Justice (6 page)

“The guy who broke into Mount Vernon. I thought you knew that.”

Maddock said, “I knew his face but not his name. Go on.”

“For some reason, Edmonia has been fascinated lately with Lafayette. She’s been collecting his papers and correspondence. She found out that Washington promised to give Lafayette something big, something incredible.”

“What would that be?” Maddock asked.

“I don’t know, and if she knows, she’s playing it close to the vest. Anyway, we found out a letter from Washington to Lafayette, one that was never mailed, had recently been discovered and sent to Mount Vernon. It told Lafayette where to look for something, a paper with some kind of clues on it. That’s all I know.”

“How did Wright know about the letter?”

Guter said, “She’s Edmonia Jennings Wright. She’s got access to stuff the NSA wishes it had.”

“What did he find?”

“I don’t know.”

Bones exerted some additional pressure with his knee and Guter winced.

“Ow! Ow! I have no idea. I never even saw it! I just know he recovered something. Jamison is supposed to wait twenty-four hours in case he’s being surveilled and then deliver it to Ms. Wright.”

              Bones raised his eyebrows and Maddock gave a slight nod. The big man let up the pressure a bit and said, “Which would be right about now, right?”

Guter nodded.

Maddock lowered his head so it was closer to the position of Guter’s. “What’s the endgame? What does Edmonia hope to ultimately find?”

“I can’t say for certain. I just know it has something to do with Joan of Arc.”

Cyrus Jamison maintained
a healthy respect for the combat abilities of Edmonia Jennings Wright, despite the sheer improbability of a woman her age wielding such skill and maintaining such physical prowess. Whatever it was that kept her strong and fit, it bordered on magical. He feared no man or woman, but he practiced ruthless objectivity when it came to evaluating the skills of others. Wright’s talent for martial arts placed her in a select and lethal group populated mostly by individuals serving in Special Forces from various nations and eastern practitioners who devoted their lives to it. Nearly all such individuals were male and between the ages of twenty and fifty.

Jamison still didn’t know exactly how Wright had come by her skills. But he was quite sure that the planet contained no other woman over seventy who could best her. Hell, a lot of men many years her junior couldn’t handle her. As her sometime sparring partner, Jamison knew that his equal skills and relative youth could defeat her, but only if he maintained the proper focus.

Consequently, his respect for her was genuine, not that of a subordinate trying to remain in his employer’s good graces. Wright seemed to know this, as she didn’t speak down to him the way she did nearly every other person with whom she came into contact. She had summoned him to the office at the Baltimore house for a late night discussion about the document he had retrieved the previous day.

Seated behind a large mahogany desk which amplified awareness of how slight her figure was, she wore the same baggy black pants and shirt as always. In her own home, she rarely wore the nylon top with the back hood that added an aura of mystery to her appearances in public. Her brown eyes promised a combination of secrecy and disappointment. The ornate sconce to the left of the desk gave off a soft light and left a lot of shadows in the room.

“I understand Dane Maddock appeared on the scene shortly after your departure. Will I never be rid of that man?”

It was a rhetorical question, so Jamison chose not to reply.

“I understand he now refers to me as Grandma Ninja.”

Jamison chuckled. “It’s not what they call you. It’s what you answer to.”

“Quoting Bill Clinton is beneath you, Cyrus.” A sly grin creased her face. “I kind of like it myself. It conveys a certain respect while allowing those boys to retain some small fraction of their fragile egos. In any case, I believe you have something for me.”

Jamison handed her a yellowed page inside a protective envelope. He had liberated it from Mount Vernon during the break-in, but as previously agreed he had waited twenty-four hours before making delivery.

“And the painting?” Wright arched an eyebrow.

“Switched out for the fake.”

Wright nodded and then removed the sheet from the envelope. “This is in George Washington’s hand. I recognize it. Unfortunately, it tells us nothing we don’t already know.”

“Not entirely,” Jamison said.

Frowning, Wright cleared her throat and began to read.

