Home of the Braised (17 page)

Gav stopped in front of a popular local restaurant. “How’s this?”

“Looks great,” I said.

Inside, the hostess led us to a small table for two near the door, right in the middle of foot traffic. Gav pointed deeper inside the restaurant. “Do you have anything more quiet?”

“Of course.” She led us to a cozy table in the far corner. Gav sat with his back to the wall and I with my back to the windows. Together we had a complete view of the room. We liked it that way.

It didn’t take us long to decide what we wanted and once we’d placed our orders with the waitress, Gav turned to me. “You had something you wanted to talk about. What’s up?”

I told him my idea about trying to contact the homeless man we’d encountered outside the Ainsley Street Ministry. “If you recall, he seemed spooked at the time. We brushed it off as mad ravings, but what if . . .”

“What if he saw something,” Gav finished. “It’s a long shot.”

“It is.”

“And he may be impossible to locate.”

“True, too.”

He skimmed the room and I followed his gaze. Dark paneling, gentle lighting, and linen tablecloths. This was the sort of restaurant where hushed conversations resulted in business deals and across-the-aisle cooperation. Our nearest dining neighbors—two men in suits—were three tables away, but the place was beginning to fill up. “Worth checking,” he said.

“What did you find out about Jason Chaff?” I asked.

Gav took a deep drink of water, then shook his head as though he didn’t believe what he was about to tell me. “I wasn’t far off when I termed Chaff the invisible man.”

He lowered his voice, and I scooched my chair closer to hear him.

“Listen carefully, Ollie,” he said with a meaningful look, “because there are some details I can’t share with you. Classified details that were shared with me. Got that?”

I nodded.

“What I
can
tell you are a few things I learned on my own.”

The waitress came and dropped off uninspired salads with little pots of dressing on the side. The last thing I cared about right now was food. “Go on.”

“Jason Chaff’s real name was Jordan Campo,” he said. “He used to be part of the Secret Service.”

“Did you know him?”

Gav shook his head. “We may have met. I don’t recall. I can tell you that I knew
of
him. He left to take a position with Kalto.”

“Kalto,” I repeated. “You mean the same company that’s now working with the Secret Service at the White House? Alec Baran’s company?”

“The same.”

“Your friend Evan was part of the Secret Service at one point, too. Now they’re both dead. Killed together. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

I studied the look in his eyes, remembering how he’d warned me to listen closely. “You told me that Evan ministered to people on the fringes of society. Let me guess: Jordan wasn’t one of those people. He’s involved differently somehow, isn’t he?”

“From what I could tell, Jordan was still an active member of Kalto. It’s looking very likely that he and Evan were working together. Quietly, though. As though they were afraid of being found out.”

“What about the other three victims?”

“Collateral damage,” he said with obvious sadness. “They must have been at the ministry that day seeking help. Whoever took Evan and Jordan out didn’t care that three other men were killed along with them.”

“That’s terrible.” I put my fork down, having barely touched my salad. “Who would have wanted Jordan and Evan dead?”

Gav held a finger up, not quite against his lips, but near enough. “That’s one of the topics you and I cannot discuss.”

“But
you
know who it might be.”

“Let’s say this: I know who I can trust. There aren’t many of us, but we’re working together. The difficulty lies in not knowing who we
can’t
trust. Can’t say a word beyond that, except to warn you that you need to be on your toes, always. We both do.”

“Fair enough,” I said trying to come across braver than I felt after his ominous pronouncement. “Have you found out how Tyree, Larsen, and the rest of them knew to storm into Evan’s place just then? How they knew to wear gas masks? That’s some pretty specific intelligence for a quiet D.C. street.”

“Believe it or not, that I
can
tell you.”

The waitress placed a platter of steaming pasta primavera in front of me and a sausage and pepper plate in front of Gav. “Is there anything else you need right now?” she asked as she picked up my half-finished salad.

“Would you mind wrapping that up?” I asked. “I hate to waste.”

