THEY RETURNED TO the city on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend with a morose thirteen-year-old in full mourning for the end of summer vacation. “It’s so unfair,” Scotty said, “that vacation goes by so fast and the school year crawls.”
“I used to feel the same way,” Sam said. “The end of vacation was like torture.”
“It is torture!” Scotty agreed. “No more sleeping late or watching TV until midnight or going to the beach or baseball camp or anything fun for months.”
“I feel you, buddy,” Sam said.
“Samantha,” Nick said in the stern tone he saved for special occasions, “this might be a good opportunity to remind our son of the value of education and how important it is that he give eighth grade his full effort so he can use this year to prepare for high school.”
Sam and Scotty exchanged glances. “Nah,” they said together, cracking up and high-fiving.
“You two think you’re so funny,” Nick said.
“We are funny,” Scotty said, “and you’re no help whatsoever in this situation. Do you think I want to hear about high school when I have a whole year of eighth grade algebra to suffer through first?”
“He does make a good point,” Sam said, earning a glare from her husband. “One minute at a time, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said, recognizing defeat when it stared him in the face.
The Secret Service motorcade arrived at the Ninth Street checkpoint, where they were stopped for much longer than usual.
“What’s the delay, Brant?” Nick asked.
“Huge media swarm.”
And just that quickly they were reminded of what they were coming home to. It took the Secret Service ten minutes to clear a path for the motorcade to proceed onto Ninth Street. As they alighted from the car, shouts for comment about the upcoming hearings, the president’s son, whether Nick was preparing to be president and other things they couldn’t make out filled the air around them.
“Welcome home,” Nick said grimly as he eyed the massive gathering outside the gate. “The neighbors must be thrilled to have us back.”
Escorted by agents in front of and behind them, they went up the ramp outside their double townhouse to the front door manned by a new agent on Scotty’s detail.
“Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Cappuano, Scotty... Welcome home. Hope you had a nice vacation.”
“Thanks, Liam,” Nick said. “It was a great vacation.”
“That ended far too soon,” Scotty added. “One more day and then back to the grind.”
“What’s this I hear?” Skip Holland asked as he manipulated his electric wheelchair through the big living room to greet them. Sam’s dad and his wife, Celia, had come out to the beach for a day but had chosen not to stay for the whole time. Sam suspected that he hadn’t wanted to disrupt their good time with his medical needs, but he’d never say so. “Is someone unhappy to be heading back to school?”
“Unhappy is putting it mildly,” Sam said.
“School is a necessary evil,” Skip said bluntly.
“I’m surrounded by educational rebels,” Nick said, throwing up his hands.
Scotty laughed. “I definitely landed in the right family.”
His statement hit Sam square in the heart. She loved hearing him say things like that, especially when they had reason to wonder if he would someday resent the limitations he would experience as he grew older surrounded by Secret Service agents watching his every move. For now, he was as happy and well-adjusted as could be—except when the first day of school loomed.
Sam bent to kiss her dad’s forehead, one of the few places he still had sensation after being shot on the job three and a half years ago. “How you doing, Skippy?”
“Hanging in, baby girl. How was the rest of the vacation?”
“Fantastic, delightful and amazing,” Sam said. “I can’t wait to go back next year.”
“A whole year.” Scotty moaned as he flopped on the couch. “I’ll never make it.”
“Go get unpacked, Drama Queen,” Sam said to her son.
“Do I hafta?”
“Yes, you hafta. And take a shower too.”
“And so it begins,” Scotty said to Skip, dismay radiating from him.
Skip laughed at his theatrics. “Part of being a man is doing things you don’t want to do because it’s the right thing. Just ask your dad. He knows all about it.”
“He knows all too well,” Sam said.
“Now you guys are making me feel bad for whining,” Scotty said. “Compared to Dad, I ain’t got no problems. And don’t tell me ain’t ain’t a word. It was used for effect.”
Sam cracked up along with her husband and father. What had they ever done for entertainment before Scotty came into their lives? She went to her son and hugged him. “I promise we’ll do everything we can to make the reentry as painless as possible, beginning with a bowl of ice cream as big as your head after you unpack and shower. Deal?”
He flashed that irrepressible grin that reminded her so much of Nick’s. Even though they didn’t share DNA, father and son were alike in many ways—except in their attitudes toward education. In that way, he was entirely Sam’s son. “Deal.” Dragging his suitcase behind him, he scampered up the stairs, the suitcase banging on every step as he went.