“My Dear Marquis,

I regret that I must forego the warm greetings which I would normally extend to you. I have fallen gravely ill and fear these hours will be my last. You will recall I have previously made reference to a secret which I intended to share with you at the proper time. Should I expire before you again return to these shores, this letter and another item of great import I shall entrust to the most reliable man I know. I pray you may rest your head at Mount Vernon one last time. You
guard
the secret.

Yours affectionately,

G Washington”

Wright raised her head. “I assume the other item was the journal, but what in this letter do you consider new information?”

“The last sentence. ‘You guard the secret.’ Present tense, with emphasis on ‘guard’ for some reason.”

“So?”

“It occurred to me that the letter could be taken literally, so I went to the place where Lafayette would have rested his head.”

“The Lafayette bedroom,” Wright said.

Jamison nodded. “Facing the bed is…”

“A portrait of Lafayette,” Wright finished.

“I found these hidden inside, affixed to the back of the painting.” He reached inside his jacket and took out another envelope.

“You know how I feel about people who waste time on theatrics,” Wright said. “Give me those.”

Chastened, Jamison handed them over. “I can tell you they are pages from a personal journal, written in a cipher. I decoded them.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper.

Wright looked it over. “This can’t be all of it.”

“Not even close. The person to whom Washington entrusted the journal must have only hidden the first two pages behind the painting and kept the remainder for himself. I hope what you’re looking for hasn’t already been found.”

Wright closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. Something like that would be difficult to keep hidden. I’m certain it never reached Lafayette. I’ve exhausted the possibilities on that score.” She paused. “Now we need to figure out who, exactly, Washington considered the “most reliable man” he knew.

Outside the window
, Maddock and Bones exchanged glances.

Sneaking onto the grounds of Wright’s home had been child’s play. Dressed in black and following Jamison’s car through the gate had ensured they would remain undetected. Eavesdropping on Wright and Jamison in the study was no challenge, either. Bones’ legendary stealth and the fact that the desk was tucked into a bay window alcove allowed them to creep within a few feet of the woman and hear everything that was said.

They waited to hear more, but Wright dismissed Jamison. She took a long look at the translation her agent had given her, and then deposited it along with the letter in her desk. She rose to her feet and turned her gaze toward a large painting that dominated the far wall. Joan of Arc!

“My lady,” she said, “I swear I will find it.” With that, the woman sat down at the center of the floor, assumed a lotus position, and began to meditate.

“I think,” Maddock whispered to Bones, “we should get busy.”

Melissa was waiting
when they arrived back at their motel room. Maddock hadn’t wanted her to go home yet, just in case the Sons of the Republic wanted another go at the Mount Vernon staff. He wasn’t worried about being discovered, as Bones had booked their room under the name Elvis Lennon, for reasons known only to him.

“I’m so glad you’re all right!” she said as the two SEALs walked through the door. She threw her arms around Maddock, gave him a tight squeeze, and then quickly drew away. “What did you find out?”

“Right down to business, huh?” Maddock asked, a little disappointed she hadn’t greeted him with a kiss.

“This is a scary situation and I want to know what’s going on.”

“Fill her in, Maddock.” Bones dropped down on one of the queen beds, his size thirteen feet hanging off the end as they did nearly everywhere Maddock had seen him sleep.

Maddock quickly recounted what they had learned, omitting the part where a guy held a Desert Eagle in his face.

“It’s obviously the mysterious journal they’re looking for,” she said. “That must be what Washington wanted Lafayette to have.” She frowned. “But there’s something I don’t understand. Washington lived for several years after this letter was written, and he would have had opportunities to give the journal to Lafayette.”

“Wright is certain it didn’t get to Lafayette,” Bones said quickly. He glanced at Maddock, who knew what his friend was thinking.
Avoid the subject of Washington’s death.
Not for the first time, Maddock wondered if he’d always be forced to keep secrets from the people he cared about.

“Let’s assume he went ahead and handed the journal off to this ‘most reliable man.’ Any idea who that would be?” Maddock asked.

A knock at the door cut off Melissa’s reply.

Bones and Maddock sprang to their feet. Had the Sons found them?