“No problem,” she said cheerily.

As soon as she was gone, I turned back to Gav. “Well?”

He sliced a piece of sausage. “Sorry, I’m starving,” he said as he popped it into his mouth. “Haven’t had very much to eat all day.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” I said. “I’ll probably just pick.” Even as I started in on my dinner, I knew I’d barely put a dent in it. When the waitress dropped off my boxed salad, I was tempted to have her wrap my dinner up right away, too. I was so focused on our conversation that the food in front of me held no appeal.

“Tyree and his team knew to investigate Evan’s place based on—wait for it—an anonymous tip.”

I put my fork down with a clatter. “No way.”

He speared another piece of sausage. “I kid you not. Apparently the tipster was quite precise, and shared information that lent credence to his claim.”

“Why alert the authorities?” I asked. “Why kill those men? Who had the motive?”

Gav continued eating. We were dancing around that can’t-share information again.

I pushed my plate forward a little and perched my elbows on the table. “Let me hypothesize,” I said. “I know you can’t confirm or deny, but let me throw out a few ideas here.”

Between mouthfuls, he said, “I won’t stop you.”

“Among the five victims are two former Secret Service agents, one of whom called you recently for help.” I shuddered to think what might have been had Gav decided to visit Evan earlier that day.

“Go ahead.”

“Evan had retired a while ago, and Jason/Jordan had left the service to work for Kalto.” Gav didn’t interrupt as I scratched my forehead, piecing together the timeline with what I knew to be fact. “Kalto is one of the mercenary teams the United States has hired to keep peace in Durasi.”

“Again,” Gav said, “that is factual. Not a secret, nor classified in any way.”

“The president recently put it on record that he intends to withdraw mercenary forces—including Kalto teams—from Durasi. Which has resulted in Kalto personnel being reassigned to positions here in Washington.” Gav didn’t say a word, but his stare grew more intense. “What if,” I mused, “that makes someone unhappy?”

Gav remained silent.

“Who, though?” It was a rhetorical question. “If Jordan/Jason was a Kalto employee working undercover with Evan Bonder, what were the two men trying to accomplish?” I picked up my fork and wound it around in my pasta, just to have something to do. I glanced up to see Gav watching me. “Or what were they trying to prevent?”

Gav had made it through his entire dinner in practically no time.

“I’ve always said you have good instincts, Ollie.”

“The quick story in the newspaper about the deaths at the Ainsley Street Ministry—they characterized it as an accident, not a homicide. As you know, the reporter who wrote the article is the same guy who gave me a hard time at Sargeant’s press conference. Tyree and Larsen were there, too.”

“You believe there’s a connection?” he asked.

“I’m not ready to rule it out.”

Gav wiped his mouth with his napkin as the waitress cleared our plates. I was about to ask her to box mine up, but she gave me an understanding smile. “Got it,” she said. “Not too hungry today, were you?”

When she’d left us again, Gav leaned forward. “Switching subjects, you know that our marriage license is almost ready to be picked up.”

For the first time since we’d sat down, I smiled. “Like I’d forget that.”

He reached over to cover my hand with his. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He chuckled. “Considering how many times your certainties have put your life in jeopardy, that’s saying something.” Getting serious again, he went on, “We haven’t had a chance to talk about plans. Not since Evan.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“You’d want your mother and nana here if it were possible, wouldn’t you?”

My words caught in my throat. “It would mean a lot to them. And to me.”

“So even if we were able to find a minister willing to perform a marriage ceremony on short notice, you’d prefer to wait until we could get your family here, wouldn’t you?”

I sighed. “That wasn’t our agreement.”

“I know that. But I’m asking you. If you could make all this work in the best way possible, how would you do it?”

Might as well admit it. “I’d want my family here.”

He nodded, as though that settled it. “Eight weeks isn’t so long,” he said. “We can wait.”

I twisted my hand under his and held tight to his fingers. “You know I’d marry you today if I could.”

