Affairs of Steak (3 page)

“He seems tenacious.”

Sargeant glanced at me, his eyes flashing with anger. “It’s unfortunate he never used his tenacity to make a better life for himself. We both started out in the same place, yet look at where I am as compared to—” When Sargeant cut himself off, I didn’t push it. His family issues were none of my concern.

We slowed as we approached Lexington Place. Built in the late 1800s, the Romanesque building was set back from the street behind a wide driveway. Even I could tell this was perfect for limos to drop off occupants behind a screen of Secret Service lookouts. We climbed the half-dozen marble steps up to the giant glass entry doors that had been retrofitted into the façade.

The green glass whispered open, allowing us entry. It was pretty quiet today. When not being used for black-tie dinners or other such illustrious affairs, Lexington Place served as a temporary gallery for fledgling artists. Free and open to the public during showings, Lexington Place had arranged for portable white walls to be set up cubicle style in its high-ceilinged, pillared lobby. Local artists—some classically trained, some self-taught—vied for spots inside. From what I understood, it was quite a coup to be featured here.

Today’s bad weather and the early hour apparently
combined to prevent art lovers from venturing outdoors and into this space. Too bad. Even a cursory glance told me I’d enjoy spending time here. We looked around, but it appeared completely vacant. “Hello?” I said.

No answer.

Other than the hollow, clicking noises our footsteps made as we ventured into the lobby, the place was quiet as a tomb.

A female security guard came around one of the back cubicles. Wearing a wary look and a blue blazer two sizes too small, she ambled over. “We’re here to meet Patty Woodruff,” I said. “Is she here yet?”

The guard sized us up. “You the two from the White House?”

“We most certainly are,” Sargeant said, fussiness back in place. “Ms. Woodruff is expecting us.”

The guard glanced at her watch. “Yeah, that’s what she said.” Waving absently to the east, she continued. “She’s been here all morning up on the second floor. Elevator’s over there.” She pointed to the south. “Or you can take the stairs. Whatever suits you.”

“Is the kitchen on the second floor?” Patty wanted me to scope out the food preparation facilities. I intended to do that first. On my own, if possible. It was always much easier to focus and concentrate without one of the First Lady’s assistants or Peter Everett Sargeant breathing down my neck.

“She said she’d be waiting for you in the kitchen,” the guard replied. “West side of the second floor. Through the wooden door that reads PRIVATE, then take a right.”

There went the idea of exploring on my own. “Thanks,” I said and headed for the stairs.

Sargeant glowered.

“Take the elevator if you want.” I set off toward the wide marble steps at the very back of the lobby, resisting the urge to add, “I’ll beat you,” because Sargeant was not a playful man. To my surprise, he fell into step beside me.

“Are we the only ones here today?” he asked as we made
our way up. With a noise of disgust, he added, “They call themselves green. How much heat do they waste keeping the building open all day? Not to mention electricity. Thousands of dollars wasted on the chance that some sightseers might drop in. It’s a shame.”

Sargeant’s mood was always foul when I was around, but after our encounter with Milton, it’d gotten worse. I decided to ignore his complaint. I didn’t know enough about green technology to offer up an argument, but I imagined the building’s certification had more to do with the methods it employed than solely on how many hours it remained open to the public each day.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was completely dark. I hesitated, unsure of proceeding, but the moment we cleared the last step, overhead lights went on to illuminate our path. “There you go,” I said, “conservation.” More lights automatically popped on as we headed down the hall.

“Hmph,” he said.

I pushed through the door marked PRIVATE, less reluctant now to venture into the dark. As they had before, sensors tracked our movement and provided illumination. “I guess Patty hasn’t been out in the hall in the past few minutes,” I said. “I wonder how long the lights stay on before they shut themselves off.”

“I don’t like it,” Sargeant said.

Truth was, I didn’t like it, either. Dark rooms were never inviting and I got a sudden tingling along the back of my neck. “The guard did say Patty was in the kitchen, right?”

He didn’t answer. As instructed, we took a right at the first corridor. Though long and dark, two circles of light—windows in far doors—kept us moving forward. I wiggled my shoulders, trying to shake off the eerie sense of two big bright eyes watching us approach. I felt like a character in one of those “Don’t go through the door!” movies. When hallway lights popped on above, exposing a bright white set of swinging doors with porthole windows, I heard Sargeant breathe a sigh of relief.

“Patty?” I called, pushing through the right-hand door. “You here?”

The kitchen was empty. Dead-silent empty. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Sargeant looked around the room, confused as I was. “Ms. Woodruff must have just been here. The lights are still on.”

I’d been thinking the same thing as I moved toward the wall switch. “Nope,” I said, pointing. “This room is set to stay on until manually shut off. It’s an override just in case the person working here doesn’t move around enough to keep the sensors happy. I’ve seen things like this before.”

“Well then, where is she?”

Like I would know. I wandered around, hoping she’d peer around a corner but I couldn’t shake the sense that this floor was utterly devoid of life. “Until she shows up, we might as well get to work,” I said. “We’re here to assess, right?”

This kitchen was at least twice as big as ours. Stainless steel countertops, sinks, and work areas weren’t so spread out as to limit efficiency, but were nicely spaced. I made a circuit of the room, checking out their ovens, equipment, and preparation area, growing more impressed by the minute. At the room’s far end, I pushed open another set of doors. Lights in that short corridor snapped on and I poked around. When I came back, I said, “That leads to the banquet room.”

Sargeant clicked his tongue. “So where is she?”

“We are a little early.”

He checked his watch. “Not by much.”

