Affairs of Steak (32 page)

So intent were we in our activity, I’d almost forgotten about Mrs. Quinones’s visit to finalize plans, until she showed up.

“Hello?” she called into the wide warehouse-sized ballroom. “Which one of you is Olivia Paras?”

I glanced up and waved. “That would be me. I’ll be right there.”

Wyatt grinned when he saw her. “One of my favorite ladies,” he said. “Did you know she and I went to school together? She’s way younger than Mr. Quinones. Maiden name was Bettencourt. We were in the same class lots of times.”

I started across the dance floor, hoping Wyatt would stay back with Sargeant. No such luck; they both followed me. Mrs. Quinones pointed off to her right, indicating she’d meet me out there.

“She’s here to talk about the party,” I said.

Wyatt was unfazed by my hint to shut up. “She studied ballet as a little girl. Did you know that?”

“A lot of girls do.”

Sargeant shuffled behind Wyatt, saying nothing at all.

“Yes, but she was supposed to go to Juilliard. Full-ride scholarship. But her parents refused to let her move away. Thought it would corrupt her. Shame.”

I figured if I kept quiet he might, too. We were about fifteen steps before exiting the ballroom into the vestibule, when he added, “Poor little Mandy.”

I stopped. The two men stopped with me. “Her name is Cecelia,” I said.

“First name, yeah,” Wyatt smirked, “but she always preferred her middle name. Cecelia Amanda. Went by Mandy to her friends growing up. Her parents hated it, of course,
and once she was out of high school, they insisted she go by Cecelia. I think Quinones likes that better, too. Sounds way more classy, don’t you think?”

“Mandy?” I said. “Are you sure?”

He gave me a look like, “Am I ever wrong?”

The ringtone on Cawley’s cell phone had been playing the opening notes to “Mandy” when we found him. That information had not leaked to the press and no one, other than those present at the scene, and those investigating the double murder, would know that. I studied Wyatt’s face. He wasn’t making this up. Could this just be a weird coincidence?

“She’s waiting,” he said, breaking into my thoughts. “I thought you wanted to get out of here.”

“I do,” I said, “I do. Peter, come with me. Wyatt, stay here.”

Wyatt was obviously put out by my tone. He folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. But I think she would want to at least say hello to me. It’s been years since we’ve had a chance to talk.”

“Later,” I snapped. “Why don’t you go home? We’re just about done here now.”

Sargeant followed me out of the ballroom into the expansive lobby area. Carpeted, plush, and high-ceilinged, it made Mrs. Quinones, waiting by a distant pillar, look tiny. Her Secret Service guard nodded as we approached. He then stepped away to give us a modicum of privacy. I hurried over, glad to have Sargeant with me.

This was the first time I’d met Mrs. Quinones up close. She was a pretty woman, easily twenty years younger than the secretary of state, with a smooth, pale complexion, and enormous brown eyes perfectly set off by the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. She didn’t smile.

“Mrs. Quinones,” I said, “I’m sorry to not have come out to greet you. I thought the Secret Service would alert me when you got here.”

She waved away my apology. “We used the side entrance,” she said, pointing to her escort. “He couldn’t find a parking spot out front.”

So much for our security. I launched into the reason for her visit. “I know you’re here to talk about your husband’s birthday party, but—”

“No, I’m here to talk to you. It’s important.”

“About the party—”

“Forget the party,” she said. Eyeing her Secret Service escort, who studied the doors as though expecting terrorists to storm in any minute, she stepped closer and whispered close to my ear. “This is about the murders. The two murders at Lexington Place.”

I backed up. Stared at her. “You’re Mandy, aren’t you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I’d been watching Sargeant. Close enough to listen in, he’d blinked at the mention of the murders. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

Mrs. Quinones started to tremble. “It’s bigger than me. Much bigger. I need to talk with you where it’s private. Not here.” She tilted her head toward her guard. “He promises to give us privacy in the car. Would you come outside with me so I can tell you what’s going on?”

“No,” I said, “not a chance. We can talk here. He’s far enough away.”