He squeezed back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“WHAT IS WITH THE TWO OF YOU TODAY?” I
asked Cyan the next afternoon.

She dropped an armload of shallots onto the workspace before her. “What are you talking about?”

Standing at the long stovetop, I raised the spoon I’d been using to check on the simmering chicken stock and gestured vaguely out the door. “You and Bucky have been the disappearing twins.” I pointed the spoon at the shallots. “How long ago did you leave to get those?” I asked. “It should have taken you five minutes, tops. You were gone for at least a half hour.”

Virgil leaned against the giant mixer, watching as its beater smoothed lumps from sweet potatoes. “About time you call the two of them out for slacking instead of always finding fault with me.” He flashed an unpleasant smile. “Gets boring with only one whipping boy, you know.”

I’d confronted Virgil this morning about his abrupt departure after the tasting, reminding him that I’d wanted to talk with him, and reprimanding him for taking off without telling me. He’d reacted with dismissive anger, claiming that I singled him out for censure. I was getting tired of his antics and attitude.

Cyan looked up at the clock. “Has it been that long?” She began sorting the shallots, examining the rose-colored bulbs one at a time, wrinkling her nose when she encountered the occasional moldy one and pushing those off to the side. “You sure?”

I was about to answer when Bucky returned, whistling. He gave me a grin as he pulled a fresh apron from the pile.

“You both remember that we have a state dinner in three days,” I said. “It could be the most important state dinner President Hyden has ever hosted.”

“I don’t think anyone has forgotten that,” Bucky said. He crossed the kitchen to peer over Virgil’s shoulder. “The kitchen is running at full efficiency, isn’t it?”

“Personal space, man. Personal space,” Virgil said. “Back off.”

Unruffled, Bucky gave a crooked grin. “Yep,” he said. “Full efficiency given our”—he rolled his eyes, indicating Virgil—“current resources.”

“Hey,” Virgil said, turning. “Ever since I agreed to help with this dinner, you and Miss Chameleon Eyes have been pretty scarce. All your work is falling on me.”

That was an exaggeration if I’d ever heard one. Even though Bucky and Cyan had been out of the kitchen more often than usual, their work hadn’t suffered because of it. I wondered if my including Virgil in the plans had upset them so much they couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him anymore. Regret over my hasty decision was growing.

“Give me a break,” Bucky said. “Except for the First Lady’s tasting, which I heard was the worst run one in the history of this kitchen, you haven’t done anything to move this state dinner further along.”

“Oh yeah?” Virgil pointed. “I’m making these potatoes. Again.” He pointed at me. “This time with the lame recipe she’s making me use instead of with the special touch that made them interesting.”

“Whoa! Be still my heart,” Bucky said, grasping at his chest. “You’re following directions? I don’t know if I can handle the shock.”

Virgil turned his back on the potatoes to face Bucky. “You’re just afraid of me. Admit it. You know that the minute I take over the state dinners, you’re on your way out.”

The last thing I needed was for this to erupt into a brawl.

I was about to step in, but Bucky surprised me by saying, “You know what, Virgil, you have a point. Seems to me you’re moving up so quickly here that Ollie’s not going to need me anymore.” He turned to me and winked. “Think I should update my resume?”

He had to be joking. “Bucky,” I said. “Don’t tease.”

Virgil scowled. “I wouldn’t want to get my hopes up.”

“Stop this right now,” I said. “We get far more accomplished when we work together. Agreed?”

Bucky was still grinning which always had the capacity to unnerve me. Although he’d proven to be a trustworthy ally, he was crusty and blunt. Smiling was not his face’s natural state. Something was up. Something big. Virgil ignored me. Cyan was the only one to show solidarity when she said, “That’s absolutely right.”

I was about to thank her for her support, when she added, “Of course, we
are
ahead of schedule this time. We’ve been through so many state dinners we can afford to relax a little bit, can’t we?” She gave me the sweetest smile, but I couldn’t help feeling that she was patronizing me. “Don’t worry, Ollie. We won’t let you down.”