Shrugging, I continued my perusal. “She’s got to be here somewhere, or else she would have called. I’m going to check out the rest of the kitchen. Might as well make good use of the time we have.” I wandered through, brimming with envy. This place had everything. Not only that, but everything was brand-new. The White House had to make do with what we already had. While we were never denied a necessary piece of equipment when we requested
one, we were expected to nurse all current utensils until they fell to shreds on the floor. Even then, if there was any chance of refurbishing rather than replacing, we did so.

I made my way down a tiny hall in the room’s eastern corner. One side was an office, the other a long wall of stainless steel. I recognized the walk-in refrigeration and freezing units immediately. When I pulled at the heavy handle, unlocking the massive door to peek in, the lights went on. I looked around. “You could feed an army with what they’ve got stored here.”

As was my habit, I checked the door handle to ensure it could be opened from the inside. Equipment this new was probably safe, but it never hurt to check. I pushed it twice, watching the latch move with each attempt. Just fine. I was about to walk deeper into the unit to take a closer look at the inventory when Sargeant called.

“Olivia?”

I couldn’t remember him ever calling me anything but “Ms. Paras,” and the tone of his voice was strained.

“What is it?” I hurried back into the main part of the room.

“What do you think this is?” he asked.

I was about to lapse into smart-aleck mode and answer that it was a sink, but then I noticed where he was pointing. A thin line of red ran along the outer seam.

“At first glance I missed it. Anyone would have. But look.” He pointed to a single drop of red on the white industrial floor.

“Not yours, I take it?”

“Maybe Ms. Woodruff cut herself,” he said, “and went for help?”

I crouched to look more closely at the red line snaking its way down the stainless steel side, then stood to view it from above. I brought my head even with the edge of the sink and tilted to get the light’s angle just right. “I think someone wiped this clean,” I said. “See that dull spot? It looks like a smear.”

“Should we call someone?”

I was about to answer when I noticed the two tilt-skillets just a few feet to my left. Giant rectangular boxes that sit about three feet off the floor, tilt-skillets are wonderful for creating crowd-sized portions of soups, stews, or other concoctions that require a heck of a bigger container than a standard Dutch oven. I loved our tilt-skillet at the White House and used it on a regular basis. Whenever it wasn’t being used, we almost always kept it open.

These two were closed.

I started for the one closest to me.

“Don’t!” Sargeant shouted.

I jumped. “I’m sure there’s nothing in there.”

“I think we should call the police.”

“And report what?” Swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, I started to reach for the handle. On second thought, I pulled the edge of my long sleeve top out from beneath my coat sleeve, covering my fingers with fabric.

“What are you doing?”

“Being silly. Letting my imagination run away with me.”

He backed up. “Just the same…”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

With that, I flung the tilt-skillet lid open.

I gasped, staggering backward. Patty’s cramped, twisted body had been jammed into the small space.

Sargeant yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his eyes. “I think we found her.”

I STOOD PARALYZED FOR SEVERAL SECONDS, momentarily forgetting to breathe. “Call the police,” I finally said. Although there was no way Patty could be alive, not so perfectly still, not with that bloody gash across the back of her head, I had to check. I took a step closer.

“What are you doing?” Sargeant practically shrieked.

“We should feel for a pulse.”

“Oh my. Oh my.” Wringing his hands and looking ready to faint, Sargeant started for the door.

“Use your cell phone,” I said. “Don’t leave the room.”

“But the security guard…”

“Just use your cell,” I said, focusing on Patty. I reached in to press two fingers to her neck. She was still warm. “What if whoever did this is still here?”

Sargeant took a step closer to me, dragging a cell phone from his pocket. When the dispatcher answered, the sensitivity director had regained his composure. “We need the police,” he said, and provided the address.
“There’s been a…” Faltering, he stared at me. “…an accident?”

I pressed my fingers against several places in Patty’s neck, searching for any trace of a pulse. When Sargeant looked at me, I shook my head. “Have them send an ambulance anyway. You never know.”

He repeated the request into his handset. “We’re on the second floor in the kitchen. And,” he added, “we’re with the White House. Make it fast.”

I stepped away from Patty’s body, trying to force myself to think. By touching the tilt-skillet’s handle, even with my sleeve, I might have smudged a fingerprint. I hoped to God I hadn’t.

Sargeant’s little eyes were as wide as I’d ever seen them. “Shouldn’t we alert the guard?”

I was torn. What if the guilty party was still nearby? What if leaving this scene unattended was the wrong thing to do? What if staying was the wrong thing? I couldn’t focus. One thing I did know: Of all the choices spinning through my head right now, splitting up seemed the worst idea of all. I turned to look at the swinging doors with the porthole windows. Sargeant followed my gaze. The corridor beyond was dark again. “At least that means there hasn’t been any movement out there,” I said.

“Not yet.”

It dawned on me that the security guard might have the capability of sealing off the building. “On second thought, let’s go. We’ll do this together.”

With Sargeant behind me, I summoned the nerve to push through the porthole doors again. We had no idea what we were walking into, but this had to be done. I tamped down the raging fear that pounded in my heart like a jackhammer. Praying I wasn’t stepping into a trap, I took a long stride forward, readying myself for the lights to come on and brighten our path.

Nothing.

“Why aren’t they working?” Sargeant asked. Close
enough for me to feel his hot breath on my neck, he was a whole lot deeper into my personal space than I’d ever expect Sargeant to be. Or me to allow.

I reached behind to grab a handful of his trench coat sleeve. “Let’s move,” I said, “fast, okay?”

There was enough ambient light from the portholes to see our way clear to where we needed to take a left, but from there on the darkness was pitch. “Don’t they believe in windows around here?” he whispered.