Foreign Éclairs (3 page)

I’d expected Agent Romero to drop me off in front of my apartment building, but she surprised me by insisting on accompanying me all the way in. “Agent Walker’s orders,” she said. “We aren’t taking any chances.”

“He seems very thorough,” I said. She scanned the parking area, studied the apartment windows above, and kept a hand on her weapon as we made our way from the car to the front door. Neville Walker, apparently, wasn’t the only conscientious new agent. “Have you worked with him before?”

She maintained light contact, the fingers of her free hand against the back of my jacket. “Most of us have.” I knew she was referring to all the new Secret Service personnel currently staffing the PPD. “When he took the job, he brought a bunch of us in. He said he wanted people he could trust.”

“And you’re one of them.”

Still not looking at me, she rested a hand on my arm to
slow me down. “One of many, but yes. Fortunate to have this opportunity. Hold up a minute.”

I waited while she gave the parking area a final once-over, then studied the lobby of the apartment building, where James sat behind the round desk.

It was late enough in the evening for our drowsy doorman to have nodded off, so I was surprised to find him wide awake and clearly curious as to why I’d arrived with a Secret Service agent in tow.

“I had a little excitement this evening, James,” I said after we’d exchanged greetings. “My purse was stolen, and I can’t get into my apartment.”

“Oh no, Ollie, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” I said, not wanting to get into a detailed explanation. “Agent Romero was kind enough to give me a ride, but I’ll need help getting in.”

“Gav’s not home, either, I take it?” James asked as he reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a ring of keys. “He out on assignment or something?”

I smiled. “Or something.”

After fiddling with the clinking bits of metal, he identified a golden key with my apartment number on it. “Here you go,” he said, handing the entire collection across the desk. “I’d take you up myself, but I can’t leave the floor for a while yet.”

I took the keys from him. “What’s up?”

“Had a couple of late deliveries this evening.” He gestured with his chin at two lamp-size boxes sitting on the floor next to the desk. “They have the same return address but showed up separately. They are boxes number two and three of three.”

I didn’t understand, but didn’t really need to. I had my ticket in. The sooner I was up in my apartment and alone, the happier I’d be.

“They made me sign for them, but I don’t know who they belong to. I argued with the delivery guy until I turned blue, but he didn’t have any more information than what’s on the address label. You didn’t order anything recently, did you?”

“Not three big boxes’ worth.” I started for the elevators. “There’s nothing to indicate which tenant they’re meant for?”

“Nope,” James said. “They got the right address but no apartment number, no name. The delivery guy said all that information will probably be on the last one—box number
one
of three. He says he’s seen that before. Until he comes back, I’m going to wait here. Don’t want anyone stealing the two boxes. I signed for them. I’d be liable, you know.”

“Whoever they belong to will probably come and claim them soon, anyway,” I said.

“Sure hope so. Can’t imagine how companies stay in business without putting the proper address on their packages.”

Agent Romero and I remained quiet in the elevator as it made its slow ascent. “He shouldn’t have given you the keys,” she said as we cleared floor six, then seven, then eight. “He should never let them out of his sight. It’s a security risk.”

I couldn’t argue; handing keys off
was
a risk. But most of us in the building had known one another for years and the vast majority of occupants were senior citizens. Fortunately for me, they’d been happy to welcome a young new neighbor when I’d first moved in. Especially once they learned I worked in the White House. Romero couldn’t know any of that, nor could she know that I would trust any one of them with the ring of keys. Rather than defend James’s actions, however, I changed the subject.

“You know that I’m married to Leonard Gavin, right?”

Romero had bobbed brown hair worn pinned back at the sides. Her pointed chin thrust too far forward—I could never remember if that signaled an underbite or overbite—giving
her a constant air of smug disapproval. Her eyes never stopped moving. I couldn’t imagine what threat could possibly exist in this elevator, but if one made itself known, I had no doubt Romero would spring into action before it got the chance to fully materialize.

“Everyone on the PPD is familiar with your personal dossier,” she said, adding, “and with Special Agent Gavin’s as well.”

It didn’t surprise me when she referred to Gav by his title. Although he’d been tapped to work with Yablonski again in recent weeks, his tenure there was more a long-term loan from the Secret Service than a permanent position. Gav was often brought in as an expert consultant in White House matters and thus hadn’t been affected by the Secret Service shake-up that had tumbled the preceding team.

“Okay, good,” I said, though the truth was it unnerved me to have so many strangers know so much about us. I couldn’t help but wonder how deep that knowledge went. Did she have any idea that my husband’s mission with Joe Yablonski was highly classified? And if she did, would she know where they had been sent? I assumed both men were in Wisconsin this evening at the scene of the Cenga bombing. Before that incident happened, though? No idea where they’d been. I never knew, and I certainly couldn’t ask.

