by Julie Hyzy
Berland spoke. “Preliminary reports suggest that Mr. Baxter shot himself.”
“No,” Mrs. Campbell said again. This time, however, it was not an exclamation of disbelief, it was a flat refusal. “Sean didn’t like guns. He never would have done that.”
“Let me assure you, ma’am, the Metropolitan Police will fully investigate this as a homicide until the evidence proves otherwise. But…”
“But?”
“He left a note, ma’am.”
Mrs. Campbell crumpled in on herself, her silent crying more poignant than if she’d wailed and screamed. I reacted instinctively, forgetting this was our nation’s First Lady and seeing only a woman who’d suffered immeasurable loss. I stood next to her, putting my arm around her shaking shoulders, murmuring how sorry I was.
Berland’s eyes met mine. “Let’s get her upstairs,” she mouthed.
I leaned in to whisper to Mrs. Campbell that it might be best to return to her own rooms. She nodded and stood, keeping her face covered with one hand, grabbing my arm with the other.
“We’ll help you,” Berland said, stepping between me and the First Lady.
She didn’t release her hold. Instead, she tugged me close so that her whispered words were almost inaudible. “He cared about you, Ollie. He told me he saw a future with you.” Though tears raced down her face, she managed a wobbly smile. “He asked me to fix you two up.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“He would have wanted you to know,” she added, and she finally let go of my arm. Turning to face Berland, she gave a quick nod. “I’m ready now.”
For the second time that week, I fought scalding pain in my throat, my eyes, and my heart.
CHAPTER 10
I WOKE UP CRAMPED AND ACHY FROM SPENDING the night on the small bed in my third-floor office. The mattress was comfortable enough, but I suffered from the dual distractions of not being in my own apartment and anxiety as I replayed the prior day’s events.
Throwing on spare clothes I kept in my office for emergencies such as this, I made it downstairs to the kitchen while it was still dark. I usually loved the morning’s solitary quiet-moving about at my own pace, transforming this cool stainless steel room into a warm, bustling nest of activity. I always felt as though I held the power to wake up the world.
Today, however, that simple pleasure eluded me. Despair weighed me down because again, one of our White House “family” had died-and again, under horrific circumstances.
I pulled biscuits out of the freezer, set them on the counter, and fired up one of the ovens. Sean hadn’t struck me as despondent or suicidal. And yet the Secret Service had mentioned a note. That made no sense.
So acute was my concentration on Sean, and on preparing breakfast for what would be a long, grueling day for the First Family, that I didn’t notice one of the butlers come in until he was almost next to me.
My head jerked up. “Red!”
His pale eyes widened in alarm. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back.
Red had been here forever, and though the man was spry, he’d crossed the line to elderly at least a decade ago. Along the way he’d lost the hair color that had given him his nickname. I hadn’t meant to shake him. Waving off his apology, I pointed up, toward the residence. “How is she?”
“Bad times here,” he said, with a sad shake of his head. “And no one is stopping long enough to grieve.”
My puzzled expression encouraged him to explain.
“The president returned last night. He’ll be taking breakfast early with his wife,” he said. “Then he will depart for a meeting in New York.”
I hoped that didn’t mean the First Lady would be left alone at a time like this. “Is Mrs. Campbell going with him?”
Lines bracketing Red’s eyes deepened. “The First Lady will remain in the residence to host the Mother’s Luncheon this afternoon.”
“What?”
“The luncheon will proceed as scheduled.”
This couldn’t be right. “But, after the news. After what happened to Sean…”
He stopped me with a sigh. “Yes,” he said, “the family has much to deal with today. And on top of everything else, Gene Sculka’s family is holding his wake tonight.”
Dear God, I’d almost forgotten about that. I was about to ask if the president and First Lady were planning to attend, but Red anticipated my question.
“The president will not return to the White House until Saturday. The First Lady has called the Sculka family to pay respects.”
I made a mental note to make an appearance myself this evening. But right now only one thing was on my mind. “I thought they would cancel the luncheon.”
Red sighed. “Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to disappoint all the women and kids who have flown from all over the country-at their own expense-to be here today.”
“But surely people would understand-”
“You know our First Lady.”
I did. Selfless to a fault, she was notoriously stubborn but always looking out for the greater good. I admired her-and I hoped to achieve that serenity someday myself. “Well, then, I suppose I’d better move a bit faster here.”
Cyan arrived moments later, followed by Bucky, Rafe, Agda, and a few more SBA chefs we’d hired for the day. I was glad I hadn’t canceled the extra staff. Even if today’s luncheon had been scrapped, we had a great deal of work ahead of us. The holiday season officially began Sunday afternoon-two days from now-when the president and First Lady would attend a presentation at the Kennedy Center. Extra hands in the kitchen were never a waste.
While managing breakfast and cleaning up, we got to work on the afternoon’s event. Buffets were so much less stressful than plated dinners-for us, and for the waitstaff. We’d prepared as much as possible ahead of time, but there was still a lot to be done before the guests arrived.
