by Julie Hyzy
Praise for
STATE OF THE ONION
“I loved this culinary thriller: topical, timely, intriguing. Julie Hyzy simmers a unique setting, strong characters, sharp conflict, and snappy plotting into a peppery blend that packs an unusual wallop. Hyzy’s research into the backstage kitchen secrets of the White House gives this series a special savor that will make you hungry for more.”
—Susan Wittig Albert, national bestselling author of Spanish Dagger
“From terrorists to truffles, mystery writer Julie Hyzy concocts a sumptuous, breathtaking thriller.”
—Nancy Fairbanks, author of Turkey Flambé
“Exciting and delicious! Full of heart-racing thrills and mouthwatering food, this is a total sensual delight.”
—Linda Palmer, author of Kiss of Death
“The pulse-pounding action, appealing heroine, and inner workings of the White House kitchen combine for a stellar adventure in Julie Hyzy’s delightful State of the Onion.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Dead Days of Summer
Praise for the novels of Julie Hyzy
“A well-constructed plot, interesting characters, and plenty of Chicago lore…A truly pleasurable cozy.”
—Annette Meyers, author of Hedging
“[A] solid, entertaining mystery that proves her to be a promising talent with a gift for winning characters and involving plots…Deadly Blessings demonstrates substantial polish and poise for a second novel and is likely to appeal to readers of traditional mysteries as well as those who enjoy stories with a slightly harder edge.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“The fast-paced plot builds to a spine-chilling ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A nicely balanced combination of detective work and high-wire adventure.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A well-crafted narrative, gentle tension, and a feisty, earthbound heroine mark this refreshingly different mystery debut.”
—Library Journal
STATE OF THE ONION
JULIE HYZY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
STATE OF THE ONION
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books
Copyright © 2008 by Tekno Books.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 1-4295-9409-8
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For Mike…
Thanks
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
A PRESIDENTIAL MENU
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
What wouldn’t I give to be invited to dinner at the White House! Better yet, to spend just one day in the White House kitchen. I’d love to work alongside the women and men there who personify excellence. Just one day. It would be a dream come true.
While no one actually said they’d have to kill me if they told me the truth, researching this novel has presented some interesting challenges. I’d like to thank all the Secret Service personnel and staff at the White House who answered my peculiar questions about how Ollie might “do this or that” as best they could. And I’d like to thank the Department of Homeland Security for not breaking down my door after my many Internet searches of “Camp David,” “terrorist,” “assassin,” “White House floor plan,” and the like.
So many wonderful people have helped me to the extent they could without compromising security. Any and all errors with regard to the White House and its protocols are mine.
A sincere thank you to those who helped me with firsthand information: Karna Small Bodman, Tony Burton, and Chris Grabenstein. Thanks also to Paul Garbarczyk, Mitch Bramstaedt, and Marla Garbarczyk, who provided me with a plethora of valuable resources. And to Congresswoman Judy Biggert, whose office arranged for my White House tour.
Enormous thanks to Marty Greenberg of Tekno Books for allowing me to create Olivia and her pals—a true thrill. Thanks also to John Helfers from Tekno for his editing expertise and unflagging good cheer. Also from Tekno, many thanks to Denise Little, who put me on the right path to learn White House lore and whose innovative recipes keep Ollie cooking.
I also wish to express my gratitude to my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, at Berkley Prime Crime, for having faith in me, and for taking time out at Bouchercon to meet and talk. I truly appreciated the welcome.
If it weren’t for the Second Amendment Foundation and the Tartaro family, Ollie wouldn’t have a clue about firearms. Of course, she’s still learning…and she needs lots more practice.
My dear friend Ken Rand inspires me every day. And he’d be the first to remind me that Max Ehrmann does, too.
From the moment this project began, my writing partner, Michael A.
Black, offered support, advice, and unfailing encouragement. I wouldn’t be here without him.
I am exceptionally blessed with a wonderful family and great friends who encourage me to follow my dreams. Thank you to Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz. You guys are my life.
