Words of Conviction Read online

  Praise for Words of Conviction

  “I have just two words to say about this book: READ IT! Words of Conviction is one novel of suspense you don’t want to miss.”

  —AnnTatlock, award-winning author of Sweet Mercy and Promises to Keep

  “Plunge into the inner workings of an FBI investigation with Linda J. White’s adrenaline-soaked story of Capitol Hill corruption and family intrigue. The pages just flutter away as the words hold all of the answers.”

  —Michael K. Reynolds, author of the acclaimed Heirs of Ireland series

  “Linda White has gifted us with a fast-paced thriller with some unexpected twists. She grabbed my attention at the outset and held it all the way through. Linda demonstrates an excellent grasp of FBI investigations and the varied proficiencies needed to successfully resolve public corruption and violent crime cases—from dogged street-level investigation to forensics to technology to psycholinguistics. Her characters are real and have depth, with credible family backgrounds and personalities. They’re not plastic superheroes, but men and women who have the courage and integrity to wrestle with the tough questions in life—questions everyone in law enforcement has to ask when daily faced with evil and suffering. Linda’s writing leaves me wanting to know more about these agents—their histories, their investigations, and how they resolve those tough questions.”

  —Drucilla Wells, retired FBI supervisory agent and behavioral analyst

  “Words of Conviction is another winner for mystery writer Linda White. Linda describes her writing as ‘white-knuckle fiction,’ but ‘up-all-night fiction’ would be a better description. The fast-paced plot keeps you reading to find out whether agents Kenzie Graham and John Crowfeather can unravel the puzzle that will lead them to five-year-old Zoe in time.”

  —Jane Richstein, Sundial Books, Chincoteague Island, VA

  Other Books by Linda J. White

  Bloody Point

  Seeds of Evidence

  Words of Conviction

  Copyright © 2014 by Linda J. White

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68299-858-8

  Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

  www.abingdonpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Scripture quotations taken from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  White, Linda J., 1949-

   Words of conviction / Linda J. White.

    1 online resource.

   Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

   ISBN 978-1-4267-8726-3 (epub) — ISBN 978-1-4267-3541-7 (pbk., adhesive binding, soft black : alk. paper) 1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Children—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Government investigators gsafd I. Title.

   PS3623.H5786

   813’.6—dc23

  2013036403

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Sharon, who knows words and loves the Word

  Acknowledgments

  “Friends,” wrote Thoreau, “are kind to each other’s dreams.” I have had good friends, godly friends who have nurtured and nourished and prayed for my writing dreams, including this book. For them I will be eternally grateful.

  Sharon Smith, PhD, my sister-in-Christ, a retired FBI agent and real-life forensic psycholinguist, has walked this journey with me now for many years. Every authentic bit of language analysis in this book is hers; any mistakes are mine. Sharon has shared with me her knowledge of threats, deception, analysis, psychopathy, and all manner of other law-enforcement subjects. More than that, she has shared with me her life. I’m so happy to have this brilliant, beautiful, and generous woman as my friend!

  My prayer group—Sharon, Sue, Kathleen, Terri, and Terry—have worn out their knees on my behalf. What would I do without their support? My family, too, has lifted my weary spirits on many an occasion: my husband, Larry; son, Matt; daughters, Becky and Sarah; my sons-in-law, Chris and Michael; my sisters, Karen and Jackie; and my mom—you all have my gratitude.

  I know all too well the way my brain works. I think globally, and miss the details, painting broad landscapes with words but leaving stones and pebbles in place that would make readers stumble. How grateful I am to have sharp-eyed people coming behind me! Retired FBI Agent Dru Wells pointed out many of those stumbling stones, as did my friends Kate Jordan and Hilary Kanter. Abingdon Press editors, including Ramona Richards and Teri Wilhelms, smoothed out the final product. Books & Such agent Janet Grant always offers wise counsel. Thank you all so much!

  Finally, my Virginia license plate, RYTN4HM, says it all: I write to glorify Jesus Christ. He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and my greatest joy. When I write (paraphrasing Eric Liddell), I feel His pleasure! Thank you, Lord, for your unsearchable riches and unfathomable grace.

  1

  Mackenzie Graham leaned toward the flickering candle, her fork poised above the broiled Chilean sea bass arranged artfully before her on a square black plate. Her instincts told her that her companion was about to take the bait.

  Across the table, Senator Bruce Grable cut lustily into his steak. He looked James Bond handsome, his dark hair perfectly edged in silver at his temples, his blue eyes set wide, his jaw strong. Silk palms and ficus trees separated the white-shrouded tables, giving the illusion of privacy in the trendy new Washington restaurant. “So tell me,” Kenzie said looking intently into Grable’s bright blue eyes, “what made you decide to get into politics?”

  “I wanted to help people,” he said, stabbing a piece of steak and thrusting it into his mouth.

  “That’s the way I see my job, too, Senator—helping people connect.” Kenzie smiled demurely. She tossed her head and as she did, her blonde hair brushed her bare shoulders. She saw his eyes follow the movement. The senator was on his third marriage but he clearly hadn’t stopped looking. “Your daughter must be about to start school.”