More than two hundred moms and tots were expected, and we’d been careful to include plenty of kid-friendly fare in our offerings. One of the president’s favorite sandwiches, peanut butter and banana, was on the menu today. We would offer a choice: served on plain white or on cinnamon bread. In fact, the staff had taken bets on which would be more popular with the kids.
Rafe expertly sliced away the crusts from a peanut-butter-on-white sandwich. “Kids will go for plain, every time.”
“Cinnamon tastes better,” Cyan said, sing-song.
Rafe raised his own voice up an octave, continuing the sing-song cadence. “Won’t matter if they refuse to try it.”
Shaking her head so her ponytail wagged, Cyan slathered peanut butter on yet another slice of cinnamon bread. “They’ll try these.”
I was happy to hear their chitchat. Although normalcy was not to be expected-not so soon after the two unexpected deaths-any little bit of happiness was worth grabbing.
Just as we started in on our next project, Special Agent Gavin strode into the kitchen. He stopped short a half breath before running into one of our SBA chefs who carried a massive bowl of salad on his shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going,” Gavin said, flattening himself against the wall just in time.
The assistant turned fully, in order to see the man who’d almost tossed our salad. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then set off again for the refrigerator. Gavin’s presence here just as time was getting tricky was enormously unwelcome. There was nothing this man could say or do to help today’s event, and the sooner he got out of my kitchen the happier we would all be.
As he righted himself, he tugged at his suit coat and adjusted his tie. Before he could seek me out, I’d positioned myself in front of him. “What can I do for you?” My words were polite, my demeanor dismissive.
“You’re scheduled for emergency response training.”
So why was he in my kitchen now? I’d set the staff up myself; we were already on the hook for Gavin’s classes. “We haven’t forgotten,” I said. “We’ll be there. As scheduled.”
“You’re scheduled
right now.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Not them,” he said, pointing. “You.”
“No,” I said, straining to process this. “Not possible.”
He spoke solemnly. “It is my personal responsibility to see that department heads are fully trained. You missed your class last night.”
“Do you have any idea what went on here last night?”
Gavin gave me one of those looks meant to make people wither. I didn’t. “Ms. Paras,” he said. “When someone’s faced with a life-or-death situation, do you think it’s more important that they’ve learned how to react swiftly, decisively, and accurately, thereby saving lives? Or do you believe it’s more important that they’ve mastered the preparation of white roux?”
My eyebrows shot up.
Half of his mouth curled. “I am not so ignorant in matters of haute cuisine as you might imagine.”
I didn’t care if he was the next Paul Bocuse; I wasn’t about to let him drag me away from the kitchen right before a major event. I tried again. “The reason I missed-”
He interrupted. “I know you believe your work here is important, but I’m sure you agree that the safety of the White House trumps all other concerns.”
“I’m not saying-”
“Is your staff incapable of handling the situation on their own?”
“Of course not.”
“Then come with me.”
He turned, fully expecting me to follow. I stood my ground. “Special Agent Gavin,” I said to his retreating form. “Just a minute.”
He turned and his expression told me he wasn’t entirely surprised that I hadn’t complied.
“Today is a major event for the First Lady,” I said. “She’s depending on us. If you haven’t already heard, and what I’ve been trying to tell you is, she suffered a devastating loss last night.”
Gavin nodded. “Yes.”
I continued. “If Mrs. Campbell is prepared to move forward with her luncheon today, then I’m damned certain going to stay here to make sure it’s perfect.”
I got the feeling I was amusing him. In a snarly sort of way.
“So you’re telling me you refuse to attend training?”
“I refuse to attend now.”
He made a show of looking at his watch. “And when, exactly, will you be finished here?”
I blew out a breath. “The luncheon is scheduled for one o’clock…”
“One o’clock,” he said, before I could finish my sentence. “I’ll be back for you then.”
When he left, I massaged my eyes. “There’s always one, isn’t there?” I said to nobody in particular.
Cyan patted me on the back. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you covered.”
CYAN WAS RIGHT. OUR LUNCHEON PREPARATIONS moved with balletlike precision. We’d sent up trays of garlic-green bean bundles, blue-cheese straws, and other savory side dishes to stock the buffet, with replacement trays on hand, ready for replenishing as the mothers helped themselves and attended to their children.
Jackson and Red made frequent trips to the kitchen, and I asked them how Mrs. Campbell was holding up. “She’s a true lady,” Red said cryptically. “Tough and soft at the same time.”
My heart went out to her. I knew how terrible I felt, and I’d only just gotten to know Sean over the past few months. How hard it must be to lose someone you’d known since his birth.
The two men helped load the next batch of trays. Both rolled their eyes when I asked how the festivities were progressing. “Lotta whining going on up there,” Jackson said.
Red shook his head. “In my day, children were seen and not heard.”
For the first time since I’d come to work here, I was relieved not to be interacting with White House guests. “It can’t be that bad,” I said.
Jackson arched an eyebrow toward Red. “How many kids you figure are jamming themselves into that bathroom at one time?”
“Too many.”
“What about the food?” I asked. “How do people like the cheese straws? What about the mint brownie bites?”
Red gave me a sad smile. “Those poor moms are having a devil of a time getting a chance to eat. The minute any of them tries to take a bite, their kid spills something.”
