Affairs of Steak (5 page)

Total relief. “Thanks, Jorjanna,” I said. “I owe ya.”

Ten minutes later, Sargeant and I were safely ensconced in the back seat of a taxi.

“Where we headed?” the driver asked.

Sargeant started to say, “The White—”

I interrupted. “The W Hotel. Fifteenth street side.”

Sargeant looked at me like I’d grown a second nose. I ignored him. The W was practically next door to the White House. With all the activity out front here at the Lexington, and once the full story broke, our taxi driver might try to make some quick cash by reporting our White House drop-off. Let him think we were tourists. Weak, but better than the alternative.

“You don’t owe her anything, you know,” Sargeant said the moment the driver took off.

“Huh?”

“You told that security guard that you owed her. For calling us a cab? I think she owed us that much at least. Now that you said it, she’ll try to cash in. Mark my words.”

I waved away his concerns and stared out the window. I had too much to think about right now to deal with Sargeant’s paranoia. I was sure it was just his nervousness talking, but the man had been downright mean to me since the day he started. I didn’t feel like cutting him any slack.

Instead, I focused on everything that had just happened. I tried to force myself to relax on the short cab ride, but it didn’t work. Did one person kill both Mark Cawley and
Patty? I was no expert, but it looked to me as though some time had elapsed between the two deaths. Patty had been killed shortly before we arrived. I suppressed a shudder, thinking about her lifeless form. How long had Cawley been there? Hours? Days? He hadn’t been reported missing that I knew of.

Sargeant was talking again. Muttering, actually. I’d missed it. “What did you say?”

“I should never have agreed to work with you. You’re bad luck.” He turned to face the window as the driver pulled up to the hotel. “Look what you’ve gotten me into.”

The moment we alighted, Sargeant—such a gentleman—headed straight away at a brisk pace, leaving me to settle up with the driver. “Thanks,” I said, and asked for a receipt. By the time I made it across 15th Street, Sargeant was at least fifty feet ahead of me. I didn’t bother trying to catch up.

Bucky had everything under control, just like I knew he would. Over the past few months since Virgil Ballantine had joined the White House as the First Family’s personal chef, we in the kitchen had found it necessary to adapt. Technically speaking, Bucky, Cyan, and I were no longer responsible for preparing daily breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the president and his family. Virgil had made that point quite clear when he started here. I’d originally chafed at the change, but with the amount of entertaining the Hydens did, I slowly came to appreciate Virgil’s contribution, such as it was.

Kitchens as busy as ours can’t exist with such rigid divisions and I’d recently noticed a shift in the personal chef’s attitude. Though Virgil remained protective of his responsibilities, he would occasionally ask for help. In turn, we invited him to join us when preparing for a major event.

That didn’t mean we always got along. When Virgil was stressed, he was intolerable. I’d tried, repeatedly, to talk him down when I sensed he was about to explode. Rarely
was I successful. We’d discussed this issue several times but hadn’t found a compromise. Yet.

Virgil looked at the wall clock when I walked through the door. “I can’t believe how long you were gone. Everything is done here except to serve and plate dinner. I thought the four places you were visiting today were within walking distance. Where were they? Maryland?” He gave a light laugh as though making a joke, but nobody thought it was funny.

Ignoring Virgil, I sent a meaningful look to Bucky and Cyan as I made my way to the computer at the far end of the kitchen.

“I knew it,” Bucky said. “I knew it as soon as I got your text. What happened this time?”

Cyan said, “Oh, Ollie.”

Virgil’s face was a total blank. “What are you talking about?”

I didn’t say a word. I merely clicked onto one of the sites we relied on for breaking news and turned up the sound. At the time of the recording, reporters were beginning to gather outside Lexington Place’s front doors. Scrolling headlines reported the “deaths of certain high-ranking officials” but didn’t disclose the victims’ names until their families could be notified.

“Geez,” Bucky said.

“You were there?” Virgil asked.

I didn’t answer him.

He tried again. “Did you see who was killed? Who were the high-ranking officials? Someone we know?”

Cyan’s eyes, bright green today, were sad. “Oh, Ollie,” she said again, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Why is it always you?”

“Why indeed?” I asked.

Virgil’s face contorted, probably with confusion and pain at being left out of the conversation. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky sent Virgil a baleful look. “In case you missed it, Ollie has a knack for getting into the middle of things,”
quickly adding, “not her fault. Well, not always.” He leaned back, tapping a finger against his lips as though sizing me up. “If I were to venture a guess, she definitely knows who was killed and how it was done. If I were a betting man, I’d even wager she was first on the scene.”

“Nice summary,” I said, “but I can’t confirm or deny.”

Bucky shrugged. “No need. We get it.”

“But why are you all feeling sorry for Olivia?” Virgil asked. “Seems to me you should be feeling sorry for the victims here. Whoever they are.”

“He’s right,” I said. “Sargeant and I had a rough afternoon, but nothing compared to what…” I couldn’t finish, so I shifted gears into more comfortable territory. “I know I’m late, but now that I’m here—”

“Sargeant?” Bucky asked. “He was there, too?”

“Yeah, remember? The two of us were planning to meet…” I faltered again.

Cyan’s face went white. “Nooo…” she said, “not Patty.”

I pressed my lips together, angry at myself for not being more careful and sorry for the bad news I’d inadvertently imparted. “I’m so sorry, Cyan. I never meant to let that slip. I shouldn’t have come back here tonight. I should have waited until you all saw the news. But”—I shrugged—“you guys are my friends and I trust you. Please keep this to yourself until it breaks, okay?”

“Oh my God,” Cyan said, “she was so young.”

“Cyan…” Words failed me.

The phone rang. Virgil didn’t move, so Bucky answered. After a moment, he handed it to me. “It’s for you,” he said, “it’s Paul.”

