Affairs of Steak (25 page)

Secretary of State Quinones was about to begin speaking. A large, boisterous man, he had full, pink cheeks and deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He rarely shied away from the camera and was usually seen smiling, laughing, and talking. Always in a loud voice. Always a gregarious demeanor. From what I’d heard, his approach was often first met with criticism overseas, but once heads of state got to know him, they fell under his spell. In the short time he’d held the position, he’d made enormous strides. People referred to him using words and phrases like
genius
and
one of a kind
. Local pundits said he was that rare combination of brilliant strategist and all-around great guy.

Today, however, he wasn’t smiling. “My friends.” He gripped the lectern with meaty hands and made eye contact with the camera. “You’ve already been told about the threats that have been received by my office…threats directed against my family.” He gestured to his right. “These sharp and talented men and women of the Secret Service, and those of the Metro Police have all assured me that my family and I will be protected around the clock from now until these threats can be eliminated.”

“By eliminated, do you think he means sanctioned executions?” Cyan asked.

“No,” I said, “I think he means until the bad guys are caught.”

“
Shh
,” Bucky said from over my other shoulder.

“I know you’ve been given vague details. Today I come before you to share specifics.”

President Hyden was positioned just behind Quinones, with Ethan Nagy to his left and Tom to his right. Next to Tom was the White House press secretary. Not one of them cringed or reacted to Quinones’s promise of specifics. Part of the script.

“You may remember that my wife and I addressed you a few short days ago when her father was found safe after having wandered away from our family home. We can now share with you that my father-in-law did not wander off. We believe he was abducted.” Pausing long enough for that information to sink in, he added, “Abducted by the very same people who are threatening me.”

We couldn’t see the reporters react, but we could hear the onslaught of questions. Quinones held up a hand. “Let me continue. I’ll take questions afterward.”

The reporters settled down and Quinones gripped the lectern again.

“As you all know, the White House—and indeed all of us here—suffered a devastating blow last week with the murders of Mark Cawley and Patty Woodruff.” Quinones clenched his eyes for an extended moment, and when he opened them he said, “I knew them. Both of them.” He took another moment to compose himself. “We now believe that whoever killed those two good souls may also be behind these threats to my family.”

From the TV, I heard the reporters gasp. From next to me I heard Cyan and Bucky gasp.

Bucky turned to me, “You already knew that, didn’t
you?”

“I suspected.”

“How?” Cyan asked.

Bucky gave me a shrewd look but didn’t say anything.

“Am I frightened?” Quinones was answering a question from the audience. “Of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I repeat, I have ultimate faith in our Secret Service and in our police department.” When he stared up at the camera
again, his expression was grim. “Whoever you are,” he said in a low voice, “you will be caught. You will pay for your actions. Bet on it.”

After answering a few more questions, Quinones stepped away and the press secretary took over.

We logged off.

“Never a dull moment around here,” Bucky said.

Once the kitchen was put back in order and lunch delivered, I set out for the West Wing. This time I didn’t tell Bucky and Cyan where I was going. I knew they wouldn’t approve.

I knocked at Sargeant’s office door and he called for me to enter. As I did, I noticed for the first time that the room had no windows. How dull, and more than a little sad.

“Peter?”

“Come in. You’ve made quite an impression on Milton,” he said as I took a seat.

“He’s a lost soul,” I said, “and he’s been very nice to me.”

Sargeant chose not to comment. He folded his hands on his desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Paras?”

“First of all, I want to thank you again for talking to Milton on my behalf.”

“The last thing I need is for one of my relatives to get arrested for being a peeping Tom. I did it primarily for myself.”

Bucky’s and Cyan’s warnings about not helping Sargeant jostled around in my brain. I understood their reluctance to help him. I might even agree with their position, but having the man fired or even reprimanded for something he didn’t do wasn’t right.

“Was there something else, Ms. Paras?” he asked as though bored to tears by my very presence.

Decision time: help him, or not?

Stalling always worked when I wasn’t sure what to do next. “Why do you say that I made an impression on Milton? Have you spoken with him again?”

“Thanks to you, I’ve had the pleasure”—Sargeant rolled
his eyes in the exaggerated way only he could—“of a constant barrage of phone calls from my wayward nephew.” He held up a finger. “That’s not counting the personal visits.”

“It’s only Monday,” I said. “How many times could he have contacted you in the past two days?”

“You have the Secret Service guarding your apartment again, yes?” he asked as though he already knew the answer. “And an armed escort back and forth every day? Am I right?”

“I do.”

“Do you know how I know that?”

“Milton told you?”

His face crinkled into a nasty smile. “Exactly. Seems you’ve inspired him to go play detective on your behalf.”

“I never encouraged—”

“You didn’t need to. To him you’re a damsel in distress, and although you and I both know you’re anything but helpless, assisting you appeals to Milton’s romantic streak. The fool.”

“I should talk with him—”

“Oh sure, go ahead.”

Sargeant’s reaction surprised me.

“Why not?” he said. “Go. Talk with him. Take him home and clean him up and give him a cozy little corner to sleep in and maybe take him out for a walk now and then.”

“Peter, there’s no reason to—”

“He’ll be happy to be appreciated. You’ll be happy to have a pet to take care of. A match made in heaven.”

Sargeant was an unpleasant man. Probably the least pleasant man I’d ever encountered, but this particular spew was his harshest yet.

When he finished, he stared as though daring me to fight back. But something else lurked behind his eyes. He wanted me to fight because he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to open up. Milton had hurt him in the past—that much I knew. From the fear that wriggled behind Sargeant’s
eyes, I knew that Milton’s connection to me was more than the little man could handle.