  He smiled. “Zoe? Yes. She starts kindergarten in the fall.” Grable had been quick to pull out pictures of the little blonde five-year-old when they first sat down.

  “You’re sending her to private school.”

  “Of course.” Grable took a sip of his wine.

  “And you told me your older children are in college,” Kenzie shook her head, “I don’t know how you do it on just a senator’s salary!”

  “I know. The taxpayers think what we make is a lot, but they don’t know the expenses we have!”

  Kenzie smiled. “That’s why we’d like to help.”

  Grable swallowed. His eyes flickered and she knew he was once again considering her offer.

  “When would it be delivered?” he asked.

  She reached down, pulled a bulging GQ magazine out of her tote bag, and handed it to him, watching his face carefully. “Twenty-five percent. I can supply the rest as soon as the first contract is signed.”

  The senator kept the magazine low, nearly under the table, while he deftly slipped out the envelope hidden inside. Looking down, he peeked at the contents, then tucked it into the breast pocket
of his suit coat. It looked like he’d done it before, many, many times. “And all you need is some help with the Department of Defense?”

  She nodded. “An inside track on those contracts.”

  “I can do that,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “Great!” Kenzie raised her glass to meet his.

  The couple at the next table stood up, stepped past the palms, and approached them.

  “Senator Grable?” the man said. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, the man’s sharp gray suit contrasted nicely with his white shirt.

  Grable turned to look at him.

  “Special Agent James Anderson, FBI,” the man said, opening a leather credentials case and showing it to the senator. “You’re under arrest, sir.”

  “What?” Grable pushed his chair back and stood up, his face red, his voice angry.

  “Selling influence, sir. That’s illegal.”

  “Special Agent Toni Carroll,” Anderson’s partner said, flashing her own creds. “Turn around, and give me your hands. Do you have any weapons?” She looked small next to Grable, but her voice had an unmistakable tone of authority.

  “Weapons? Are you . . .”

  “You have the right to remain silent.”

  Grable looked at Kenzie in disbelief. “Who are you?” the senator demanded, spit flying in Kenzie’s direction.

  “Special Agent Mackenzie Graham,” she said briskly. “Oh, and don’t worry about the tab, Senator—the director will pick it up.” She threw her black shawl over her shoulders, reached down for her purse, and headed for the door. “Thanks, Paul,” she said to the maître d’ as she walked past him. “Jim will settle up with you.”

  “Great job, Kenzie,” Jim said a few minutes later, standing next to her car in the parking garage. “You got everything we needed.” He smiled.

  The night air felt cool, a welcome relief from the hot August day. Kenzie placed the recording device she’d been wearing in an evidence bag labeled with the case number. She signed and dated the bag, noting the time, and handed it to the older agent, who signed the bag as well, establishing the legal chain of custody that would prove crucial in a trial.

  “You’re not going to come celebrate with us?” he asked.

  Kenzie shook her head. “I’ve got to get home to Jack. And I’ve got to stop by the office and pick up some work.”

  Jim’s gray eyebrows narrowed. “The boss giving you a hard time?”

  “He still thinks psycholinguistics is voodoo science and because I’m short on street experience, he’s convinced I’m not tough enough to be an agent.” Kenzie sighed. “I think it’s his personal mission to break me. So he’s finding loose threads in my old cases and doubling my work.” She frowned. “What am I supposed to do? The Bureau needed me at the Academy, temporarily anyway. I can’t help it if that makes him short one agent at the field office.”

  Jim shook his head. “You do great work, Kenzie. Don’t let him bug you.”

  Kenzie thanked him. She started to put the key in the lock of her dark red rental car, then froze. A spider was crawling across the door handle.

  Jim’s cell phone rang. “Hold on,” he said, touching her arm. She wrenched her eyes off the spider and turned toward him. “Anderson. Yes. What? When?” Cradling the phone with his shoulder, he pulled a pen and a small notebook out of his pocket and began jotting notes. “OK, OK . . . right. She’s right here. I’ll tell her. Fifteen minutes, if not sooner.” He clicked the phone off and looked at Kenzie, his brow furrowed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “D.C. police have responded to a possible kidnapping, 3217 27th Street NW.”

  “Senator Grable’s house?” A jolt of adrenaline ran through Kenzie.

  “His five-year-old daughter is missing.”

  “Zoe? This happened tonight?” Kenzie’s heart raced.

  Jim nodded. “While we were in the restaurant. The Bureau’s been called out. That was the case agent, Scott Hansbrough. You know him?”

  She could barely breathe. “He’s why I’m with the Bureau.”

  “He wants you there.”

  “Got it!” She turned back to the car and jerked the door open.

  2

  The Grables’ home, a typical Georgetown center-hall red-brick Colonial, sat on a narrow street on the edge of Rock Creek Park. Kenzie, still in her high heels and little black dress, scrambled to keep up with Special Agent Scott Hansbrough. He was tall and athletic, and it seemed like she had to take two strides for every one of his. The heels didn’t help.

