Home of the Braised (18 page)

“What do you need from me?”

His expression shifted. Like he suddenly remembered I was there. “At the moment, nothing.” He glanced at the door, as though to reassure himself that it was still closed. “About Secretary Cobault . . .”

I waited.

“He didn’t die of natural causes.”

I reacted as if struck by an electric charge. “What are you saying? On television—”

His withering look silenced me. We both knew, all too well, how broadcast updates didn’t always square with the truth.

“That buffoon Daniel Davies is reporting that Secretary Cobault suffered a heart attack,” Sargeant said. “That is inaccurate. The secretary was murdered.”

I couldn’t help myself. I repeated, “Murdered?”

“This is in confidence, Olivia. Secretary Cobault suffered two gunshots.” Sargeant indicated a spot on his forehead, another at his heart.

“Who did it?”

“Isn’t that the question? Right now we’re allowing the press to run with the heart attack information because we can’t let this situation negatively impact negotiations with Durasi.”

“Is that wise?”

“It’s the directive I’ve been given,” he said sharply. “The only staff members here who know the truth are you and I. The facts will be shared with the American public very soon, but not until the story can be better contained. Not that a story of this magnitude can be contained at all, mind you.”

“Why tell me?”

For the briefest moment, Sargeant almost smiled. “Agent MacKenzie believes that it is in everyone’s best interests. He was very clear on the fact that you and I are to share that information with no one else. There is a small circle of people who know what’s going on. You’re one of them.”

“Got it.”

Margaret knocked at the door, her pert features tight with apprehension. “Mr. Sargeant, your four o’clock appointment is here. Are you planning to make him wait?”

Sargeant stared up at her as though seeing her for the first time. “No, thank you. Ms. Paras and I are finished here. Please tell him I’ll be with him momentarily.”

I got up. “Thanks, Peter,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

I walked out of his office, nearly bumping into Sargent’s next appointment—Alec Baran.

“Good afternoon, Olivia,” he said. Perhaps assuming—correctly—the reason for my presence in Sargeant’s office, he added, “Terrible news about Secretary Cobault.”

“Yes, it is. The secretary was a lovely man. He will be missed.”

“I’m sure he never saw it coming,” Baran said, solemnly. “Such a shame.”

As Sargeant welcomed Baran into his office, I wondered whether Baran knew the truth about Cobault’s death. Sargeant had said that he and I were the only two on staff who would be trusted with the information. Baran, as head of Kalto, didn’t
quite
qualify as staff. But he didn’t quite qualify as Secret Service, either.

“Are you waiting for something?” Margaret asked, pulling me from my musings.

“Always.” I excused myself and headed back to the kitchen.

URLICH ESCORTED ME OUT OF THE WHITE
House that evening, walking me to the Southwest Appointment Gate, where Gav waited. The two men discussed my safety almost as though I wasn’t there.

“You’ll see Ms. Paras home this evening?” Urlich asked Gav.

“Absolutely,” he answered. “I’ll take over from here.”

Urlich looked as though he was about to salute. “Very good,” he said, and turned away.

When he was out of earshot, Gav turned to me. “You heard about Secretary Cobault?”

“I did,” I said, wondering how much of what I knew I was allowed to share with Gav. As we walked to his car, and started on our way to try to find the homeless man we’d encountered near the Ainsley Street Ministry, it occurred to me that I hadn’t ever been in a position to withhold information from him before. The sensation of keeping truth from him felt alien and wrong.

My discomfort was short-lived, thank goodness, when he added, “Tom told me that you and Sargeant are up to date on the details.”

Like a giant breath of fresh air, relief whooshed out of me.

Gav took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a curious glance. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” he asked. “If I didn’t already know?”

I hesitated, but answered truthfully. “No, I wasn’t.”

He reached over to squeeze my hand. “That’s my girl.”

Not for the first time did it occur to me that we made the oddest of couples. We both regularly dealt with global leaders, hotshot politicians, and information not intended for public consumption. Gav and I trusted each other completely, but we both realized that we would occasionally encounter details that we couldn’t share with the other. More often, this happened when Gav was unable to share with me. I got that; accepted and understood it, in fact. It was nice to know that sentiment ran both ways.

“Have you heard any more?” I asked. “That is, are there any suspects?”

Though I watched him in profile, I could see his features tighten. “Nothing at the moment. Whoever killed Secretary Cobault knew what he or she was doing. We have to assume that Cobault was targeted specifically, because none of his valuables are missing and because his administrative assistant told us he’d planned to meet someone.”

“Who?”

