Foreign Éclairs (5 page)

I raised a fist to my lips. I had no words.

“Margaret Brown’s position here gave her access to a great deal of privileged information. While we mourn her loss, our primary concern right now must be security. We know whoever killed her took her White House–issued cell phone.”

“Before you ask,” Sargeant added, “no, we are unable to locate it. They’ve either turned it off or managed to disable the GPS. Until the device comes back online, we’re in the dark.”

“We have the means to track any attempts to infiltrate our systems,” Neville said. “But if it turns out that Ms. Brown was incentivized to share classified information . . .”

“Incentivized?” I asked. “Is that what you mean by ‘bargained’? That they told her they’d let her go if she shared information?”

Neville shot a glance toward Sargeant before answering. “She did not die quickly,” he said again. “We don’t know what transpired in her home, or what additional information she divulged to her killers, if any. The knowledge Margaret possessed goes far beyond access codes and passwords. Everything she knew about day-to-day life here at the White House could now be in criminal hands. And that puts us all at risk.”

I started to ask a question, but he silenced me with a look.

“The potential for a breach here is enormous. Understand that we have already taken steps to adjust the First Family’s schedule. Every activity they had scheduled outside the White House has now been changed. But that’s merely the tip of the iceberg. Margaret held a wealth of personal knowledge of staff members: who arrives at what time, which establishments people frequent after work”—he lowered his chin to deliver a meaningful look—“which Metro line the executive chef takes home every night.”

“You don’t think—”

“We must consider the possibility,” he said, cutting me off. “Until proven otherwise, we must operate under the assumption that you were targeted for a reason. Think about it, Ollie. High-ranking gang members don’t usually bother with purse-snatchings. And then those two men are found murdered, far away from their home turf, and no other gang claims responsibility?”

“You think those two were hired to attack me?”

“It’s a theory,” Neville said. “One I’m not ready to dismiss, no matter what the Metro Police will have us believe.”

“But what could they have possibly wanted from me?” I asked. “There was nothing sensitive in my purse.” I pressed a hand against my chest, where my White House ID sat beneath my smock. “My phone was in my pocket, and my lanyard was around my neck.”

“And where are the two gangbangers now? Dead. Because they failed?” Neville let that sink in. “I’d say that’s entirely possible.”

“If you’re right, then who’s behind all this?” I asked.

Neville and Sargeant exchanged another look. “We’re working on that,” Neville said. “But until we know more, we will do our utmost to keep you safe.”

Neville and Sargeant asked me to keep the specifics about Margaret’s death to myself. They assured me that an additional staff memo would be issued later in the day informing everyone about Margaret’s untimely death, and urging all White House employees to exercise caution. Additionally, there would be the ever-present reminder to report any suspicious activity no matter how small.

By the time Bucky and I finished sending up today’s chicken chili for the First Lady’s lunch meeting, the memo arrived in our inboxes.

“Wow,” Bucky said when he read it. “Reading this makes it sound like they suspect Margaret was killed
because
she worked at the White House.” He lifted an eyebrow in an unspoken question.

“Take it seriously, okay? Be careful. You and Brandy both have ties to the White House. If you think anything seems a little wonky, don’t hesitate to call for help.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.

I placed a finger to my lips. “You know the drill.”

He frowned.

“Just promise you’ll be extra vigilant, okay?” I asked.

“You got it, Chief.”

*   *   *

When I returned to the kitchen after my second trip to Sargeant’s office that day, Bucky perked up. “How did it go?”

I shook my head, sorry to disappoint him. “I didn’t think hiring a chef would prove this difficult,” I said. “Wait, let me rephrase that: I knew it would be impossible to replace Cyan, but I never thought we’d have such a hard time finding a qualified person to do the job.”

“I thought our human resources team vetted all these candidates before setting up interviews.”

“They did,” I said. “It’s not that these individuals aren’t accomplished, or that they aren’t capable of handling the job, it’s the personality quirks that won’t work here.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve run this kitchen with amazing efficiency no matter who worked here. Even when dealing with the likes of Virgil.”

“My point exactly,” I said as I donned a fresh apron. “We were all miserable with him around. There’s no way I will allow that kind of negativity in my kitchen again. I had such high hopes for this Audrey Lund, too.” About to scour the grill, I stopped and looked around. “Wow. Already done. You’ve been busy.”

“Getting there,” he said as he sanitized the center worktop.

“Looks like all that’s left is the sink,” I said, turning the faucet on. “I’ll take care of this.”

“I understood your hesitations about that James Bond wannabe, but what was up with the woman you interviewed today?”

“Where do I begin?” I asked with a laugh.

“How about by telling your husband how much you’ve missed him?”