I knew they wouldn’t, yet I couldn’t shake a vague feeling of unease. “Fair enough,” I said. “We’re all professionals here. And we’re going to show President Hyden and his guests the best his White House kitchen has to offer. How’s that?”

Virgil snorted.

I spun to face him, biting my tongue before a sharp retort flew. “Virgil.” I fought to modulate my tone. The only reason we’d invited him to help was because I believed he needed to feel valued. Moments like this one, when he sneered at my authority, he chipped away at any goodwill I’d cultivated toward him. “When you agreed to help out with this state dinner, I expected you would do so with a decent attitude.”

“
My
attitude isn’t the issue here.” He shot a vicious glare at Bucky.

For the second time in as many minutes, I held back. This was my fault. I’d been the one with the genius plan to get Virgil more involved. I’d been convinced that including him as part of the group would help turn him around. Suppressing my anger at Virgil’s vehemence, I also chastised myself. We had a state dinner to prepare, and I’d committed myself and the kitchen. We would allow Virgil the opportunity to prove himself this one time. If this experiment failed, I would admit defeat and never try anything like this again.

Next to me, Cyan was at the computer, preparing to update a file. She had the monitor tuned to a local news channel.

Keeping calm, I said, “Let’s all—”

Cyan shot an arm out, grabbing me. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “Oh my gosh.”

I turned to study the screen. “What?”

“Oh my gosh,” she said again.

Virgil made a noise of disgust. “Wait, let me guess. They voted your favorite reality TV player off the show.”

The video and the words were beginning to make sense to me. And yet it couldn’t be true. “Be quiet, Virgil.”

I didn’t notice if he reacted. I didn’t care. Bucky came up on Cyan’s right, and the three of us formed a triangle, our attention fixed on the news playing before us.

Daniel Davies, the jerk reporter who’d had it in for me during Sargeant’s press conference, was talking into a microphone. That was odd in itself. Davies was a print journalist.

“I’m here live, standing in for our regular news anchor, outside the home of Theodore Cobault, the nation’s Secretary of Defense.” Even though it was clear that Davies was breaking bad news to the American public, he had a strange glint in his eye, as though secretly thrilled to be the one releasing this story. “Again, we have not received official confirmation from police nor from the Hyden administration, but eyewitness accounts suggest that the ambulance and police behind me were summoned when Secretary Cobault was found dead by his housekeeper.”

“Oh my gosh,” I said.

Virgil, who still hadn’t come close enough to know what we were seeing, said, “Can’t you come up with a more original expression than ‘Oh my gosh’?”

I ignored him, addressing Cyan, Bucky, and the television. “How?”

Still talking, Davies answered me. “At this point we do not know details. We don’t know what part of the house Secretary Cobault was found in, nor do we have any idea how long he was there before being discovered. Again—we can’t stress this enough—we have not received official confirmation of the secretary’s death.”

“Then they shouldn’t be announcing it,” Bucky said. “They shouldn’t say such things until there’s official word. What is wrong with that guy? What kind of reporter is he?” His voice trembled. He was clearly shaken. As was I.

Secretary Cobault had been a frequent guest at the White House. Affable, polite, and genuinely warm, he was a popular member of the president’s cabinet. Well-loved, well-respected.

“How can it be?” I said, almost to myself. Gav and I had been discussing him, just the other day, with regard to . . .

Involuntarily, I grabbed Cyan’s shoulder, to steady myself.

Cyan misinterpreted my unsteady grip, and placed one of her hands over mine. “It’s so sad. Such a nice man.”

Bucky flung his hand toward the monitor, where Davies was repeating his announcement. “Maybe they’re wrong. Maybe this reporter is full of it. He’s the guy who went after you upstairs last week, isn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “Can’t trust people like that. There’s got to be a mistake. I’ll bet on it.”

With that, Bucky turned his back to the monitor and stormed across the kitchen. He picked up two metal bowls, which had been left out. “Why haven’t these been put away?” he asked, clearly dealing with anger the only way he knew how.