I was relieved to discover Mrs. Wentworth’s door completely closed when Romero and I alighted at my floor. A moment later, I remembered that my elderly neighbor and her husband, Stan, were out of town for a family wedding. Good. Even though my nosy neighbor wouldn’t blink at the sight of yet another Secret Service agent escorting me home, I preferred not having to explain my need for the master key tonight.

Agent Romero surprised me again by following me into my apartment. I sputtered, “Are you staying here overnight?
Agent Walker didn’t mention anything about twenty-four-hour coverage.”

I caught what might have been a fleeting smile. “Walk me through,” she said. “Let’s make sure the apartment is secure. Then I’ll leave.”

Walker hadn’t been kidding about not taking chances. Following his orders, Agent Romero conducted a thorough inspection. She checked that my windows were locked—this despite the fact that I lived on the thirteenth floor—and ensured that no one was hiding under the bed or in a closet.

While she completed her survey, I dug out an old purse and began filling it with replacement items, including a beat-up wallet I’d tucked away months ago.

“To the best of your knowledge, nothing has been stolen?” she asked as we completed the tour and started back toward my front door. “Everything is exactly as you left it?”

“More or less.” She blinked at my ambiguous answer, so I hurried to add, “My husband was still here when I took off for work this morning.”

“Understood. Nothing inexplicably out of place then?”

“Nothing at all.”

“You ought to have your locks changed immediately.”

“It’s on my to-do list.” I couldn’t wait to get her out of my apartment so that I could relax. “Speaking of keys, would you mind returning these to James on your way out?”

“No problem.” She took them, then handed me a business card. Her first name was Tori. “If you need me, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thanks,” I said, surprised by the gesture. “I hope I have no reason to.”

She nodded. “Same here.”

As soon as she was gone, I called the apartment building’s superintendent, unsurprised when I was connected
with the answering service. The woman on the other end assured me their locksmith would be more than willing to come out tonight. It wasn’t the premium fee that made me hesitate, it was the fact that I was done in for the day. I didn’t relish the thought of staying awake to await his arrival and through the subsequent lock replacement process.

Although I knew it was probably not the smartest decision I’d ever made, I decided to play the odds and set up an appointment for the morning.

The moment I hung up, I dialed James at the front desk and asked if he, or another of our doormen, would be willing to meet with the locksmith tomorrow in my stead. James said he’d be happy to.

“Thanks,” I said. “I take it the agent returned your master key ring?”

“She did. And don’t you worry about anyone getting in here tonight, Ollie. I’m on duty for another hour and then our overnight guard comes in. Nobody’s getting past who doesn’t belong.”

“I appreciate that, James,” I said. But before I went to bed, I wedged a heavy chair beneath the knob of my front door.

“Why is it always you, Ollie?” Bucky asked the next morning as we stacked pots and pans next to the sink. “It’s as though you have a great big neon arrow over your head, pointing down, blinking ‘Aim here.’”

“Don’t even joke about that,” I said. “It was bad enough explaining the mugging to the new head of the PPD last night. The last thing I need is for the staff to get wind of it. The Secret Service will take any excuse to target me, I’m sure.”

“Not a chance,” Bucky said with a dismissive hand gesture. “You know you’re safe here. At least as long as this administration is in office. The Hydens love you.”

“That’s true, and I appreciate it,” I said, “but we both know that life around here can change in the space of a heartbeat. Or with an election. I don’t want to make enemies of the Secret Service again. Not after I’ve worked so hard to establish credibility.”

“Once they catch the guys who robbed you last night, you’ll feel better.”

“I hope so.”

We settled into a companionable silence as we puttered about the kitchen. Years of working together had allowed the three of us—Bucky, Cyan, and me—to establish patterns. Between the time we usually sent breakfast upstairs for the First Family and when we needed to begin preparing lunch, we enjoyed a short break in activity.

Ever since our team had dropped in number from three to two, however, Bucky and I found ourselves buzzing around the kitchen all day, even during our supposed down time.

Today promised a shot at our elusive lull. The president’s kids, Abigail and Josh, were at school with the lunches we’d packed for them this morning. The First Lady’s commitment at a hospital benefit kept her out of the residence all day and President Hyden, we’d just been advised, had departed the White House fifteen minutes ago via Marine One. He wasn’t expected back until nightfall.

We had no idea where he’d gone, but it wasn’t our business to know. All that mattered to us at this point was preparing dinner and ensuring that the kids’ afterschool snacks made it upstairs before they did. That was hours away. For the first time in a long time, an extended period of calm stretched ahead of us.