“That kid,” Nick said, shaking his head.
“Is the best,” Skip added. “I get such a kick out of him.”
“Don’t we all?” Sam said. “He has us firmly wrapped around all ten of his fingers, but we can’t let him know that or we’ll lose complete control of the asylum.”
“I know a little something about being wrapped around a certain someone’s little finger,” Skip said with a meaningful smile for Sam. “And if you don’t want him to turn out like you, proceed with caution.”
“Hey!” Sam laughed at the impish expression on the one side of her father’s face that hadn’t been left frozen by the stroke he’d suffered after being shot.
Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID, groaning loudly when she saw the number for Dispatch. “Not yet! I’m still on vacation until midnight!”
“You don’t have to take the call,” Nick reminded her.
“If they’re calling me before I’m officially back, whatever it is must be bad.” She flipped open her phone. “Holland.”
“Lieutenant, I was asked to inform you of a fatal drive-by shooting of a teenager in Southeast.” The dispatcher rattled off an address in the Penn Branch neighborhood, southeast of the Anacostia River. “Are you able to report to the scene?”
Sam’s stomach ached at the thought of a child roughly the same age as her own son being gunned down in her city. “I’ll be there.” She closed the phone and told her dad and Nick what’d happened.
“Ah crap,” Skip said. “The kids are the worst.”
“Sorry to hear it, babe,” Nick said, putting his arm around her and kissing her temple.
She looked up at him. “I have to go, even though I’m not officially back on duty yet. Hope you understand.”
“Of course I do. Just be careful out there.”
“I always am.” She kissed him, and then kissed her dad’s forehead again. “I’m going to change my clothes.” A crime scene was no place for another of the maxi dresses she’d bought for the beach.
“Let me know about the case when you get a chance,” Skip said.
“You know I will.” Sam dashed upstairs to the closet that Nick had made for her in the smallest bedroom and changed out of the dress and into jeans, a T-shirt and running shoes. She grabbed an MPD sweatshirt since HQ was like a meat locker this time of year with the AC set to frost.
Crossing the hall to her bedroom, she went to the locked drawer in her bedside table to retrieve her service weapon, badge and the notebook that she jammed into a back pocket of her jeans as she ran for the stairs. Adrenaline pumped through her as it always did when a new case required her focus.
In the living room, Nick waited to see her off.
“Did Dad leave?”
“Yeah, he said he’ll talk to you later.”
“And you’ll see to the bowl of ice cream as big as his head for the boy when he gets out of the shower?”
“I will,” he said with a smile.
“Tell him I’m sorry I had to leave.”
“I’ll do that too.” He kissed her. “Thanks for a great vacation. You have no idea how badly I needed it.”
“I think I have a small idea. Whatever happens in the next few weeks, we’ll handle it the way we always do. Try not to worry.”
“That’s like telling me not to breathe, but I can do it for you.” He kissed her again. “The whole world wants a piece of us right now, so be extra vigilant. Don’t let anyone touch what’s mine.”
As a modern, independent woman, she ought to hate when he showed his alpha side, but she didn’t hate it. She loved that he was so protective of her. “I won’t. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Liam opened the front door for her and nodded to her as she headed for the ramp and the tricked-out black BMW Nick had outfitted for any possible on-the-job emergency she might encounter. The windows and side panels were bulletproof, the technology so sophisticated she’d never understand how it all worked and she had provisions for three days off the grid if it ever came to that.
As she drove the short distance from her Capitol Hill home to the crime scene, she called Freddie.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you. Did you hear some hoodlums in Southeast threw a welcome party for me?”
“I got the call, and I’m on the way. But aren’t you off duty until midnight?”
“They called me, gave me the choice, and I’m on the way too.”
“Oh good. I hate cases involving kids. I’m glad you’ll be there.”
“Do you have anything more about the kid who was killed?”
“I know as much as you do.”
“All right. I’ll see you in a few.” Sam tossed the phone to the passenger seat and pressed down on the accelerator, eager to get back in the game. She couldn’t imagine any other life for herself than one that included chasing down murderers and throwing their guilty asses in jail.
If things went sideways with Nelson and Nick became president, would she be forced to give up her job? When he became vice president, they learned that only the president, vice president, president-elect and vice president-elect were required to have Secret Service protection. That was how she’d managed to hang on to her job, for now, without a detail in tow. But being first lady would be a whole new ballgame, and she was under no illusions about what that would probably mean for her.