“I talked with Lynn,” I said, “the calligrapher.”

The shift in his expression was so sudden it almost set me back. “What did she say?” Before I could answer, he leaned forward. “Does she have any idea who sent her the incorrect list?”

“You generally forward guest lists to Emily in the calligraphy department, right?”

“Yes, yes…” Even seated, he danced with impatience.

“They were ready to use the wrong copy until Lynn’s ‘guardian angel’ intervened.” I went on to explain what Lynn had told me about the sticky note.

Sargeant wasn’t buying it. “If one of her coworkers knew there was a mistake, why didn’t that person correct it himself…or herself? Her story makes no sense.”

“It makes plenty of sense if someone is trying to make you look bad.”

I watched him digest that. “But I barely know anyone in the calligraphy office.”

“That’s why I don’t believe the problem originated there. Whoever left the note is probably the same person who sent the erroneous file in the first place. Who has it in for you? Any ideas?”

“Here? At the White House?” he asked. “Besides you?”

I almost laughed. “For the record, it wasn’t me.”

He stared away, concentrating. “Of course not. That isn’t your style. You don’t creep around in the background trying to undermine people. You undermine them straight to their faces.”

“Is that a compliment?”

When he looked up at me I could have sworn I saw the faintest bit of humor flash across his features. “What do we do now?”

“
We
still have quite a bit of work ahead of us on the secretary of state’s party—” I began.

“I mean about this sabotage.”

I knew what he meant. “Not much,” I said. “We’ve hit a brick wall. Unless we can find out who left that sticky note…”

“We could question the staff. Methodically. Draw up a list of everyone with access to the White House. Ask who was near the calligraphers’ office the day the sticky note showed up. Ask who was near my office that day—who might have snuck in to send the e-mail in the first place—and then we’ll have our guilty party.”

“Do you have any idea how impossible that is?”

“If you and I—”

I waved my hand, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in cutting him off for a change. “Count me out. Interrogating every single person who might, maybe, possibly, have seen someone who could have, perhaps, been in both those places at those specific times is ludicrous. Needles and haystacks don’t begin to describe it.” I couldn’t believe he even considered such a foolish idea. “I mean, poking around and seeing if anything pops is one thing. But turning this into a full-scale investigation would do you more harm than good.”

He pounced. “Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Poke around? See if anything pops?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“As much as it pains me to say so”—his eyes regained their familiar, unpleasant gleam—“you have proven adept at uncovering conspiracies.”

“Two compliments in one day?” I sat back. “Peter, you’re losing your edge.”

“If I’m not careful, I risk losing a great deal more than that. This isn’t the first unexplained issue that’s come up in recent months. But it is the first one I can track down.” With an expression so brittle I was afraid his face would crack if he moved, he added, “That is, with your help.”

Truth was, I was desperate to know what was going on—not just for Sargeant’s sake but for my own. There was something rotten roiling just below the surface. Framing our
sensitivity director—no matter how appealing the prospect was—just wasn’t right. Whatever or whoever was behind it needed to be stopped, even if doing so resulted in Sargeant benefiting from my efforts. “No guarantees I’ll find anything.”

He tried to mask his reaction to my response. Surprised, clearly. And pleased. “Let me know if you need my assistance.”

“There is one thing,” I said.

He nodded in a “Go ahead” gesture.

“Be a little nicer to Milton.”

The fuming little squirrel of a man was back in a heartbeat. He rearranged his mouth several times, as though fighting to keep caustic words from blurting out on their own. “I appreciate your help in this matter,” he said finally. “Now, I believe we have another visit to Jean-Luc’s to discuss…”

I WAS BACK AT MY APARTMENT THAT NIGHT, after yet another conversation-less drive with Agent Scorroco. Tonight, however, when he’d asked his perfunctory question about needing to pick up anything along the way, I’d surprised him by requesting a stop. There was something I needed tonight, and I needed it badly.

A quart of Baskin-Robbins ice cream sat on my lap as I sat on the couch, enjoying spoonful after cold, creamy spoonful. My favorite flavor, mint chocolate chip. A second quart, same flavor, waited in the freezer. At the rate I was going, I might even crack it open tonight.

Dipping in again, I savored the creamy mint and told myself for the millionth time that no one made this flavor better than Baskin-Robbins did. I also told myself that drowning my sorrows in this softening vat of ice cream was better than melting down myself.

The TV stayed off, the room was dark, and only minimal light came through the split in the curtains that covered my balcony doors. Gav had told me to keep them
closed and I did. Quiet tonight. Peaceful. No bad guys breaking in. An armed guard outside.

I dug out another helping.

I didn’t usually sit around feeling sorry for myself. Truth be told, I wasn’t even doing so right now. What I was doing was giving myself breathing space. As I popped in another minty bite, I amended that thought. Eating space, too.

The whole Sargeant situation had me puzzled. I didn’t know what I thought I might uncover regarding the mystery of how the wrong list got sent to the calligraphers, but I took small comfort in the fact that for the first time in a while, the person in trouble wasn’t me.

I pictured Bucky and Cyan reminding me that when I had been in trouble, Sargeant had been the first in line to gloat. He’d sooner use his precious, perfect handkerchief to mop up after the First Dog than lift a finger to help me. Yet here I was, helping him out.

We each have to be true to our own nature, I thought. I took another mouthful, letting the ice cream ooze onto my tongue.

With the spoon still in my mouth, I ticked off everything that had gone wrong lately: my apartment had been broken into, probably by the same people who had targeted Secretary of State Quinones. Probably by the same people who had killed Chief of Staff Cawley and Patty Woodruff.