Bucky folded his arms and made a face at the clock. “Would you mind if I ran out on an errand this morning? Brandy’s birthday is coming up.”

“I have that interview with Sargeant this afternoon at two o’clock,” I reminded him, “and there’s a chance I may have to view a lineup at some point today.”

“Got it, Chief. I’ll stay put.”

“No, go ahead. I was just letting you know the parameters. With everyone gone today, we’re safe. At least until this afternoon,” I said. “What do you have planned for her?”

“Nothing yet. That’s the problem. When you’ve been together for as long as we have, you start running out of ingenious ideas.”

Gav and I hadn’t had the chance to celebrate much together. Not yet, at least. I hoped someday to share Bucky’s lament. “You’ll think of something.”

“You’re sure it’s okay?” Bucky asked as he untied his apron and began to unsnap his smock. “I’ll be back well before two.”

“Take your time and good luck.”

Five minutes after Bucky left, Neville Walker’s assistant called, summoning me to the Secret Service’s West Wing office. I was surprised to find Kager and Beem waiting for me when I arrived.

“The detectives are back,” Neville said unnecessarily. “They’d like you to look at some photos.” He gestured me into the same chair I’d sat in last night as the two detectives resumed their positions.

“Feels like déjà vu,” I said. “I thought you said I’d be called to come down to the station today.”

The studiously silent Beem tugged at his lower lip. Kager shot me a chilly “yes, you’re right, but that’s not important right now” smile and said, “We’re eager to close this case; and the sooner you make positive identification, the better. With that in mind, we brought photos of individuals and would appreciate it if you could take a look at them.”

She opened a file folder and began laying mug shots across the top of Neville’s desk in a slow, precise row. The Secret Service agent remained silent, but I caught a look in his eyes that I read as disconcerted surprise.

When she laid the fifth photo down, I said, “That’s him. That’s the man with the tattooed fingers. The one I thought of as Hunter because of the movie
The Night of the Hunter
.”

Kager and Beem exchanged a glance. “You’re certain?” she asked. “You told us he wore a scarf.”

“I can’t explain it,” I said. “But his eyes. The shape of his forehead, maybe. I can’t tell you why, but I recognized him immediately.”

“He’s the one you claimed didn’t speak, is that correct?”

“Right. He didn’t say a word.”

She gathered the photos back up and began laying down another set. “Do you think you’ll be able to recognize the other man?”

The guy with the hairy knuckles had remained behind me for most of the assault. I hadn’t gotten up close and personal with him—or his face—the way I had with Hunter. “I’ll do my best.”

She placed a series of photos down, and although I studied them closely, not one hit me the way the first photo had. “I’m sorry,” I said.

Dismissing my apology, she scooped up the pictures and began laying out another row. “Oh,” I said, “I thought we were done. Hey—” I pointed to the third photo. “Him. I can’t swear to it like I did with the other guy, but he feels familiar.”

The two detectives exchanged yet another one of their confounding looks. Beem stood. Kager gathered up the pictures then stood, too. “As soon as we arrange for the lineup, we will be in touch,” she said.

“Hold on a minute.” Neville didn’t get up. “Chef Paras and I were under the impression that the lineup would take place today. Has something changed?” He held a hand out toward the folder Kager had tucked under her arm. “Are the
individuals Ms. Paras identified the same ones you originally suspected and intended to bring in?”

Kager shook her head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Then”—Neville folded his hands again as precisely as before—“tell me this much: Are you here today because you’ve been
unsuccessful
in picking up these persons of interest?”

Kager scratched at one eyebrow with the tip of a fingernail. “We will be in touch once we’ve assembled a suitable lineup,” she said.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“The less I share about our investigation, the less we color Ms. Paras’s recollections. I’m sure you understand.”

Neville stared. “As long as
you
understand how important it is to the White House to have these two criminals apprehended and charged as soon as possible.”

Beem tilted his head toward the door. Kager turned to me. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”

When they left, I stood up. “I don’t like it,” Neville said before I could turn for the door. He fingered an ear lobe and stared at the wall. “They know these guys, they know where they live. There’s no reason why they couldn’t have rousted them and hauled them in today.”

“What’s the holdup then?” I asked. “Excuse the pun.”

Neville glared, but allowed a quick grin. “That’s what I want to know. Even if these two detectives don’t deal directly with this gang, they have the resources to find them. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

“Unless the criminals left town?” I asked. “Or someone is hiding them?”

“Possible, but unlikely.” He continued to tug at his ear lobe. “I don’t like it,” he said again. “When is Agent Gavin expected to return?”

I didn’t know, and said so.

“Has he been apprised of the situation?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk with him,” I said. “He’s completely out of touch.”