She glanced at her agent again. “But I don’t want to take any chances. It’s important. And he can’t know what I’m about to tell you.”

Tingles ran up and down the back of my neck. She had the answers. I could see it, feel it. The agent accompanying her was not one of the “trusted few,” so I wouldn’t want him to hear what she had to say, either. I desperately wanted to know what she wanted to tell me, but I wasn’t about to follow her outside without the protection of a Secret Service agent. Or two.

She looked ready to cry. “Agent Sanker,” she called. He half-turned, never taking his eyes off the door. “Would you give us some privacy?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “my orders are to keep you within reach at all times. I am already farther away than I should be.”

She obviously ranked higher than Sargeant and I did. We’d been allowed to work here while our escorts waited outside. But then again, even though we’d all been threatened one way or another, Secretary of State Quinones ranked a whole lot higher than a chef and a sensitivity director did.

Mrs. Quinones asked, “Please?”

Sargeant turned to me. “Would you feel better if we asked our escorts to join us?”

For once he had a decent idea. “That would work.”

Mrs. Quinones sighed with relief. “Good. Agent Sanker, would you please alert the agents in charge of Ms. Paras and Mr. Sargeant?”

He asked their names, which Sargeant had forgotten, but I’d remembered: Frederick and Millcourt. Sanker spoke in low tones into his microphone and nodded at whatever response he received. “They’ll meet us at the car,” he said. “It’s parked on the side of the building.”

Mrs. Quinones turned to me. “Okay now?”

I had one more question. “Why are you here? I have questions for you, sure, but why in the world would you need to talk to me?”

Her eyes clouded and she leaned close to whisper. “I need to talk with
both
of you. That’s why this meeting was arranged. You’re both in more danger than you realize.”

Ethan Nagy
, I thought. “Danger from whom?”

She widened her eyes and tilted her head toward the agent. “Not here.”

We followed Agent Sanker in silence. He led us out of the lobby toward the side door and held it open. I wished I’d brought my coat. “I’d rather not get into the car until Millcourt and Frederick get here,” I said, pulling my arms tight around myself. Where was the car? Light spilled out from the warm Jean-Luc’s into the empty alley and I wrinkled my nose at the smell.

As I walked past Sanker into the dark passage I took notice of his Secret Service lapel pin.

It was a red square.

Not
a golden rectangle.

Stifling a yelp, I grabbed Sargeant’s arm. He recoiled. “What on earth?”

I shushed him. “Hang on,” I said with forced calm. “I forgot my notes. Give me a minute to run back.” I didn’t know how to alert Mrs. Quinones that Agent Sanker was not who he pretended to be. We had to get away.

But Sanker had seen my reaction. He grabbed me. As I opened my mouth to scream, one of his big hands smashed me silent, the other wrapped around my middle, immobilizing my flailing arms. I struggled, trying to make as much noise as I could, vaguely aware of the horrified look on Sargeant’s face. Sanker’s partner emerged from the building across the alleyway. Mrs. Quinones held her face in her hands and wept.

It was obvious Millcourt and Frederick weren’t coming. Still positioned at the front of the building, they were too far away to hear our scuffles. Only screams and shouts might bring them running. Sargeant was frozen silent.

I fought Sanker, kicking him wildly. Fighting back, he managed to reach over, grab the handkerchief out of Sargeant’s breast pocket, and shove it into my mouth while pushing me to the ground. My cheek skidded against the rough pavement, and the air was knocked out of me long enough to render me helpless. Sanker tied my hands behind my back. As I wriggled, feeling like a worm ready to be speared with a hook, the partner came close enough for me to see his face.

Brad.

He’d dyed his hair, but there was no mistaking that cleft chin, that insouciant expression. He grabbed Sargeant, dragging him across the alleyway into an open doorway. Why wasn’t Mrs. Quinones screaming? Why wasn’t she running for help?

Sanker hauled me up and dragged me, kicking, into the dark building behind Brad and Sargeant. I tried to see around Sanker, hoping to catch Mrs. Quinones’s eye, hoping to inspire her to wake up and call for help.

