Affairs of Steak (17 page)

“I’m used to being outside. Now listen to me.” The cloudiness in his eyes dissipated. “You know that guy who bumped us the other day?”

I nodded.

“Him and another guy came to the restaurant where I work. Sat at the bar, then another guy came in. I’ve seen this guy before. He’s some big shot.”

“Who?”

Milton frowned. “I can’t remember. I’ve been trying hard, too. But he’s in the government. I know it. I just can’t place him. But I will.”

“That’s not—”

“Would you listen!”

The sooner I let him talk, the sooner I could send him on his way. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“They all pretended like they didn’t know each other, but I was watching them. Their body language was off. I know people. I’ve been screwed by more people than I can count. Something wasn’t right.”

“What happened?”

“The two guys got up and went out the front door. They headed east.” He glanced from side to side as though making sure no one was listening. But the only sounds we heard were tree branches twisting in the breeze and the soft sounds of traffic from the street. “A couple minutes later, the government guy gets up, too. He goes outside, but he goes west.”

My patience was wearing thin.

“I thought maybe I was wrong about them knowing each other, and so I went back to work. But a few minutes later, I took a smoke break behind the restaurant and I saw them again. All three of them. All together. Talking.”

“What were they talking about?”

“I couldn’t get close enough to hear anything. And I didn’t want to be all obvious about checking them out.”

“They didn’t see you?”

He gave me a sad look. “Don’t you get it? I’m invisible. I’m part of a clean-up crew in a restaurant—just like the million other busboys and dishwashers and scut workers in the world. Nobody sees us. They think we don’t matter.”

I thought about where I would be without the staffers on our White House team who were responsible for those unpleasant but very important jobs. “Of course you matter.”

He waved my comment away. “My point is, they had no idea I noticed them. Now, why would the guy who bumped us the other day be meeting with a guy from the government if some big shot wasn’t behind the killings?”

First of all, I had my doubts that Milton could actually recognize the guy who bumped us. I thought it was possible that the combination of his imagination and a desire to be part of the action were what made him see resemblances where none existed. But that didn’t mean I wanted to shut him down. Milton seemed like a guy the world had kicked around. I didn’t want to be another person who made him feel worthless.

“Just for a minute, let’s say you’re right and these three guys didn’t want anyone to know they knew each other.”

He nodded quickly, eager for me to believe him.

“What do you think this actually means? That the government was involved in killing Chief of Staff Cawley and the First Lady’s assistant, Patty Woodruff? That’s pretty far-fetched.”

Milton shrugged. “That’s the part you have to figure out. I held up my end.”

“Listen, Milton,” I said, “I’ll mention this to the proper authorities…” The proper authorities being: nobody.

“If what I told you pans out, do you think you might be able to talk to Mr. Vasquez on my behalf? When he gets back, I mean.”

My brain had been in hyper-drive for the past several seconds. Something Milton said had struck a nerve, but
I hadn’t been able to pinpoint it. Rather than answer him,
I asked, “The other guy—the one who accompanied the guy who bumped us. What did he look like?”

Milton coughed again. I raised my eyebrows, wishing I could get him indoors. Except for his bright red ears and red nose, the man was pale gray.

“Let me think.” Milton closed his eyes and rubbed his face. “He was uh…taller than me, and big. Like a big guy, you know? Maybe thirty years old or so.” I think he was surprised to see me paying close attention when he opened his eyes. “You want more?”

“Whatever you remember.”

He scratched his forehead. “I didn’t see the color of his eyes, but he reminded me of a pig because he had a lot of…” He brought his hands up to gesture. “…pudginess here, but his eyes were small and kinda walleyed.”

I felt my pulse perk up. “Hair?”

“I don’t know. Blond, maybe brown. Can’t remember. Not a lot of it. I paid more attention to the other guy—the one who bumped us. The other guy wore a hat the whole time he was outside, too. So maybe I’m not remembering his hair.”

Or maybe he was. “Anything else?”

Squinting, then closing his eyes again, he said, “No…wait…yes! The guy had one of those butt-chins.”

I knew what Milton meant. A cleft. “Brad,” I said under my breath.