He gave me a sideways grimace. “If we knew that—” Drawing in a deep breath, he continued. “This all happened during the day in Cobault’s home. That requires a level of sophistication. Whoever killed him was confident the secretary would be alone. Plus, the ballistics.”

“What about them? Sargeant didn’t say anything.”

“I’m not surprised. He may not have been told about them. The bullets that were recovered were unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

“They’re still being examined, but preliminary reports suggest these were armor-piercing bullets.” He took one hand off of the wheel long enough to hold up a finger. “That doesn’t mean that these are impossible for the public to acquire, you understand. It does, however, support the hypothesis that this was a planned, professional attack.”

“Who would want to kill Secretary Cobault?”

“Again, if we knew that, we’d be in better shape to solve the crime. In his position, Cobault’s made plenty of enemies, both here at home and across the world. We need to narrow the pool of suspects, which won’t be easy.”

“The other day we talked about how Secretary Cobault was in favor of the president’s withdrawal of mercenary forces from Durasi.”

He nodded.

“Kalto forces are in Durasi, and they’re being pulled.”

Again, he nodded.

“We also know that Jason Chaff/Jordan Campo was working undercover for Kalto, and now he’s dead in what also seems like a planned attack.” I was putting things together as I spoke. “Could Secretary Cobault’s killing be related to the mass murder at Evan’s?”

Gav drew in another deep breath. “It’s a worthy hypothesis.”

“That’s part of what you can’t discuss with me,” I said as realization hit. “Got it.”

We rode in silence a little while longer and were still more than a mile from the turnoff for the Ainsley Street Ministry when Gav slowed down. “If the homeless man we met usually hangs out near Evan’s, he could be anywhere in this area. Keep an eye out.”

I’d already been watching the sidewalks and scanning the side streets. “We may need to go around a few times,” I said. “It’s hard to see all the way down when we’re moving so fast.”

He decreased the car’s speed a little more, and engaged his hazard lights. A couple of cars behind us took the hint and passed on the left. When another straggler hung on our tail, Gav opened his window and waved it around.

As it passed, I chanced a look at the driver. An elderly woman wearing a bright-blue flowered hat and matching gloves, she was hunched over her steering wheel with hands primly at the ten and two positions, gaze fixed on the road. “She may have been happier behind us,” Gav said when another car honked its horn because she didn’t move fast enough to pass.

As the elderly woman signaled, then merged into our lane in front of us, the impatient driver passed. Frowning and mouthing words I didn’t care to decipher, he was young, driving a sleek, black car with one of those expensive vehicle logos. When the lane ahead of him finally opened up, he roared away, as though trying to teach us all a lesson on how to drive.

“Nice guy,” I said.

The brief interlude had drawn my attention from the street for less than fifteen seconds, but when I turned back, I caught sight of our quarry. “There,” I said, pointing. “That’s him.”

The same man we’d encountered outside the Ainsley Street Ministry was walking on my side of the road, heading north, the same direction we were traveling. Even though I could only see his bare back, I had no doubt. He had the same stature, wore the same ripped jeans, and carried the same staff, which he used as a walking stick. He kept up a quick pace, the wind throwing his matted white beard over his left shoulder. As we cruised past him, I noticed he was muttering to himself. I hoped he’d be coherent enough to talk.

Gav slowed even more as we sought a parking spot. It took a full block and a half before we were able to pull over, but I kept my eyes on the man striding our way, and hoped he wouldn’t choose that moment to veer away onto a new street or into a building.

Luck was with us. We slid into an empty spot and the minute the car was in Park, I got out to stare south. Gav came around to stand beside me. “Where did he go?” I asked. “I swear I didn’t take my eyes off of him until I was opening the car door. How did he disappear so fast?”

“Come on,” Gav said, and took off down the block. I noticed that he seemed to be relying less on the cane than he had been. He was looking better every day.

We’d gone about fifty steps when Gav and I stopped short. We’d both spotted our target at the exact same moment. He was sitting in the doorway of an abandoned storefront, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his staff tight in his wiry grip. It took him about three seconds to realize we’d stopped on his account.

“Get away from me,” he said.

His accent-tinged voice was lower-pitched than I remembered. Or maybe it was his surprise at two strangers staring down at him. In either case, he got to his feet, with difficulty, using his staff for support. He was older than I remembered, too. Sun-browned skin was stretched paper-thin over pokey bones. His bottom teeth were mostly gone and when he finally stood up, he remained stooped. He smelled of body odor and hot, wet rags.

Gav took the lead. “We want to talk, that’s all.”

He made a deep sound in his throat, like a growl. “I am the Keeper. You don’t belong here.”

Gav and I exchanged a look. This may have been a futile endeavor, but I wasn’t ready to give up.

