9:58 a.m.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
Phillip Jameson sat at his desk. He split his attention between examining the contents of a case file and writing on a notepad. He pushed aside a piece of paper and picked up an eight-by-ten photo. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. The photo depicted an attractive woman wearing a two-piece bathing suit. In red marker, a childlike drawing of a crown had been added above the woman’s head. To the right of the crown, also in red marker, the word ‘winner’ was printed. Jameson placed the print to the left and continued thumbing through the rest of the pages.
FBI Director Phillip Jameson had recently turned fifty, though no one could have guessed his age. He was physically fit, following an exercise regimen of weightlifting and jogging. He stood five-feet, eleven-inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His work attire consisted of a black suit, black shoes, white shirt and a red tie. He changed the shade and print of the tie, but the color was always red. His clothing was a projection of what could be expected from him—a man who displayed impeccable leadership and decision-making skills, while demanding his agents uphold the same high standard of integrity.
For the next couple of minutes, he added to his notes. Hearing a knock on his office door, he paused, glanced at the digital clock on his desk and went back to writing. “The door’s open.”
Special Agents Cruz and Ashford entered. Ashford closed the door, while Cruz slipped between two straight-back chairs, facing Jameson’s desk. She smiled. “Good morning, sir. You wanted to see us.”
Not looking up, Jameson pointed with his pen. “Have a seat.”
Cruz sat in the chair to Jameson’s left and crossed her legs, resting her hands on her thigh. She saw Ashford claim the other chair.
Jameson let go of the pen, put his eyeglasses on the notepad and rocked backward in his chair. Letting out a sigh, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Righting himself, he donned his eyeglasses and skimmed the contents of the file folder. “I got a call from a friend of mine—” Jameson stopped short. “First of all, I want to congratulate the both of you on apprehending Peterson and Lopez.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Ashford, crossing his legs.
“It’s good to know they’re out of play.” Jameson took a hard look at his agents. “I know you’ve got to be tired after all the hours you’ve spent tracking them down.”
Remembering their phone call and Ashford’s age-related joke, Cruz shot a sideways glance at him.
Jameson picked up the photo from the file folder. “However, I need you two to do me a favor. As I started to say, a friend of mine, the sheriff of a small town to the north, contacted me about a body discovered this morning. I’d like you to head up there and see if you can help him out with the investigation.”
“Do we have jurisdictional authority?”
Jameson shook his head.
“Is the victim somehow connected to the government?”
Jameson held up his hands. “That hasn’t been determined yet.”
Cruz glanced toward Ashford. “Sir, with all due respect, how does a small-town murder case involve the FBI? We have enough work to keep us busy. Let the locals take care of their own problems.” She was familiar with what happened when federal agents showed up at local investigations. The hometown police were never pleased and usually became obstacles in the pursuit of justice. Still tired, she was not feeling up to going toe-to-toe with a sheriff and his deputies.
Jameson rotated the photograph and set it on the opposite edge of his desk, facing her. “This was found on the body.”
Cruz uncrossed her legs and leaned forward to see the image. Her body stiffened. “That was found with the victim?”
Jameson nodded. “I thought you’d be interested.”
Cruz squinted. “It could be a coincidence. It might not mean anything.”
“Or, it could mean something.”
Ashford pinched the picture between his thumb and forefinger and leaned backward. “Whoa, she’s hot. Is she a witness?”
Jameson ordered the pieces of paper and slid them into the file folder.
Ashford let out a low whistle. “I’m not sure I’ve seen a skimpier bathing suit.” He whipped his head toward Cruz. “I call dibs on the interview.”
Cruz’s cheeks flushed and she felt her body perspiring. “Give me that.” She snatched the photo from his hands. “Show some professionalism.” She placed it on the desk, face down.
Ashford shied away, his head cocked, eyebrows arched.
Trying to re-collect her composure, Cruz resumed a relaxed posture and crossed her legs. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“It’s all in here.” Jameson handed over the file folder. “You can review it on your way up there. Take the day and meet with the sheriff. Maybe you can shed some light on what happened.”
Taking the cue the meeting was over, Cruz and Ashford stood. She hung back, while Ashford made his way to the door. Retrieving an envelope from the pocket of her suit coat, she placed it on the Director’s nameplate and walked away.
“What’s this?” Jameson flipped over the envelope and saw his name written on it.
Reaching the doorway, Cruz spun around and lifted her chin toward him. “Open it and find out, sir.”
He pushed aside the unsealed flap and slid out a simple light blue greeting card. In dark black ink, the numbers five and zero took up most of the cover. He opened the card and read it to himself: …is the new 39! At the bottom was handwritten: Happy Birthday, Cruz
Cruz saw a barely perceptible grin flash across his face.
He regarded his agent. “How’d you find out?” Jameson had never celebrated a birthday at work. He had kept the date, today’s date, to himself. He was a private person and did not like people making a fuss over him.
She shrugged. “You’re not the only one who has contacts in the bureau.” Beaming, she left the office.
He read the card again. This time, alone in his office, he allowed himself to show a real smile. His joy did not come from the wit of the card maker. He could not care less about his age. It was only a number. No, he was happy Cruz had taken the time to remember him, even managing to do so without drawing unwanted attention. He carefully situated the card in front of the clock on his desk, so he would see it whenever he checked the time.
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