“You know him?”

“Not really. But I may have met him.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Milton gave me a helpless look. “I thought this might be good information.”

“It might be,” I said, thinking it might actually be excellent information. “I will definitely have someone look into it.”

“I think you and Petey should look into it yourselves.”

“I’ve had enough personal involvement, thank you.” I glanced back toward the street. Where was the car? I really needed to get back into the White House this morning.

Inside the lobby, Agent Rosenow must have read my mind. She took a quick look at her watch, then mouthed, “Five minutes.”

“Well, I thought it was worth telling you at least,” he said as he prepared to leave. “Petey told me not to show up at the White House anymore or he could lose his job. I wouldn’t want that.”

“What happened between you two?”

Milton shuffled his feet and stared at the ground. “I made a mistake. A big one.”

I waited.

“It’s bad,” he said, not looking up. “I don’t want to tell
you.”

Agent Rosenow came outside, saving Milton from my interrogation. “Your car is here,” she said.

I gripped Milton’s arm for a brief moment. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Mr. Silent Treatment, Agent Scorroco, was at the wheel. We were halfway to the White House when I snapped my fingers. He didn’t even flinch. “Maybe it was Milton who showed up at my apartment last night,” I said.

Agent Scorroco didn’t answer. Didn’t even meet my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I should have asked him,” I said. If Milton had been the intruder Mrs. Wentworth had spotted, maybe I wouldn’t need bodyguards around the clock. I had no way to contact Milton to ask him, but I was sure Sargeant could.

“Does anyone know if Sargeant is in today?” I asked.

Bucky sent a scornful look across the room. “Haven’t you had enough of him lately?”

I washed my hands and wiped them on a clean towel. “Too much.” I gave a wry smile. “I need to check with him on a couple of things.”

Cyan was preparing filling for one of our
vol-au-vent
options. “I saw him this morning when I stopped by Paul’s office—” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s going to take me a while to think of it as Doug’s office. I stopped by there to pick up notes for tonight. Sargeant was in there complaining about something.”

“So what else is new?” Bucky asked.

“Can you guys hold down the fort for a few minutes?”
I asked.

Virgil had his back to me. “Easily,” he said over his shoulder, “take your time.”

Bucky, Cyan, and I exchanged a look. If there was one thing that had served to cement our relationship, it was our shared distaste for Virgil. “I don’t enjoy working with him,” I said, raising my voice a few notches. “It’s hard to deal with a person who takes such pride in being difficult.”

“Hey,” Virgil turned, “you’re still talking about Sargeant, right?”

I smiled and walked out the door.

Sargeant’s office was in the West Wing on the second floor, an area of the White House I didn’t visit very often. His door was closed and I worried for a minute that he wasn’t there, until I heard murmuring inside. I knocked.

There was a two-second delay. “Come in.”

I opened the door to see him hunched at his desk, staring at his computer monitor. “Oh,” he said, looking up. “I was expecting someone else.”

I left the door open and pointed to the seat across from him. “Do you mind?”

He waved me down without breaking his concentration from the screen. From my angle, I couldn’t see what had him so enthralled.

“Maybe I should come back another time.”

His head didn’t move, but his eyes flicked sideways.
I could tell it took effort to drag his attention away from his task, but he did. “What is it?”

“Milton came to see me this morning.”

The veins in Sargeant’s neck came into sudden sharp relief. “I told him to stay away from the White House.”

“He did,” I said. “This was at my apartment.”

Sargeant’s face fell. He put his hands up to his head, much the way Milton had earlier, and massaged his brow. “Just what I need. Did he say what he wanted?”

I started to answer, but Sargeant interrupted. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess: He wants you to put in a good word for him here. He wants a job in your kitchen.”

“Of course, but that wasn’t the reason for his visit.”

Sargeant looked up and I noticed weariness on the man’s face. He had been pressed and crisp every single moment I’d known him. From the crease in his pants to the sharp corners of handkerchiefs forever peeking out of his breast pocket, Sargeant was always polished and alert. Like a bright-eyed squirrel, scheming to gather all the best nuts before his competition even knew they were there. The man who sat across from me now, however, looked rumpled and worn out.

Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered him, but I plunged on. “I didn’t think to ask Milton something this morning, and I have no idea how to get in touch with him. I figured you would.”

Suspicion clouded those weary eyes. “What do you need him for?”

Without getting too detailed, I told him about the near break-in at my apartment and how the Secret Service was now keeping an eye on me and my place around the clock.

“Do they think whoever murdered Cawley and Woodruff is out to get you?” Sargeant’s hands went to his throat. “Do they think they’re out to get me, too?”

This wasn’t going well. “There’s no proof that anyone is out to get me. It could have been anyone. In fact…” I waited until I had his full attention, “it could have been Milton.”

Sargeant might not be a nice man, but he wasn’t a stupid one. He understood my point immediately. I watched relief flood his features. “You think so? If it was Milton who tried to talk with you yesterday, then no one is actually after you.”

“Exactly. And if no one is after me, then I have a good shot at convincing the Secret Service to drop their guard.”

Sargeant’s face tightened again. “It wouldn’t be like Milton to try to get in your apartment when you weren’t there.”

He’d just pointed out the one weakness in my theory. “I didn’t think so either, but when I talked with Milton this morning, I thought I smelled alcohol on his breath. Who knows what he might do when he’s…impaired?” I hesitated, then added, “He did offer up a tidbit that might prove interesting.”

Sargeant fixed me with a skeptical look.

“There’s a chance, ever so slight, that the guy who bumped into you on our way to Lexington Place may be working with the guy who followed me the other night.”

“Did you tell the Secret Service about this?”

“First thing this morning.”

“And?”

“The agent I talked with said he would talk with Tom.”

“Keep me apprised on that.” Sargeant looked up, almost as though hearing the abruptness of his words. “Please.” He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote himself a note in slow, precise handwriting. “I will attempt to reach Milton.”

I started to get up. “I appreciate it.”

He looked like he was about to say something but stopped himself.

“What?” I asked. “You’ve got more on your mind.”

He didn’t answer, but I could read it in his face. He got up and shut the door before returning to his seat.

“What is it?” I asked.

Placing both hands on top of his desk, he silently worked his lip. “Ms. Paras…Ollie…”

Uh-oh. He never called me Ollie. This was going to be big.

“From the day I began working here, you and I haven’t exactly seen eye-to-eye on matters.”

Understatement of the year. I nodded.

“Can we put aside our differences? Momentarily?”

“I would like to put aside our differences permanently.”

At that, he gave me a funny look.

“After all,” I continued, “we’re both on the same team.”

He sniffed hard through one nostril. “Be that as it may, you and I have a tendency to get under each other’s skin. I’m not saying anything that isn’t true, am I?”

“What’s your point?”

“It isn’t a point so much as a request. A favor.”

“What is it?” I asked warily.

He turned the computer monitor so we could both see it at the same time. “This is the preliminary list of guests for Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party. The one that Doug insists I manipulated.”

I studied it. To me it was just a list of names. I recognized celebrities and a few not-so-famous people from dietary issues we’d worked around before, but otherwise it didn’t look familiar. “What’s the favor?”

“I will get to that momentarily. I’ve been back and forth on this issue a hundred times. You need to understand that I keep copies of every guest list I’ve ever been given. I use them to create spreadsheets to keep track of guests’ religious observances, birthdays, known dietary restrictions…”

He must have seen my expression because he waved down my reaction. “I’m not second-guessing you. But you can appreciate how important it is to keep a document like this with all preferences in one place.”

“Doesn’t the social secretary cover all this?”

He heaved a sigh. “We’ve changed social secretaries three times in the past few years. If my job is to oversee protocol, I want to maintain control over our data.”

“Smart move,” I said. It was.

“I save every incarnation of every document that comes past me. I’m obsessive about it. The original list topped two thousand. Although it was pared down considerably,
the Baumgartners were never taken off. I have seven different lists here—each one time-stamped and dated when I saved them. On every single one of them, Mr. and Mrs. Baumgartner are there, exactly where they should be. Yet here…”