“Take your own advice and don’t think about that until you have to.” The very thought of being sidelined in the gilded cage that was the White House made her break out into a cold sweat that had her turning off the AC and opening the window to let in the stifling humidity.
The unusually heavy traffic was indicative of a home game for the DC Federals baseball team, one of several possible explanations for gridlock on the Sunday night of a holiday weekend.
Sam drove into the Penn Branch neighborhood, made up of a mix of middle-class single-family homes and poverty-ridden housing projects. The neighborhood formed a triangle between Pennsylvania Avenue Southeast and Branch Avenue Southeast. Sam pulled onto Hilltop Terrace Southeast. Rows of townhomes lined the street, which was currently filled with emergency vehicles. She parked behind a squad car and took off toward the epicenter of action half a block away.
Patrol had taped off the area where a crowd had formed around the covered body. From the other side of the street, Sam saw Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Lindsey McNamara working her way through the large crowd with her deputy, Dr. Byron Tomlinson.
Sam zeroed in on a wailing black woman being supported by two equally distraught young women. Her gut clenched with empathy for the woman, who had to be the victim’s mother. How anyone survived losing a child to violence was beyond her. She could barely stand to work cases that involved kids.
“What’ve we got?” she asked Officer Beckett, who greeted her at the tapeline.
He held it up for her to go under. “Jamal Jackson, fifteen, picked off in a drive-by as he was walking home with friends.”
“Do we have the friends?”
Beckett nodded toward the stairs of a nearby townhouse where two traumatized teenage boys sat on the stoop under the care of another Patrol officer and two EMTs.
“The mom was all over him when we arrived,” Beckett said, letting her know their crime scene had been compromised.
“Let me see.” She followed Beckett to the covered body and squatted for a closer look as he lifted the fabric to reveal the handsome boy who’d been struck in the right side of the head by the bullet. A tragic waste of a young life.
Sam glanced up at Lindsey, noting her red hair was up its customary ponytail and her hazel eyes brimmed with compassion. “Let me get the mom out of here before you get started, Doc.”
“Good idea. And welcome back. We missed you.”
“Wish I could say the same.” Sam stood. “What do we know about the family?” she asked Beckett.
He consulted his notebook. “Danita Jackson, single mom of three. Jamal was her youngest. Those are her daughters, Misty and Tamara, with her. Misty told me he’s never been in any trouble. Honor roll student, hard worker, plays basketball in a rec league and at school.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sam muttered.
“You said it, LT.”
“How’d they hear about it?”
“One of the friends called Tamara.”
She took a deep breath and sought the fortitude she needed to talk to Jamal’s devastated mother and sisters. “Mrs. Jackson.” Sam showed her gold shield. “I’m Lieutenant Holland, MPD.”
“We know who you are,” one of the daughters said.
Sam had become accustomed to that response since Nick became vice president. “May I have a word with you across the street?”
“This way, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Tommy “Gonzo” Gonzales said as he arrived on the scene with Freddie. They cleared a path for Sam to escort the three women to the other side of the street and down the block, away from the fray of first responders, neighbors and reporters who’d begun to arrive.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss.” Sam kept half an eye on the reporters who were being waylaid by Beckett and the other Patrol officers.
“I don’t want your sympathy,” Danita said between sobs. “I want the person who killed my baby!” She began to wail, and her daughters tried to comfort her through their own distress.
“I want that too, and I’ll do everything in my power to find the person who did this.” Sam withdrew the notebook from her back pocket. “Can you tell me where he was coming from?”
“They went to see the new IMAX movie at the Air and Space Museum.” Danita wiped tears from her face. “My baby wanted to be an astronaut. He was obsessed with space and flying. He was going to make something of himself.”
Sam’s heart broke as she took notes. “Did your son have any conflicts with anyone?”
“Not that I knew of. Everyone liked him. He had lots of friends.”
“And no involvement with gangs?”
“Absolutely not! He knew I’d have his ass if he even talked to those people. I stayed on top of him. I always knew where he was and who he was with. I did everything I could to keep him out of trouble. How could this have happened to my son?” She broke down again, and her daughters tried to comfort her as tears ran down their faces. In a softer tone, she said, “He was a good boy, Lieutenant. A son any mother would be proud of.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am. We’ll do everything we can to get justice for Jamal.”
“What will it matter?” Tamara asked bitterly. “It won’t bring him back.”
“No, it won’t, but it’ll ensure that whoever did this can’t do it to anyone else. I’ll need contact information for each of you.” She handed her notebook and pen to Misty. She wrote down the information and returned the notebook to Sam.