To my utter astonishment, she followed us in.

“Shut up,” Sanker said, using both hands now to carry me, arms tight around my legs and arms. I was no more than a squealing lump, trying to squirm out of his grip. He was too tall, too strong, too prepared for me to fight. He’d planned well. I’d been stupid. I’d walked straight into this trap.

Behind us, a metal door clanged shut.

There was just enough ambient light from high windows to allow them to navigate around old furniture to the back end of this floor. My eyes adjusted quickly—until we passed through a thick doorway leading to a darker, narrow room with what looked like small rectangles decorating the walls. Just ahead of us Brad dropped Sargeant, where he landed in a sad thump. His voice was plaintive. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

Sanker dropped me next to him. I landed on my stomach and rolled to my back. With my hands tied, I couldn’t easily right myself. In a moment of brilliance, Sargeant yanked his handkerchief out of my mouth. I screamed as loudly as I could.

“Won’t make a difference,” Brad said. “You’re in an old bank vault. And”—he turned and pointed to where Mrs. Quinones stood—“no one can hear you from here. We aren’t making any mistakes this time.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Once that door closes, there’s no opening it from the inside. You’ll be locked in. And nobody will know you’re here.”

Mrs. Quinones gasped.

“Don’t worry,” Brad said to her, “at that point, you won’t really care.”

I scooted toward Sargeant and backed my hands up to him. He untied me. Brad and Sanker didn’t seem bothered. This made no sense at all. “Why?” I asked Mrs. Quinones. “Why?”

She wasn’t paying attention to me. She’d run to the far end of the vault. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I noticed another person in our little group.
Mr. Bettencourt. Pieces began to click into place. She helped her father to his feet. “What’s wrong, honey?” he asked her. Bettencourt patted his daughter’s hand as she led him forward. “What happened? Why are you so sad?”

Mrs. Quinones faced Sanker. “I did what you wanted. Can we go now?”

He ignored her and pulled out a gun. Pointing it at us, he said, “Hand over your cell phones. Drop them to the floor.”

“But you said we could go once you had these two,” she said. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“I lied. Cell phones. All of you. Now.”

We complied.

Brad made us step back before he gathered them up, stuffing them into his pockets. When he got to mine, he looked up and grinned. “They can be traced, you know,” I said.

“Not if they’re disabled.”

“Is that what you did with Patty Woodruff’s phone?” I asked. “Disable it? What was it to you, just a trophy?”

Sargeant jabbed me with his elbow. “Stop. You’re just making them angry.”

“So what, Peter? Do you think that if we behave like nice little captives they will let us go? Who cares if they’re angry?” My voice rose as I advanced on Brad. “
I’m
angry.”

Sargeant grabbed my arms, pulling me back.

Brad laughed, but Sanker was all business. “No screw ups this time, Brad. You ready?”

Brad pulled out a gun. “As I’ll ever be.”

He pointed it at me.

SOUNDPROOF. EMPTY. THERE WAS NO ONE coming for us in this vault. No one riding to our rescue. Our Secret Service agent escorts were waiting for us out in front of Jean-Luc’s. I’d even sent Wyatt home. No one would miss us except Frederick and Millcourt. By the time they came to look, it would be too late.

All this rushed through my brain as I stared into the barrel pointed at my face.

A combination of bravery, fear, and down-to-my-toes realization that I was facing death made me wrench out of Sargeant’s grip to launch myself at Brad.

“What the—”

I jumped straight at him, banging his gun arm. The weapon skittered across the floor as I dug into his face with my fingernails. “Grab the gun,” I shouted.

No one heard me.

Sargeant was shrieking. Mrs. Quinones sobbing.

Sanker roared as he pulled me off Brad. I twisted in his grip and started punching his face, hoping to land one of
those nose-to-the-brain shots. My adrenaline gave me power I didn’t know I possessed as I kicked and dug my fingers into anything that would give. “My eye,” he shouted, thrusting me off of him. He must have holstered his gun when he’d pulled me off Brad because both hands held his injured face. He swore and staggered backward.