The Widow's Secret. Sara Mitchell

in a court of law are upstanding citizens. Philanthropic do-gooders whose hearts as well as pockets are lined with gold.”

      “Yes, sir. There were those who praised William Tweed for his contributions to New York City’s railways, despite all the graft and corruption. I believe the Binghams are worse than Boss Tweed. My father—”

      “I’m aware of your father’s part in bringing our attention to this family,” the chief interrupted testily. “I’m equally cognizant that his murder was never solved and information he promised would clinch the case against the Binghams was never delivered. In eight years we’ve been unable to verify that proof ever existed.”

      “If we had more men working on the case now…”

      “At the time of your father’s murder, we did. Two of them were fired, and rightly so, for their unsavory methods.” Lips pursed, Hazen contemplated Micah for an uncomfortably long moment. “My predecessor informed me that although your father’s death was the primary motivation for your decision to join the Secret Service, your first allegiance has always been to the Service, not revenge. You’re an exemplary agent, MacKenzie. Don’t do anything rash to jeopardize my opinion of you.” He crossed over to stand directly in front of Micah. “Now. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

      Micah squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. Although we’ve never learned the details, we’ve known Rupert Bingham’s only son and heir, Chadwick, died five years ago. We did not know, however, what became of his wife. We do now.” Lord, please give me the right words. “Jocelyn Tremayne is Chadwick Bingham’s widow. After his death, for some unknown reason—though we can conjecture several—she reverted to her maiden name. Lastly, I haven’t been able to verify it, but…” The words choked his throat and he clenched his fists, until the remnant of painful emotion faded and he was able to finish. “I don’t believe there were children born of the marriage. Mrs. Tremayne refuses to discuss her husband at all.”

      He met the older man’s gaze without backing down. “Her marriage into the family does not indicate culpability, and her reticence concerning her husband may have more to do with a reserved personality than fear of exposure.”

      “Fear of exposure, you say. Well, I can enumerate some of your conjectures now. The woman was married to one of the richest men in the Northeast. It’s possible Chadwick Bingham was one of the malefactors. It’s also possible that his wife was, as well. On the other hand, it’s possible Mrs. Tremayne is innocent, and disappeared because she knows too much about her husband’s family.”

      Micah was grateful for the twig of an olive branch, however grudgingly extended. “My point exactly, sir. We cannot rule out some strong circumstantial evidence that the watchmaker’s murder in Richmond is connected to our case. The modus operandi is too similar. In fact,” he added casually, “because of my concern for her safety, I insisted that Mrs. Tremayne and her maid accompany me here to Washington. She needs protection, not persecution.”

      “It is not the job of the Secret Service to protect civilians!” Chief Hazen exploded. Red-faced, he jerked at his silk bow tie as though it were about to strangle him. “Even if the mandate existed, the funds are not available. We’re under-staffed and underbudgeted, thanks to those mouthpieces down the street in Congress.”

      “Mrs. Tremayne insisted on paying all expenses.” To the point that she refused to leave her house otherwise, Micah recalled with a faint smile. “And I believe, sir, that earlier this year after two operatives learned of suspicious threats against President Cleveland, you transferred those operatives here to Washington, to monitor them and their families. Keep them safe, same as we’re trying to keep the country’s currency safe? That’s all I’m trying to accomplish with Mrs. Tremayne.”

      The chief was shorter than Micah by several inches, but at that moment Hazen loomed over him like a sober-suited Goliath. “I may concede the point, Operative MacKenzie. But, mind you, don’t test my goodwill much further. Don’t ever withhold information from me again, or presume to act without authorization. We’ve spent over a decade shining the tarnish off our badges, proving this organization is peopled with men of honor and integrity. I will not let the Agency’s reputation deteriorate again, especially now, poised on the threshold of a new century.”

      “I understand, Chief Hazen. I give you my word it won’t happen again.” Sweat pooled in the small of Micah’s back, and he had to force himself to stand tall, not to beg, or rush into explanations that would only sound like rationalizations. “If you meet Mrs. Tremayne, sir, I believe you’ll see that my actions were justified.”

      The chief heaved an explosive sigh and clapped a firm hand on Micah’s back. “Then bring the lady here, and be done with it. I’d like to meet the woman who turned my best operative’s head.”

      “Sir, I—”

      “However…don’t let anything, including a mysterious young widow, place you in a potentially compromising position.”

      Each move deliberate, Chief Hazen walked over to the window and stared outside, toward the White House, hands clasped behind his back. “I want this counterfeiting network unmasked, stripped of its tentacles and every last member in jail by next spring, Operative MacKenzie. Every principal, every shover, every engraver, every wholesaler—the lot. I want the molds, the plates, the paper, even the blamed ink! I don’t care whether it’s Rupert Bingham himself, his brother-in-law or nephews. I don’t care if the ringleader turns out to be their butler, or the bootblack. Get these malefactors behind bars. Do whatever you have to, legally, in order to learn the identities of the persons who are undermining our country’s economic stability.”

      Turning, he walked back to his desk, picked up a file folder, carefully wound the string around the button tabs. Then he looked across at Micah. “After this meeting I’ll clear my schedule. I’ll see you and Mrs. Tremayne at four o’clock. But if I detect even the slightest trace of suspicion on her part—or inappropriate regard on yours—I’ll remove you from this case.”

      With Chief Hazen’s words buzzing like mosquitoes inside his head, Micah headed for the hotel where Mrs. Tremayne and Katya were staying. If Jocelyn Tremayne turned out to be a counterfeit of the woman he remembered, the chief wouldn’t have to fire him. Micah would turn in his credentials, because he would no longer trust his instincts. On the other hand, if he were forced to choose between her and unmasking the man responsible for murdering his father…

      Lord, please don’t force me to make that choice.

      Chapter Six

      “I promise he won’t arrest you or threaten you.”

      “But you can’t promise that he’ll believe me.” Jocelyn glanced at the man seated beside her in the hansom cab, then, clearly uncomfortable, shifted her attention to the street.

      It was a dreary afternoon, the sky a dull smear of gray, the buildings stolid rows of brick and stone. Over the clatter of the wheels, a train whistle tooted a warning; seconds later the hansom stopped, and a Pennsylvania Railroad locomotive pulling several passenger cars rumbled across Maryland Avenue on its way toward the depot. Moments later, the driver flicked the whip and the hansom lurched into motion once more.

      Beneath the layers of her blouse and walking suit, Jocelyn’s heart fluttered like a captured rabbit. She still didn’t know quite how Operative MacKenzie had persuaded her to accompany him to the Treasury Building—except she’d been reluctant to thumb her nose at a summons from the head of the Secret Service.

      As though he’d been reading her mind, after the sound of the train had faded in the distance, Operative MacKenzie observed, “I can’t speak for Chief Hazen, but I might make the observation that I’m not sure you believe me.”

      She jerked her head around, searching the shuttered face. The rocking motion of the cab made her queasy, and she fought the incipient panic rising in her throat. “It’s difficult, when I know I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing! Yet you’ve frightened me, hounded me, and now you’ve bullied me into a situation I don’t want to be in.