Sam gave her a business card. “If there’s anything I can do for any of you, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call. My cell number is on there.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Danita said. “I so admire you and your husband. I never dreamed that this is how I might meet you.”
Sam squeezed her arm. “Please call me if I can help.”
She nodded and Sam left them to cross the street, ducking back under the tape. “Tell me about the friends,” she said to Beckett.
Consulting his notes, he said, “Vincent Andina on the left and Corey Richie on the right. I ran all three boys, and only Richie popped up as being in the system for a misdemeanor that was adjudicated in juvie. EMTs checked them out, and they’re as okay as they can be under the circumstances. A little shell-shocked, but that’s to be expected.”
“Good work, Beckett. Thank you.” She approached the two boys who sat together on the stairs of a townhouse. “I’m Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD.”
“You’re the chick that nailed that guy at the parade,” Vincent said. Like Jamal, he was black but had dyed his hair blond.
“Yeah, that was me.”
“That was cool.”
“Glad you thought so. I’d like to speak to you separately, if you don’t mind. Vincent, can you please come with me?”
He exchanged glances with Corey, who was Hispanic. “I guess so.”
Sam walked him a hundred feet from where his friend sat on the stoop. “Can you tell me what happened today?”
“We went to the movies at the Air and Space. Jamal... He liked that space shit and begged us to go with him so he wouldn’t have to go by himself. It was pretty cool.”
“How’d you get there?” Sam asked.
“Took the bus,” Vincent said, “and we was walking home when this car came flying down the street. It was going so fast that we kinda jumped out of the way cuz we were afraid it might hit us. Then there was a loud boom and Jamal... He just went down.”
“Did you get a good look at the car?”
He shook his head. “It happened so fast,” Vincent said. “The car was long gone by the time we realized Jamal had been shot.”
“Think about it. Was it a regular car or a truck or an SUV? Any detail you can give us would help.”
For a long moment, he was quiet as he tried to remember. “I think it was black. And a regular car. Not a truck or an SUV. But I can’t be sure. It was like a flash flying by us, and when we heard the boom, I got kind of confused about what was happening. I was on the inside. Jamal was closest to the street and Corey was in the middle.” Vincent wiped a tear off his face. “Why would anyone want to hurt Jamal? He was the nicest kid.”
“It’s very possible,” Sam said, “that these guys, whoever they are, were looking to hurt someone, and it didn’t matter who it was.”
“That’s so fucked-up,” Vincent said.
“I agree. I have to ask if any of you had any contact with gangs or friends who are in gangs.”
“We all know people who are into that shit, but we aren’t.”
“Did Jamal or either of you have any beefs with anyone?”
“Nah,” Vincent said. “Nothing that would get us shot. Some chirping and crap on Twitter. Whatever. No one wanted us dead. Least not that we knew about.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” She handed him her card. “If you think of anything else, call me. Even if it’s the smallest detail that comes back to you tomorrow or the next day or chatter you see online. Call me.”
He nodded in acknowledgment.
“I’m really sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks,” Vincent said, wiping more tears from his face.
She had a similar conversation with Corey, who didn’t add anything new to what Vincent had told her. Sam went to talk to Beckett. “Have their parents been called?”
“They’re on their way.”
“Don’t bring them down here. Meet them at the corner or something. They don’t need to see this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beckett ushered the boys to the far end of the street.
“What’s the plan, Lieutenant?” Gonzo asked as Sam took a good look around at the nearby houses.
“We need an APB for a fast-moving black sedan. Make sure they know these people are armed and not afraid to shoot.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Gonzo said.
“What do we have for cameras around here?”
“There’s one at either end of the block, and I’ve already asked Archie to pull the feed,” Gonzo said of Lieutenant Archelotta, who ran the IT squad.
As Lindsey wheeled Jamal’s body to the Medical Examiner’s truck, Sam said, “Let’s canvass the crowd and go door-to-door to see if anyone else witnessed the shooting. When we get back to the house, I want to go through all their social media accounts. My gut is telling me this is random, but we need to check all the boxes.”
They spent the next hour talking to each person at the scene and knocking on every door on the street but didn’t find any other witnesses to the shooting. A few had heard the boom of the shot and had rushed outside to see what’d happened. None of them reported seeing the car or the shooter.
When they’d done what they could, they turned things over to the Crime Scene detectives. “Let’s pick it up at HQ and see what Archie has for us.”