.” Ironic, him giving Clements suggestions to help patch up his marriage.

  “I told her the ball was in her court. She wants me back, she can call. Guess I got my answer.”

  Jack frowned. The older man had a soft spot, and that was his wife of nearly twenty-five years. Stubborn, stubborn man. “You’ve got a lot invested in your marriage, though.”

  “Maybe. People change, though. She’s tired of the badge. I told her, give me five more years at the Bureau before I call it a day.” George pushed a button and sent a fresh target back to the end of the firing lane.

  “Well, I hope you work it out. I would, if I were you.” Jack popped a fresh clip into his Glock. One more round of shots, and he was about done here. He was heading back to work some more on leads for the State Dinner conspiracy.

  “Gun!”

  Pops of gunfire sounded from shooters in the other lanes, and the smell of sulfur tickled Jack’s nose. He chambered the Glock, aimed, and fired in quick succession. Two of his shots went wild, away from the center. George’s shots looked like a new shooter was trying to get the handle on the gun. What a mess.

  “Take your own advice,” said George as their targets zoomed toward them on the line. “What?”

  “Your pretty little chef. Fix whatever you need to fix with her. If she’s the right girl, she won’t just take you—she’ll take your job, too. Can’t have one without the other, you know. Besides, you’re a man of faith. I respect that. But
if your God is so powerful, can’t He take care of you two?”

  Jack swallowed hard. Ouch. George wasn’t a believer, but the two of them maintained a respectful tone when it came to faith. He’d seen George listening more when he spoke of his faith. Now, he was using his own words against him. Maybe he trusted God to a point, but not enough. He looked down at the Glock in his hands.

  True, too, his job was part of him. Most people clocked out from their job at the end of the day, but Jack Courtland never stopped being who he was. But then, that was Tara, too. Her passion for showing love through good food spilled over into every area of her life. Or, it had in Paris. She understood that much, and had even said so.

  This afternoon, though, the hurt in Tara’s eyes said far, far more. She’d been forthright at the office, willing to help. If she was up to the job of loving Jack Courtland, that was one way to show it. Trouble was, he didn’t know if she’d trust him again. He didn’t blame her. Relationships took work, and he didn’t want to commit to something if he wasn’t all-in.

  His pager started buzzing on his hip. George touched his pager as well. “Something’s up.”

  Jack holstered his Glock and grabbed his jacket. George was already calling.

  When he hung up, his face was grim. “Local police made a number of arrests at a demonstration near the Capitol last weekend. A homeland extremist group called Soldiers of the Way. And guess who was with them?”

  “One of the names on our list, a guy named Antonio Caproni, a driver for Capital Produce, who makes deliveries to the White House at least twice a week. Interesting, he didn’t show up for work this week.”

  “Wonder if he’s one of our conspirators.”

  “Don’t know for sure, but it doesn’t look good. If he’s got friends helping him, they’re not going to be happy.”