I spun. Gav stood in the doorway. I took a second to shut off the flowing water, then wiped my hands on my apron. Before I could start toward him, he’d crossed the kitchen to wrap me in a hug.

“I’ve missed you,” I said. “More than you know.”

He pressed his face into the top of my head and made an indecipherable noise. “I needed to get back. To see for myself that you were safe.”

“For the record, I’m safe, too, Agent Gavin,” Bucky called from across the room.

Gav lifted his head, chuckling. “Sorry, Bucky. Good to see you.”

As we parted, Bucky grinned. Waving the dish towel he was holding, he said, “Oh, please. Don’t let me interrupt the happy homecoming.”

“When did you get back?” I asked.

“Not long ago,” Gav said. “I stopped in to talk with Neville. He’s agreed to allow me to take over escort duties while I’m here.”

“Makes it sound as though you expect to be called away any minute. Do you?”

“Hard to say.” Gav shot a fleeting glance toward Bucky.

My assistant waved the dish towel again. “Go,” he said. “You two have a lot of catching up to do, and you clearly can’t talk in front of me.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’ll finish up here, no worries.”

“Thanks, Bucky. You’re the best.”

“Yes, I am.” This time he shook the dish towel. “And don’t you forget it.”

*   *   *

I was surprised to see Gav’s car parked just beyond the Southwest Appointment Gate. “Not a government-issue vehicle today?” I asked.

He smiled at me as he settled behind the steering wheel. “Nope.”

“Can I surmise that you stopped back at the office and picked up all your personal belongings before you came to meet me?”

“Surmise at will,” he said.

He pulled out into traffic, and I didn’t even attempt to tamp down my good cheer. “Can I further surmise that this means you plan to be home for a while?”

“That I do.”

If he hadn’t been in the middle of a left turn at that moment, I would have thrown my arms around him. Instead, I sighed with deep contentment. “How is it that I lived blissfully on my own for nearly two decades and now that we’re married I can barely endure a single day we’re apart?”

His smile was as wide as mine. “I don’t understand it, either. But I’m not about to complain.”

I settled deeper into the passenger seat. “Agent Romero is pleasant enough, but you’re far better company.”

“Speaking of your added protection,” he said, “did you get the locks changed?”

“I did.” I told him that a new set of keys awaited him at home. “You know that the Metro Police are convinced I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Gav took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a sharp glance. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I’d be willing to chalk it up as bad luck if it weren’t for the Margaret situation.”

Gav worked his jaw. “If the two incidents are related, we have to ask why they let you go.” He turned to me again, briefly. “It tears me apart to have to say it, but they could have killed you. They didn’t. Why not?”

“Maybe because I wasn’t targeted. Maybe because this
was
a mere purse-snatching.”

Gav stared ahead, accelerating as traffic cleared. “You have no idea how much I hope that’s true. But we can’t relax our guard until we know for certain.”

“Neville and Sargeant are pushing the two detectives to find out more. They aren’t thrilled, but seem willing.”

“I know. Neville briefed me.”

“Merely professional courtesy? Or is there more going on behind the scenes?” I studied him. “Seems unusual for the head of PPD to consult with you personally on this one. Unless there’s more to it.”

“You, my dear wife, are too sharp for your own good.” When he turned to me this time I caught the glint in his eyes that told me he was pleased by the question. “We can’t tie Margaret’s murder or your attack to any of the global issues we’re dealing with, yet. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t related.”

“Do you really believe such a thing is likely?”

“More than likely,” he said. “But suspecting a connection doesn’t mean one exists.”

I watched him navigate the busy roads for a minute. “You may not be able to answer this, but were you in Wisconsin? At the Cenga Prison bombing site?”

“I can answer that. Yes, I was.”

“And was Armustan behind the attack?”

“Joe Yablonski is still in Wisconsin, finishing up paperwork,” he said, not answering my question. Adopting a
far-too-casual tone, he added, “He’s arranged to have our apartment building watched around the clock.”

“Whoa,” I said. “What’s going on?”

Grimacing, Gav made a right turn. “Let’s hope it’s nothing.”

*   *   *

Back at the apartment, we covered less-dire topics, including my frustrated attempts to hire Cyan’s replacement.

“You’ve been shorthanded for quite a while now,” Gav said as the two of us worked together to cobble dinner out of refrigerator leftovers. “She left almost immediately after the sequester ended, didn’t she?”

“The scare at Blair House was too much for her.” I peeled back the cover of a bowl. Green beans. How long ago had we made these? I sniffed. Not bad. Removing the cover completely, I set the bowl next in line for the microwave. “Cyan often lamented that the job takes everything from us: our time, our hearts, our lives. I think the terror she went through in fear for her life—literally—was too much to bear.”