“It’s Sterling,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the door.

“How did she find us?” Bones muttered as he headed for the door.

Sterling pushed the door open as soon as Bones had cracked it, forcing him to jump out of the way and back into the motel bathroom. She showed no signs of the brief detente from the previous day.

“You two haven’t reported back to me,” she said, closing the door behind her and locking it.

“We decided to stake out Edmonia Jennings Wright’s house. We questioned one of her men, a guy named Guter, and he pointed us in the right direction.”

Sterling crossed her arms. “And he just willingly shared the information with you?”

Bones stepped in front of her. “We can be very persuasive. Don’t you want to hear what happened next?”

“I sure as hell don’t want to hear what you did to get him to talk, but I doubt I’m going to like what happened next any better.”

Maddock said, “No, you won’t. You asked for our aid, so we took action. We got some information and we might need you to grease the rails as we move forward. So either head on back to Virginia or stop busting our chops and start working with us.”

Sterling didn’t back down, but some fire had left her voice. “You know I have the power to arrest you.”

“Sure. But you already told us your pursuit is unofficial. My guess is that actually arresting us is the last thing you want to do.”

She stared at Maddock for a long moment before lowering herself into a chair next to the room’s small desk and lamp. “I’m not going to apologize, but I’ll admit you have a point. Tell me what you know.”

Maddock and Bones told her everything Guter had said, as well as the subsequent events at Wright’s house, including the presence of the man from the security video at Mount Vernon.

Sterling considered this. “So, any idea who Washington’s trusted man was?”

“That’s what we were talking about when you arrived,” Maddock paused, a sudden thought hitting him. “You know what? I’ve been overthinking this!”

“No! Not you!” Bones jibed.

“Bite me. Anyway, I think I know who the person is.”

The Smithsonian National
Museum of American History stood on Constitution Avenue on the north side of the National Mall in Washington, DC. As they mounted the steps, Maddock stole a glance over his shoulder at the Washington Monument jutting up over the thin tree line. No matter how many times he visited the nation’s capital, he found himself mesmerized by the history represented here.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Bones’ sweeping gesture took in the museum’s gray façade.

“It gets better on the inside. At least, it does if you like history.”

“I hear they’ve got one of Elvis’ outfits from his Vegas days in here.”

“They’ve got a little bit of everything,” Sterling said.

Maddock held the glass door for the others and the group proceeded inside. Five minutes later they were ushered into a tiny office with the name LISA ACIE etched on a nameplate beside the door.

Lisa Acie, a woman of medium height with light brown skin and long, lustrous black hair, greeted them with a warm, friendly smile and shook hands with each of them. Maddock didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered on Bones as she invited them to sit.

“I have to say, I don’t get many interview requests,” she began, taking off her glasses and laying them on her desk. “What exactly can I help you with?”

“We’re interested in Billy Lee,” Maddock said. “We understand you’re a descendant.”

“That’s correct.” She was speaking to Maddock, but her eyes kept drifting to Bones. “His life is fairly well documented. I’m not sure how I can help you.”

That was true. William “Billy” Lee was George Washington’s slave and personal valet. One of the most trusted people in Washington’s circle, he attended to Washington’s personal needs and filled a variety of roles. An expert horseman, he became Washington’s huntsman, the man in charge of the hounds, on Washington’s frequent hunting trips, and served him throughout the Revolutionary War and until his passing.

“The Smithsonian has a collection of Lee artifacts that are currently off display,” Sterling interjected.

“That’s true. It’s a small collection. Is there something in particular you’re interested in?”

“A journal,” Maddock said.

“I’m sorry. If Lee kept a journal, it was lost over the years. There’s no journal in the collection and no one in the family has mentioned one.”

Maddock didn’t miss the way her eyes flitted downward and her fingers twitched. She might not be lying, but something wasn’t quite right.

“The journal we’re looking for belonged to George Washington. We think he entrusted it to Billy on his deathbed, possibly to be passed along to Lafayette.”

Acie froze, panic filling her eyes.