I felt my shoulders drop. Of course our chief usher would have been apprised by now. Of course he would want to see me. “Ollie,” he said when I answered, “how are you holding up?”

We’d had similar conversations so often, the question was almost laughable. But then I thought about Patty and Mark Cawley squeezed into their tilt-skillet coffins and my throat caught. “I’ve been better.”

“If you’re up to it, please stop by my office. I need to talk with you and Peter. He’s here now.”

“On my way.”

I hung up and looked at my team. “Gotta go. I’m sure Paul wants to warn me about talking to the media. Listen,” I said, thinking ahead, “without getting too specific, I need to let you all know that tonight may turn out to be an all-nighter for the president and First Lady.” I thought about it. “And their staffs. Let’s prepare for that. The butlers will be here ’round the clock, but they’ll need plenty of food to keep everyone’s energy up.”

“What happened, Ollie?” Virgil asked. “There’s more to it than you’re telling us.”

“I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. Until then, let’s keep ourselves in a position to help.”

Cyan’s focus was back on me. “Good thing Tom isn’t here, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said as I headed to see Paul, “good thing.”

Cyan patted me on the shoulder, a sad look on her face. Tom MacKenzie and I had had a romantic relationship until my involvement in extracurricular activities, like this one, drove a wedge between us. As head of the Presidential Protective Division here at the White House, his job was to oversee the protection of the First Family. Mine was to feed them. Problems arose when I inadvertently encroached on his turf.

From the scuttlebutt, I knew Tom had moved on. In fact, he was back home this week, visiting with his high school sweetheart. They’d recently reconnected and from the little I’d heard, she was perfect for him. A tall, pageant-winning blond. As opposite as you could get from a short, dark-haired, carb-watching kind of girl who happened across dead bodies on a regular basis. I was happy for him.

I was happy for myself, too. I’d begun to move on as well, though no one knew it yet. I hadn’t shared anything about this new relationship with anyone. Not even Cyan. I’d vowed to keep my personal life personal this time.

Despite the fact that Tom’s presence, or lack thereof,
wasn’t affecting me emotionally, I was still glad he was out of town. Whenever I got drawn into one of these complicated situations, he was quick to blame me for interfering. But this time it had truly just been bad timing and worse luck. I resolved to stay as far away from the investigation as I could.

PAUL STOOD UP WHEN I WALKED INTO HIS office. “Thanks for coming, Ollie.” His salt-and-pepper hair seemed to be growing whiter and thinner by the day. “Close the door,” he said, then gestured for me to take the open seat next to Sargeant, who watched me with disdain.

Paul began. “I’ve spoken with the First Lady—”

But Sargeant interrupted to fill me in. “Paul says we can’t have Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party at Lexington Place for obvious reasons. In fact, we’re not even supposed to breathe a word about Lexington Place ever being considered or anything about our visit there today. The White House is stepping away from all this until everything can be sorted out.”

Eyes tight, Paul folded his hands atop the papers on his desk. He was a more patient person than I. Thank goodness. When Sargeant sat back, pleased with himself, I exchanged a look with our chief usher. He had been through a lot over the past few years, but today he looked worn out
and older than he should. “That about sums it up,” he said. “Ollie, have you mentioned this to anyone?”

I cringed, remembering my gaffe in the kitchen. “My staff knew I was meeting Patty at Lexington Place. Cyan asked me if Patty was one of the two victims mentioned on the news…” I hesitated. “She—they—put two and two together.”

Sargeant made a
tsk
ing noise. “Loose lips sink ships.”

Ignoring the interjection, Paul jotted a note. “I’ll talk with them to make sure no one breathes a word to the press. At this point, it looks like you two made it back without the media sniffing you out.”

“There was the security guard at Lexington we interacted with,” I added, “Jorjanna. And the taxi driver, but we got out at the W Hotel, so maybe he won’t give us a second thought.”

“Good thinking.” Paul scribbled more notes as he chewed his lip. “The guard could be a problem. I’ll look into that. For now, both of you need to lie low. Did you mention going to Lexington Place to anyone else? At any of the other locations you visited?”

“We didn’t want anyone to know who they were up against,” I said. “Wait!” Snapping my fingers, I turned to Sargeant. “You told Milton.”

If looks could kill, I’d be crammed into a tilt-skillet with the lid slammed shut.

“Milton?” Paul asked. His gaze shot toward a pile of papers on his right. He reached to grab them and began to riffle through. “The same person you and I planned to discuss, Peter? He sent me another resume with a letter begging me to give him a try.”

“As I told you before, he’s no one of consequence.”

“He isn’t a relative, then?”

“One chooses one’s friends,” Sargeant sniffed. “Unfortunately the same cannot be said for one’s relatives.”

Hand poised to jot another reminder, Paul pressed the issue. “That’s fine with regard to the job question; I wouldn’t have considered him without your recommendation. The
more important issue, however, is what was said to him today. I need to know everyone at risk to leak this to the press.”

“I’ll speak with him immediately and ensure his cooperation.”

Paul looked skeptical.

Sargeant was quick to change the subject. “What about Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party? Is that still on the agenda? If so, and we’re no longer having it at Lexington Place—a decision I highly support, I might add—then where?”

“Unsure at this point,” Paul said. “In fact, as you already surmised, the entire event may be postponed indefinitely. Once word gets out about the two murders, the White House will be required to display proper respect.” Paul seemed to catch himself. “Which, of course, is exactly correct, given the circumstances.”

Paul was off his game today. Not nearly as smooth and strong as usual. In addition to wondering what was on his mind, I was beginning to question what purpose I served here. The little bit of conversation that had applied to me could have been handled over the phone. Paul must have sensed my impatience because he lowered his voice and leaned forward. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “I wanted you both to hear this from me.”