“We just want to talk to you,” I began. “You’re the keeper? Of what?”

“Don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m a chef, not a cop.”

That seemed to surprise him. “I keep the balance,” he said. In a godlike move, he stamped his staff on the sidewalk, and I half expected the ground to tremble in response. If he’d been able to stand completely straight, he might have been taller than Gav. As it was, he had to stoop lower to make eye contact with me. His eyes were cloudy, but he didn’t strike me as completely out of his head as much as reluctant to live in reality.

When he spoke again, it was a question. “You make food?”

“I do,” I said, opting not to add that I did so for the president.

He waved the staff in front of himself. It was a defensive move, and it dawned on me that he could be afraid of us. In his position, I might be, too.

“Don’t need your food. Don’t want your charity. Have all I need. I am the Keeper.”

Gav gave me a look that said he thought I was doing fine. It encouraged me to continue. “I’m not here to try to convert you,” I said, “and we know you wouldn’t take charity.” That was a guess, but it seemed to be the right thing to say to him. “What we’re hoping to do is trade.”

The sourness of his breathy laugh nearly choked me. He held his arms wide. “Got nothing to trade. Go away.”

“You have information.”

I got another full-face blast of that horrific laugh. Tapping his head with the top of his staff, he said, “First thing you said that’s right. More information than anyone.” He straightened again, extending his arms as though to encompass the world. The skin of his bare chest sagged from overexposure and age, but his voice was powerful. “I know everything. I am the Keeper.”

Gav tried again. “We can trade. You share information and we can help you. What do you need?”

I expected him to ask for money. He surprised me by saying, “Enlightenment is what I seek. What we should
all
seek. I have seen a mere glimpse of the light and the real. I know it and I wait to see it again.”

That didn’t really answer the question, but he wasn’t finished yet.

“Your aura.” He wiggled a finger at me. “It tells me you are on the path to enlightenment, too.” He squinted at Gav, but didn’t say anything.

That seemed as close to acceptance as we might get from him, and I took it as a positive sign. “I’d like to think we are,” I said. “It’s a long journey to enlightenment, though. A tough one.”

He pointed his staff at me. “You speak truth!”

I didn’t quite know how we’d get him to focus on what he might have seen at Evan’s that day. Gav’s lips were tight, and I could tell he was wondering the same thing. Maybe this had been a mistake. Yet I still wasn’t ready to give up.

I had an idea. “Would you walk with us?” I asked. We were probably about six blocks, maybe less, from the Ainsley Street location. It would be far easier to question him about the events of that day if we were able to point to where the murders happened.

The homeless man squinted at me, suddenly suspicious.

“Mr. Keeper,” I said. “May I call you that?”

He nodded.

“We had a friend who was searching for enlightenment.” I was struggling to make the connection we needed. “He’s gone now. Maybe you know where he went?”

I could tell the question confused him.

I tried again. “Maybe you could walk with us?” When the Keeper didn’t respond, I extended my arms, the way he had. “He lived here, where you keep the balance.” When he still seemed wary, I added, “We need your help to find enlightenment.”

That did it. With a nod of acquiescence, he took a step forward. “Lead me and I will guide you.”

The Keeper had no problems walking, and he kept a pace that most men his age probably wouldn’t be able to manage for ten steps, let alone six blocks. By the time we got within a block of Evan’s street, I was breathing a little harder. More than that, though, I was worried for Gav, but he gave me a reassuring glance that let me know he was fine. He whispered close to my ear, “You’re doing great; keep it up.”

When we reached the building next door to Evan’s, I pointed ahead. “That’s where my friend lived.”

The Keeper froze, his eyes wide as he stared at Evan’s vacant storefront. “The demon lives,” he said. “Darkness.” He raised the arm that held his staff and used it to shield his eyes. Turning around, he began walking back the way we’d come.

“Wait,” I said, chasing after him, “what’s wrong?”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. “The demon,” he said again.

Gav and I exchanged a look as we hurried to catch up. While I knew these could be the ravings of a madman, I had to believe that the Keeper had seen something important that day. “Stop, please,” I said, touching his arm for the first time. Gently, very gently. “Please.”

He obliged. He seemed shorter all of a sudden, stooping lower, almost as though trying to make himself small. He stared at me from beneath bushy brows.

“That was my friend’s building,” I said. “Evan. Did you know him?”

“Your friend is lost.”

“I know,” I said carefully. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The Keeper seemed to notice Gav again. “Don’t talk to cops.”

Gav kept his voice low. “Evan was my friend, too.”

The Keeper stared at the ground, running his hand down his beard several times. “Did he show you the path to enlightenment?” he finally asked.