Neville offered a wry smile. “Part of the job,” he said. “Tough to have a family when the country always has to come first.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

*   *   *

A half hour before I needed to be upstairs with Sargeant, Bucky returned to the kitchen empty-handed. “Browsing the stores didn’t do me any good,” he said. “I have less than a week to figure out what to get Brandy.”

“I’ll bet you come up with the perfect idea,” I said. “Think about what she always talks about. What’s important to her?”

“Hmm,” he said. “Easier said than done.”

I turned at a brisk knock at our doorway. “Chef Paras?”

Elaine stood there. One of our administrative assistants, she’d worked in the White House longer than I’d been alive. Taller and heavier than me, with silvery hair pulled back in a low pony, she wore rhinestone-studded cat’s-eye glasses and an apologetic air.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said with a smile and a swift glance at her watch, “but the candidate for the assistant chef position is here. Mr. Sargeant would like to know if you’re free to start the interview early.”

“That’s fine.” I stripped off my apron and conferred with Bucky before heading upstairs with Elaine.

“Mr. Sargeant will be very pleased,” she said as we made our way up the quiet stairway. “He has a particularly busy schedule this afternoon.”

“I take it Margaret isn’t back yet?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Sargeant has been trying to reach her to find out when she expects to return.”

“Margaret is always so on top of things,” I said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t kept him better informed.”

Elaine pursed her lips and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Family emergencies turn a person’s life upside down. It’s hard to predict how people will react in a crisis.”

“I’m sorry for whatever she’s going through.”

“You may go right in,” Elaine said when we reached the chief usher’s office. “They’re waiting for you.”

*   *   *

After welcoming candidates and making appropriate introductions, Sargeant liked to open interviews by summarizing general expectations of all White House employees. It was a good icebreaker and usually served as an effective segue for questions.

When Sargeant finished his intro, he turned the meeting over to me.

If old-school pizza ads could come alive, then one of them sat before us now. Nicholas Dulkin looked like a blend of every smiling, chubby, mustachioed chef caricature out there. Most candidates sat up straight and a little bit forward during the interview process, conveying eagerness or perhaps their discomfort. Dulkin sat back, hands folded across his prodigious middle, twiddling his thumbs.

Maybe it was a nervous habit, maybe he wasn’t attempting to personify boredom. I reminded myself to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Dulkin answered my questions well enough; there was no doubt that this chef had the chops. I couldn’t help wondering, however, why a professional of his caliber would seek a junior position. So I asked.

He shifted his weight. “The White House kitchen is, of course, the most prestigious in the nation, possibly the world.”

Sargeant and I waited for him to continue.

He smoothed his mustache with the back of his thumb, one side at a time. “The chance to prepare meals for our president is every chef’s dream, isn’t it?”

I didn’t sense outright prevarication from him, but I couldn’t allow that sort of non-answer to slide. “Are you telling us that working here has always been your dream?”

“If that’s the case, please clarify.” Sargeant donned his reading glasses to sift through the Secret Service’s reports on the man. “You don’t seem to have ever sought a position at the White House before this.”

Dulkin smoothed his mustache again, darting a glance at Sargeant, who watched with his characteristic squirrel-like alertness. “I have spent all of my adult life in kitchens and I have—with utter modesty—created spectacular meals for hundreds of important guests. I could easily continue to do so and retire comfortably whenever I wanted.”

We waited for the “but.”

Instead, he rolled his shoulders. “I’m not married and have few family ties. There is nothing for me at home. Each day I travel to my workplace and if I’m successful—which I usually am—I enhance our guests’ lives a little bit. The time has come for me to take stock and to ask myself how to enhance my own life.”

“How do you expect working at the White House to do that for you?” I asked.

“It’s not just the White House.” He met my gaze. “It’s also working with you.”

“Oh?” Sargeant’s chin tilted up. “Do you care to expand on that?”

“I hesitate to admit this . . .”

“Please,” Sargeant said, with feigned solicitude, “we’re eager to know what makes you tick.”

A flush crawled into Dulkin’s high cheeks, even as he maintained eye contact. “I have had a good life. A successful life. But most kitchens do not afford the opportunity for intrigue and excitement that your kitchen does.” He pointed inward, with both hands. “I’m middle-aged and out of shape. Your Secret Service would never hire me. And yet . . . you.” Unfolding his hands, he stretched them toward me. “Like me, you are a chef and yet unlike me, you’ve been involved in world events. Your legacy will live on. I am forgotten by the time a diner sits down to his next meal.”

Taken aback, it took me a moment to find my voice. “Am I to understand that you see this White House position as some sort of gateway to intrigue?”