Finally, special thanks to the Southland Scribes, Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and to the entire writing community. What a privilege it is to belong to such an interesting and generous group.
CHAPTER 1
I SLID MY EMPLOYEE PASS INTO THE CARD reader at the Northeast gate of the White House, and waited for verification—a long, shrill chirp that always made me wince. The pedestrian gate unlocked with a click and one of the guards, Freddie, emerged from the checkpoint to meet me. Like all of the staff here, he was fit, smart, and imposing. But he had a soft spot for those of us in the kitchen. We gave the guys cookies when we had time to make an extra batch.
“Hey, Ollie,” he said, looking at the bulky parcel in my hand, “What’s that?”
I pulled the commemorative silver frying pan out from its bag and smiled as I ran my fingers over the words engraved on its base. “Henry’s retirement gift,” I said. “Think he’ll like it?” Henry Cooley, the White House executive chef, was formally retiring after many years of dedicated service. All of us who worked in the White House kitchen had chipped in to give him something to remember us by.
“It’s cool,” Freddie said. “He’ll love it.”
“I hope so.” I eased the pan back into its bag just as the sky rumbled and a crack of lightning zinged from the direction of the Washington Memorial. I grimaced. “I practically ran from the Metro to beat the storm. Looks like I just made it.”
“Like the Prez says, ‘You’re helping conserve energy and battle traffic congestion,’” he said, jotting notes on his clipboard. “Be proud of it, Ollie. Or should I start calling you Executive Chef Paras?”
“I am proud. I’m also getting wet,” I said. My stomach did its customary flip-flop when Freddie mentioned the executive chef position, and I struggled to quell the excitement that rose every time I thought about being appointed to succeed Henry. “Besides, I don’t have the job yet. Nobody knows who’ll end up running the kitchen.”
A grin split Freddie’s dark face. “Well…I know who I’m rooting for. Just don’t forget us uniformed guys when you get that promotion. We get hungry, too.”
“I’ll bake a batch of celebration goodies just for you.”
Freddie stepped back out of the morning rain and into the well-lit guard post. Shouldering my purse, I gripped the bag to my chest and headed up the walk to the East Appointment Gate, hunching my shoulders against the growing storm. Like many White House employees, I commuted to work via the Metro, but it only took me so far. And in the rain, a three-block walk from the station to the check-in seemed to take forever. Thank goodness I was almost there.
The sky was overcast and the weather wet and cold for mid-May—a perfect day to spend cooking. But I’d snuck out to pick up Henry’s gift, and I needed to get back before tonight’s dinner preparations began.
Just as I passed the first tri-flagged lamppost, a commotion up on the North Lawn caught my attention. There were no White House tours scheduled today—no one should have been in that area. I turned and watched in disbelief as a man raced between trees from the direction of the north fountain toward the East Wing of the White House, two Secret Service men in furious pursuit.
My breath caught as the intruder pounded across the high-ground lawn. Although my view was skewed—the North Lawn was elevated a good four feet from the east walkway where I stood—I could see that this guy was long-legged and moving fast. He was clearly in excellent physical shape, but I knew he’d never make it. Our Secret Service personnel are the most dedicated and best trained in the world. If he didn’t surrender soon, they’d quit yelling at him to stop and would start shooting. But right now the runner, one arm pumping, the other wrapped around a black portfolio, was outpacing the agents by at least two strides.
The guy had to be nuts. Ever since 9/11, anyone with common sense knew better than to try to circumvent the enhanced White House security. A threat to our president’s safety meant getting shot almost on sight.
I crouched, scanning upward to see the ever present snipers posted atop the White House roof, their dark silhouettes menacing against the gray sky. They jockeyed for position, taking aim. But the profusion of trees on the North Lawn, in full bloom, apparently provided too much cover.
The man didn’t look back, not even when the Secret Service guys bellowed at him to stop. He sprinted faster than I’ve ever seen a person run before. He zigzagged, staying beneath the cover of the trees, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
My heart pounded and my limbs tingled as I stared. It was like watching a terrifying movie. But this was real. It was happening right in front of me.
Then the requisite emergency training kicked in.