Bones reached out and took her hand. “Someone we care about is in danger because of this journal. If there’s anything you can tell us…”

Acie’s eyes moved to the open door of her office. “Close the door.” When Bones had complied, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal of this. It’s just not something the family talks about.”

Bones nodded. “Sort of like my great uncle’s third…”

“Focus, Bones!” Maddock snapped.

Acie managed a grin. “You’re right. Before he died, Washington entrusted a journal to Lee with instructions that it be passed along to Lafayette, but Lee only passed along a few pages and kept the rest for himself.”

“Why?” Bones asked.

“Bitterness. Billy Lee was a trusted confidant, a friend to Washington. He stayed by Washington’s side while this country fought a war in the name of freedom, yet he remained a slave until Washington’s death. ‘All men are created equal’ my ass,” she added under her breath.

“Makes sense,” Bones said.

“Not entirely. Lee claimed that Washington broke his promise. He told his descendants that he actually remained enslaved for several years after Washington’s death, but that doesn’t make sense, since he was freed in Washington’s will. The family just chalked it up to his alcoholism.”

Maddock wished he could tell her that it did make sense, but now was not the time or place. Besides, Acie seemed to trust them. He didn’t want to change that by revealing what would likely sound like a conspiracy theory.

“One historian said,
‘If Billy Lee had been a white man he would have had an honored place in American history because of his close proximity to George Washington during the most exciting periods of his career. But because he was a black servant, a humble slave, he has been virtually ignored.’
” She shook her head. “Anyway, according to family tradition, the journal was written in code. Lee referred to it as his inheritance, and swore that one day he’d use it to give his family a better life. But, between his struggles with alcohol and the debilitating injuries he’d suffered in Washington’s service, he declined fast and didn’t leave Mount Vernon until he died.”

“Did he pass the journal along to his descendants?” Maddock asked.

Acie nodded. “He did, but not until his death, almost thirty years after Washington died.”

“What was in it?” Bones pressed. “What made it an ‘inheritance’?”

“Again, all I know is the lore passed down through generations of our family. The journal was written in some kind of code, and by the time Lee’s death approached, he was so far gone he claimed he couldn’t remember why it had been so important. His descendants were poor and uneducated. Even if some of them wanted to decipher it, it’s doubtful they would have been able to. And if they succeeded, what would they do with the information? Black freedmen held a station little above slaves.”

“Could they have asked for help?” Maddock asked.

“Sure,” Bones said. “Ask a white man for help. When has that ever gone wrong?”

Acie flashed a smile. “You know what I’m saying.”

“Any idea what happened to the journal?” Bones asked.

Acie nodded. “Shortly after the end of the Civil War, one of my ancestors donated it to the Grand Army of the Republic.”

“Never heard of it,” Bones said.

“It was a fraternal organization of veterans of the Union army. They lobbied for causes related to patriotism and veterans’ affairs. They even fought for voting rights for black veterans. My many-greats uncle was a veteran and admired the organization. He donated it with the condition that it be placed beneath the foundation of the memorial to Lincoln. That’s all I know.”

“Lincoln? Not Washington?” Sterling asked.

Acie shrugged. “Lincoln was the Great Emancipator. Washington set some slaves free, but not until he was dead and no longer had any use for them. Maybe that was it.”

Sterling rose and offered her hand to shake. “Thank you for your help. We’ll let you get back to your work.”

“My pleasure.” Acie handed a card to Bones. “Call me if I can be of further help.”

“My schedule’s tight just now, but I get back to DC from time to time.” He gave her a wink, turned, and led the way out.

“I don’t suppose your park service connections can get us access to the building records of the Lincoln Memorial?” Bones asked Sterling.

“I think they can. I’ll take it from here. If I need you I’ll get in touch.” She pushed her way into the crowd of tourists and hurried away, her red hair marking her route.”

“I guess that’s it,” Bones said. “This must be what chicks feel like when I make my early morning exits.”

“Oh, this isn’t it.” Maddock turned to Bones and grinned. “I think Sterling’s looking at the wrong monument.”