“It really isn’t that bad, is it?”
Jackson gave me a so-so. “They’re well-behaved for the most part,” he said. “They just take a lot more fussing than what we’re used to.”
“Not more fussing,” Red corrected. “Just different fussing.”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah. Different.”
I was about to ask what he meant when Gavin returned. Without even a perfunctory greeting, he pointed at me. “It’s after one o’clock,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Realizing that it was not only useless to argue, but it was unnecessary because aside from cleanup, our work was done-I followed Gavin out of the kitchen and into the Palm Room.
“We’re going into the West Wing?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
I rarely crossed into this section of the White House. The Palm Room connected the residence’s ground floor-our floor-to the West Wing’s first floor because of the lay of the land. The residence itself sat on a small slope. A casual area, with white latticed walls and a gardenlike feel, the Palm Room boasted two gorgeous pieces of art: Union and Liberty, both painted by the Italian American artist Constantino Brumidi.
Gavin walked with purpose, not looking back, and evidently not noticing how often I was required to scurry to catch up to his long-legged strides. He rushed me through the obstacle course of press corps offices, where eager reporters glanced up as we passed-each one startling into a hopeful, then disappointed expression when they realized it was only the chef coming through.
The air was different here. Too many bodies to avoid, too many wires to step over, too much electronic equipment to dodge, and the atmosphere of constant urgency gave the area a cramped, stuffy feel. I could hear the whir of a motor and I guessed air-conditioning ran in this section year-round. How else to cool off all the power equipment and panic?
“Where are we going?” I asked again.
Gavin didn’t answer, but he stepped to the side to open the next door for me. And there we were: the Brady Press Briefing Room. I’d been in this room only a couple of times; it had been renovated a few years before I began working here.
Gavin took a few more strides to the center of the room, then stopped.
“What is here?” he asked. “What do you observe?”
I was sick and tired of Gavin’s bizarre questioning methods. “I don’t see a training class, if that’s what you mean.”
He graced my smart-aleck answer with a lips-only smile. “Due to your absence at last night’s class, I have the dubious honor of bringing you up to speed by myself.”
“It’s not like I played hooky,” I said. “Can’t I just take one of the other classes?”
“When?” he asked. “All you’ve been talking about is how shorthanded you are. You have your staff scheduled tomorrow and Sunday. I highly doubt you’ll find time to attend and shortchange your kitchen further.”
He had me there.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m a quick learner, and I don’t want to waste your time. Can’t you just give me some handouts and I’ll catch up?”
“The next round of classes builds upon knowledge you glean from the first round. You can’t expect to get anything out of further instruction without learning the basics first.”
As he said this, he made his way up to the president’s large, bullet-resistant lectern, also known as the “blue goose.” When he positioned himself behind it and placed both hands on the lectern’s sides, he seemed to forget I was there. His palpable craving for power washed over me like a wave. This was one intense guy.
Blinking himself back to awareness, he noticed me still near the door where we’d entered. “What do you observe?” he asked again.
The sooner I played along, th
e faster I’d get back to work. I took a deep breath. “Okay, give me a minute.”
A picture of elegant efficiency, the bright room with the presidential motif boasted blue leather seats, state-of-the-art electronics, and a small raised dais at the far end of the room, where a door connected it to the heart and brains of the West Wing.
I didn’t have a clue of what to look for. A quick glance at Gavin warned me not to ask.
Okay, fine. I was on my own here. Something out of place. Something that didn’t belong.
Palladian windows adorned the north wall. I checked each one to ensure it was secure. I checked the doors, even the ones across the room that led south out onto the west colonnade. Everything clear.
But that would be too obvious. Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin was not the type to let me off easy. Whatever he’d set up in here would be designed to be difficult to find. I tried to think like old Gav. More precisely, I tried to think like an assassin.
Gav probably didn’t realize I had a bit of experience in that arena. And I’d learned a few things.
What would an assassin do? He’d have to be better than clever. He’d have to be brilliant. Anything out of place would be noticed by our eagle-eyed Secret Service personnel. So if, say, a terrorist wanted to plant a bomb in the room, he’d have to ensure that it looked like something that belonged here. Up-front and obvious. Something so plain-as-day that every eye in the place would glaze over it without a second glance.
I stood in the fourth row of seats and I made a slow circle-a complete 360-degree turn-taking everything in at a pace that would make slugs weep.
“We’re not here for the tourist show,” he said. “You’re supposed to be finding a security breach, not studying the symmetry.”
I ignored him. Closed my eyes. Silently reasoned with myself.
Let’s assume Gav planted one of those IEDs in here. He’d warned us that shapes and configurations of the deadly devices changed almost daily. So the one thing I knew I wasn’t looking for was an opaque, bottlelike item.
Where would it do the most damage?
I opened my eyes. Right here, in the middle of the room, during a crowded press conference, a bomb would guarantee the greatest loss of life. But would that be an assassin’s goal? Take out the innocent media folks, just like terrorists took out civilians on 9/11? Maybe, but if a fanatic killer was able to get this far-past White House security-then he’d be aiming for a bigger target.