  Kenzie could smell boxwoods near the house. There would be azaleas in the yard, too, she knew, and at least one tulip magnolia. It wasn’t hard to imagine the standard Washington plantings.

  One ambulance, lights flashing, stood out front next to a single police car. They were keeping things quiet, Kenzie realized. Causing a big stir might make a kidnapper do something rash.

  “Kenzie,” Scott said, stopping suddenly and turning toward her. His sheer size would stop anyone in their tracks. Kenzie looked up at him. He wore his brown hair short, like a Marine. His left cheek bore a thin scar from a long-ago suspect’s knife. Dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, he looked sharp.

  Scott lowered his voice, “I want you with me when I interview Grable’s wife. Watch her. See if you can pick up any deception, any hint that she might be involved.” The lights of the ambulance reflected in his eyes and highlighted the intensity in his face.

  “Right,” she said. In a kidnapping case, law enforcement officers had to rule out those closest to the victim as suspects first. Kenzie searched her mind for what she knew about the senator’s wife.

  Scott turned and trotted up the front steps two at a time, knocked at the front door, and flashed his creds at the police officer who opened it. The cop glanced back at Kenzie, instantly reminding her how out of place she looked in her little black dress and high heels.

  “She’s with me,” Scott said firmly. The cop nodded and stepped back to let them in.

  Kenzie had always admired the way Scott could walk into a room and take charge. People instantly respected him. She figured it had to be some male pheromone. “It doesn’t come so easily to me,” she’d told Jack one day when they were jogging. “I’ve got to work at it.”

  “Special Agent Hansbrough, FBI,” Scott said, announcing his presence to the distraught woman in the living room. “Parlor” they would probably call it, Kenzie thought. Mrs. Grable had grown up in Atlanta and despite her home’s colonial style, she had decorated the inside with the melon colors of her childhood: Pale green, cantaloupe, and a touch of watermelon red here and there. It looked gorgeous.

  “Where is he? Where is my husband?” Mrs. Grable demanded, rushing toward Scott. A thin, wispy blonde, she barely looked old enough to have a five-year-old daughter.

  “Calm down, Mrs. Grable,” Scott said. “He’s at the FBI office. We’ll get him over here as soon as we can.”

  Elizabeth Grable—her husband called her Beth—wore a pale pink suit, Armani, Kenzie guessed, with a white silk blouse and gold. Lots of gold.

  “Why aren’t you doing something? Why aren’t you looking for her?” Mrs. Grable screamed, looking around. Her eyes fell on Kenzie and narrowed. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Special Agent Mackenzie Graham,” she replied. Mrs. Grable stared at her as if she didn’t believe her. Kenzie blamed the little black dress.

  “Mrs. Grable, is there somewhere we can go to talk?” Scott said, taking charge. “I’d like to hear what happened.”

  The sunroom off the kitchen worked perfectly. Plush cushions covered in a gorgeous green leafy design with yellow accents softened the white wicker furniture. A few throw rugs lay on the tile floor, while potted tropical plants added a natural feel. Beth Grable sat perched on the edge of the love seat, twisting a tissue in her hand. Kenzie waited with her while Scott talked to the Metropolitan PD officer who had responded to the 911 call.

  After a f
ew moments, Scott appeared, sat down, and immediately Mrs. Grable launched into her story. “It was my mah-jongg night, you see, and Bruce said he had a dinner date with some . . . some aide and said he would be late.”

  Chalk up one lie for the senator. Kenzie made a mental note.

  “Our nanny was here, so I didn’t see the harm in going.”

  “You play frequently?” Scott asked.

  “Every week.”

  “Always on the same night?” Scott leaned toward her, notebook in hand, his broad shoulders stretching the limits of his navy blue suit, his dark brown eyes focused on Mrs. Grable’s face.

  “Oh, yes, Tuesday night at seven o’clock.”

  “What time did you leave tonight?”

  “Why, six-forty, I believe. Yes, that would be right. I was running five minutes late.”

  Scott was establishing the window of opportunity for the kidnapping, Kenzie knew.

  “How many of you play?” he asked.

  “How many players? Eight. We have two alternates.”

  “How does the evening go?”

  “What difference does that make?” Mrs. Grable exploded.

  Scott waited for her to calm down. “It matters. Trust me.”

  She rolled her eyes, her cheeks wet with tears. Then she brushed her hair back from her face. “We play for two and a half hours, with a half-hour break in the middle. The hostess provides refreshments. We rotate bringing prizes.”

  “So you left around what time?” Scott asked.

  “Ten o’clock. We always leave at ten.” Mrs. Grable twisted the tissue in her hands. “I drove home, and when I pulled up, I knew something was wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Zoe’s bedroom light—why would it be on if she were sleeping?” Mrs. Grable got up and began pacing. “I felt angry at first. I thought maybe she was manipulating the nanny again, staying up past her bedtime. I parked in the garage and let myself in through the kitchen door. I put my purse down and headed for the stairs. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” tears welled again in her eyes and streamed over her cheeks. “I saw her, the nanny, lying at the bottom of the stairs, lying there . . . with this thing on her head.”