Don’t panic. Think.
I stepped off the pavement and ducked behind one of the tall trees lining the walkway. Digging out my cell phone, I dialed the White House security number, even as I kept an eye on what was going on. Remembering to breathe, I also reminded myself that the best thing to do was to stay out of the professionals’ way. They’d have this guy caught in no time. If he didn’t slow down, he was in for a nasty tumble down the east embankment. And that would get him nowhere except jammed between the ground’s gentle slope and the iron fence that surrounded it.
I could see that he had Middle Eastern features: a dark complexion, full mustache and beard, and shoulder-length black hair, which trailed after him like a short cape. His expression—white teeth gritted in a tight grimace—made him look like a snarling Doberman.
A flat-voiced woman answered the phone. “State the nature of the emergency.”
“A man,” I said. I told myself to stay calm, but my body rebelled, making my voice tremble. “On the North Lawn. There are two Secret Service agents chasing him.”
“Yes,” she said. “We are aware.” I heard clicking in the background. “Your name?”
“Olivia Paras, I’m one of the assistant chefs.”
Another click. “Where are you, Ms. Paras?”
I was about to tell her when the man threw the thick folder to his left. Both agents’ eyes followed the item’s movement. The man stopped, spun, and launched himself at them. He used his split-second advantage to grab one agent’s right arm, twisting it around in some kind of martial arts move—and effectively using the man’s body as a shield from the other agent. Cracking his elbow into the captured agent’s temple, he knocked the man out cold and snatched his pistol from a suddenly limp hand.
Now he had a gun.
I was frozen in place.
“Ms. Paras?”
I almost couldn’t speak.
“He…”
The second agent dropped into a shooting stance, his firearm extended. The intruder gripped the first agent and whirled, releasing the unconscious figure like an Olympian throwing a hammer. The second agent fired, but missed. His colleague’s body slammed into him before he could get another shot off, knocking them both to the ground.
“The agents are down—he’s got a gun!” I said.
The intruder didn’t wait to see if either agent would get up. He retrieved his package and sprinted away.
As he ran, he lifted the firearm, pointed it at the sky, and thumbed its side. The magazine fell out of the pistol, tumbling behind him. A second later, the gun followed.
“He just tossed the gun,” I said, my words sounding slow and stupid. Not surprising, since my mind was shouting that this couldn’t be happening. “He’s running again. But…”
“Where are you, Ms. Paras?”
I wondered how the woman on the other end of the phone could stay so calm at a time like this. I was having a hard time sorting through the flood of stimuli to give her crucial information. I swallowed hard.
“He’s headed
toward the East Wing,” I finally managed. Then, remembering to answer her question, I added, “I’m on the walkway, just north of the East Appointment Gate. Behind a tree.”
“Stay there.” I heard her address someone else before she returned to me. “Stay out of the way.”
I didn’t say anything; I was in perfect agreement with that command.
I peeked around the other side of the tree, going up on my toes to see better, just as more Secret Service agents appeared: Five sentries snapping into action, positioning themselves like the pillars of the North Portico. They stood along the East Wing, firearms drawn. They aimed for the man, who was now close enough for me to hear the wet splat of his footfalls in the grass.
The intruder spotted the guards and altered his trajectory, veering in my direction.
Then shots sounded.
And I was in the line of fire.
I dropped to the ground, staying low even as I watched. I told myself that being behind a tree could save me from getting nailed as an innocent bystander.
I hoped to God that was true.
Transfixed by terror, I was powerless to move. The sounds of shouting agents and popping gunfire washed over me like some video game sound track.
But this was real.
The man did a skip-step.
He must have gotten hit.
Then, unbelievably, he doubled his speed, heading right for the sudden embankment decline. He was sure in for a surprise when the ground dropped out from under him.
“Stay where you are, Ms. Paras,” the woman said into my ear. “And don’t hang up.”
The intruder was bent in half and weaving from side to side as he ran, trying to avoid the bullets of the sentries and the snipers. Secret Service agents were racing this way now. But they were so far behind that I worried the guy might get away after all.
