Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

Simon says you’re the best dad ever.
    Simon says win.
    Jack returned to the campaign trail the next day. Two days later, he and Monica buried their only child at the family plot at Finch Hill Corners, near the small coal-mining town of Carbondale, Pennsylvania, where they met in high school and never looked back.
    Jack closed his eyes. He could read the special inscription that he had added to the bottom of the epitaph on Simon’s gravestone.
    Dad says you’re my hero .
    A soft knock at the door startled Jack back from memory lane. Before swiveling back around in his chair, he wiped the tears staining his cheeks and returned the photo to his credenza.
    “Mr. President.”
    The man for whom President Butcher’s son was named stood in the doorway that separated their two offices. Behind Simon Shilling, Jack could see Harry Tharp champing at the bit. Something was up.
    Jack swallowed hard, hoping to dislodge the lump in his throat. “Just finishing up a call with Monica.”
    Simon approached the antique desk that once belonged to Benjamin Franklin. It had been part of Jack’s office in the Pennsylvania capitol, and it too was on loan for the duration of his term in the White House.
    “How is the First Lady?” Simon asked, his voice that of a longtime friend.
    It still sounded awkward to Jack that Simon rarely ever called Monica or him by anything other than their official titles, not even in the residence or when they were visiting with each other socially, away from the glare of political life. When Jack asked about it a few weeks after he took office, Simon had told him that every time they speak, the formal title is a gentle reminder that Jack was the president 24/7, 365 for hopefully 8 full years.
    “She’s fine. Not only will she have democracy instilled in every Middle Eastern country by next Tuesday, but I’m sure some of those nations will have female presidents.”
    Instead of even nervous laughter that Jack had come to depend on when he assumed his comedian in chief role, Simon remained silent with a hollow look etched in his face.
    “What is it?”
    “Mr. President, we have a situation. A plane has crashed at Reagan National.”
    Due to the tight security surrounding the nation’s capital, Dulles had been closed to the public. All flights, both private and commercial, were being diverted to Reagan and were being screened by both NEST and FBI personnel before they taxied to the terminals. Because Andrews Air Force Base couldn’t manage the influx of military aircraft that both delivered troops to help seal off the District and the ones that flew in to help monitor the airspace over D.C and the surrounding metropolitan area, Dulles had been converted into a secondary military airstrip for the time being.
    “Crashed? Do we know how? Was it private or commercial?”
    Simon’s thin eyebrows vanished behind his glasses as his eyes hardened. “Mr. President, it was Prime Minister Fantroy’s plane. We are certain that it was shot out of the sky.”

Chapter 66
    Lars Karlsson was feeling the weight of a full bladder after three cups of tea. It was almost two in the morning and he was no longer hungry but, having a mother who chided him as a child for not clearing his plate, Lars sunk his fork into the remaining half of his third scone with Devonshire cream. He finished reading the London Financial Times, folded the paper, and laid it on the table. Then he soaked up what was left of the raspberry jam puddle on his plate with the scone and popped it into his mouth. He remembered his mother’s stern commands as he chewed.
    “Chew slowly, Lars. Food is to be enjoyed. Think about what you are tasting.”
    Lars closed his eyes and savored his last bite, as the starchy pastry mixed with the sweet tang of the jam. He opened them in time to notice a young woman sauntering down the tight aisle of the New Piccadilly Café. Her clothes were French couture; Lars appreciated fine clothing and kept up with the latest in both men’s and women’s fashions. The dingy light that hovered inside the café picked up each brilliant speck of mini-pearl embroidery woven in the cashmere fabric of the woman’s black Chanel dress. Her square-toed heels tickled the dull vinyl floor. As she squeezed past him, a calfskin tote clutched between her elbow and ribcage, her wake smelled of cigarette smoke and a hint of citrusy perfume that left her admirers wanting more.
    Lars figured she was stopping in for a snack or a visit