As we warmed what was left of a roast, the last few helpings of mashed potatoes, and the green beans, I told Gav about Nick Dulkin’s interview and how the man had admitted to seeing himself as a kitchen-based warrior against terror.

“That’s what you are,” Gav said around a mouthful of potatoes. “Admit it.”

“There’s a big difference. I don’t set out to get into trouble. It finds me.”

“Which is another reason why I’m glad Joe ordered surveillance.” Gav circled his fork in the air to encompass our building. “This time, we hope to take down that trouble before it sets its sights on you.”

Back to the subject of the kitchen, I told Gav about the
second candidate we’d interviewed. “Another miss,” I said. “She’s worked at some of the most prestigious restaurants in the world, but hasn’t stayed in any one position for longer than six months.”

“Did you ask her about that?”

“Of course,” I said. “She admitted that she has a small problem.”

Gav cocked an eyebrow.

“When the pressure gets to be too much, she starts singing.”

Gav nearly coughed out his food.

“She claims she can’t help it, and oftentimes doesn’t even know she’s doing it. But when things get tense—like the last hour before a big dinner, for instance—she bursts into song.”

“Like a human teakettle?”

I laughed. “Precisely. Seems she has a predilection for Gilbert and Sullivan and Elton John.”

Having put down his utensils, Gav sat back and laughed. “And considering the kind of pressure you face in that kitchen on a daily basis—”

“We’d be serenaded nonstop, yes,” I said. “I liked her, though. Her personality seemed like a good fit for us. But, I don’t know. That singing thing could get old fast.”

“At least she has good taste in music.”

I pushed a few green beans to the middle of my plate and frowned at them. “Which is more than can be said for my taste in dinner tonight. I wish I would have planned something better for your first night home.”

“Right about now, nothing could possibly be better,” he said. “I’m back after being away and we’re together. This, to me, is a perfectly wonderful meal. But”—he leaned forward—“what would you say to going out tomorrow night?”

“You know I never refuse dinner out.”

“Good. You’ve had a crazy week. So have I. Let’s let someone else take care of feeding us.”

“Love it,” I said. “Do you have anywhere in mind?”

“We haven’t been to Suzette’s in a long time.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Do you think Jason’s completely forgotten us by now? How long has it been? At least two months. More than that, I’ll bet.” I picked up the kitchen phone. “Let’s make reservations. You know how busy it can get, even on a weeknight.”

Gav watched me, grinning. “I’m sure Jason hasn’t forgotten us. At least not completely.”

Suzette’s warm and witty owner answered the phone himself. “Ollie,” Jason gushed when he came on the line. “Wonderful to hear from you. How’s married life treating you?”

“Fabulous, as always,” I said, picturing the gregarious restaurateur. Jason had a deep voice and rumbling laugh. If I’d never met him I would have pictured a Santa-size fifty-year-old. Jason, however, was just shy of forty with a slim build and shaved head. He resembled a skinny cue ball with glasses. “But it’s been too long since we’ve seen you,” I said. “Would you have room for us tomorrow night?”

Shortly after Gav and I had begun seeing one another, we’d stumbled upon Jason’s establishment not far from the apartment. Suzette’s quickly became our go-to restaurant. We’d gotten to know Jason from his stopping by our table on our weekly, sometimes twice-weekly, visits. The food was delicious and comforting, the former apartment space cozy and warm, with its chic blue linens and creaking wood floors. Thick-painted radiators dotted the perimeter. They served as steamy reminders of another time, another life, when the refurbished two-story had originally been built.

“Of course,” Jason said. Then, as though he’d read my mind, added, “I assume you’d prefer the table in the window?”

We had a favorite table. It sat by itself up a step from the main level, tucked into the front window. Not only did it provide a wonderful street panorama, allowing us to people watch as we dined, its solitary setting made it the perfect spot for private conversation.

“We would love that, Jason,” I said. “If that’s at all possible . . .”

“I will make sure your favorite table is ready when you are. What time will you be joining us?”

In my haste to call, I’d neglected to nail down the details. I turned to Gav. “I have another interview scheduled late in the day tomorrow. But I could be out by six-thirty.”

“Let’s make it for seven then,” he said.

Into the phone, I said, “Would seven o’clock work, Jason?”

“You’re in the book as of right now. I can’t wait to see you both.”

“Same here. We’ve missed Suzette’s.”

“Music to my ears,” Jason said. “See you tomorrow.”

I hung up and turned to Gav. “How about tomorrow night we pretend we’re a normal couple on a normal date? No worries about murderers or purse-snatchers. What do you say?”