“See?” Virgil said. “Look at his attitude. And you complain about me?”

“Stop your whining,” I said. “Leave Bucky alone.”

Virgil returned his attention to the giant mixer without arguing, for once.

“How will this impact the Durasi state dinner?” Cyan asked.

I stood next to her, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”

• • •

AFTER OTHER NEWS CHANNELS CONFIRMED
Secretary Cobault’s death, I stopped by Sargeant’s office, smiling at Margaret as she gave me an unpleasant once-over. Before I could even ask her if Sargeant was in his office, she said, “I know you work in the basement, so I’m not sure if you heard . . .”

Silently, I corrected her:
Ground floor. We work on the ground floor.

“The secretary of defense is dead,” she said, clearly tickled to deliver bad news. I had no idea where her spite came from. “If you’re here to see Mr. Sargeant, all I can say is that he’s a little bit busy with that. I doubt he’ll have time to deal with your cooking problems.”

I pulled in a slow, deep breath. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Margaret.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you’re this unfriendly to everyone who comes in here, but I get the distinct impression that you don’t like me. The thing is, you don’t know me well enough to have formed an opinion yet—unless I’m missing something. Enlighten me, please. What is it about me that annoys you so deeply?”

She worked her mouth, then gave a quick look around the small space to see whether there was anyone else in earshot. There wasn’t. “It’s not like I have anything against you, personally.”

I waited for the rest of it.

Again the disdainful once-over. “I simply do not understand how you think it at all appropriate to be seen on the state room level in”—she pointed a finger at me, moving it up and down—“in kitchen garb. Can’t you see how wholly inappropriate your appearance is up here?”

That took me aback. We in the kitchen took pains to ensure that—as much as possible—we weren’t seen by the public unless we were in street clothes. I didn’t, however, agree with her method of handling disapproval, which was to snarl and glare at me until I made the effort to ask what was bothering her.

“Unless the White House is entertaining guests,” I said, “there’s no need for your concern.”

“You asked. I answered.”

The fact that she was a newer employee didn’t make her snippiness any more acceptable. I reminded myself to e-mail Sargeant in the future when I needed to speak with him. Working through his assistant was fast becoming a tedious endeavor. “When Mr. Sargeant is available, please let him know—”

“Ms. Paras,” Sargeant said, as he opened his door. “You’re here.” Perhaps reading the tension between me and Margaret, he asked, “Is there a problem?”

“It’s about the Durasi state dinner,” I said before she could answer. “Now that Secretary Cobault’s death has been confirmed, we’re wondering what effect that will have on the event.”

Sargeant tugged at an earlobe. He stepped back to allow me to enter his office. “Do you have a moment?”

I knew I should avoid eye contact with Margaret, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat, but I did get a happy thrill of victory at her glare of disapproval.

“Of course, Peter,” I said.

Inside, door shut, he got straight to the point. “I was about to ask Margaret to call you,” he said. “Sometimes your timing is uncanny.”

“What’s going on?” I asked. Sargeant’s superior air had been replaced by one of grave concern.

“The president and his advisers are discussing the Durasi dinner right now,” he began, “I expect a decision on that by the end of the day.” He glanced up at the clock. “The timing of this couldn’t be worse.” He seemed to hear himself and amended, “Not that there is any good time, mind you. This dinner for the Durasi administration was to herald a new era of peace between our countries. Secretary Cobault was a big part of organizing these accords.” Sargeant raised both hands. “There’s no telling how this will impact the situation.”

The intensity in Sargeant’s face told me that he was feeling the pressure of this situation almost as though he were personally charged with negotiating peace with this foreign power. I understood that. Every one of us working here in the White House felt responsible for making certain that the administration’s plans were carried out as well and as thoroughly as possible. None of us bore the burden the president did, but we all had our jobs to do and we all knew that when we performed well, it made President Hyden’s job that much easier.