Off the Leash

by M. L. Buchman

  “She’s from Vermont, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  He barely heard Miss Watson’s reply.

  “Vermont,” he turned the word over in his mind. Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. Unlikely flavor combinations. Dairy products, maple syrup, apples, honey.

  “She will be attending tomorrow night’s reception as a guest,” Miss Watson volunteered.

  “Really?” Linda at the White House reception in the President’s private quarters.

  What if he rethought the biscuit dough in his Pocky sticks? It could—

  The concept slammed into him as hard as one of Linda’s kisses.

  “Excuse me.”

  If Miss Watson responded as he hurried out, he didn’t hear it.

  “You’re tricky.”

  Linda stared down at the pile of dresses on the bench. As Dilya’s taste ran to more covered than revealing, any of them would have been fine with her. Besides, most of her issues about showing skin had died during a decade in the Army. She was fine as long as they didn’t go boardroom-street-walker—or whatever athleisure was—but Dilya was clearly operating to some different standard.

  “No, that bright red doesn’t bring out your eyes. Makes you look kinda demonic.”

  Demonic fit her current mood well enough at the moment. Besides…mouse-brown, what color was there to bring out?

  “OMG, that makes your hips look as wide as the Hindu Kush.”

  Linda had patrolled in Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush Mountains and lived to tell the tale—it was the ruggedest and one of the deadliest areas in the entire war zone. She could do without the memory—as apparently Dilya also could. That got rid of the whole peplum theme, which was fine with her. The ruffled flair at the waist made her feel like a circus clown.

  “Nope. Nope. Nope.”

  “Why not? I thought black dresses were a good thing.” Linda looked at her reflection wearing the clinging jersey material. It looked good on her. She’d never worn sexy clothes before, but the startling woman in the mirror wore it well. It clung and curved in ways that… She sighed. That she’d have liked Clive to have seen back before she’d destroyed something so good. Why couldn’t he have just left things the way they were?

  Dilya placed her fists on her hips. “Okay, Miss Undercover Smarty Pants. Sure, it looks majorly awesome on you. Now, where do you put your weapons?”

  Linda again turned to the mirror. The cleavage was deep enough to just show where Clive’s kiss had healed the wound of her missing dog tags—which now felt like a new scar all its own. But the cleavage was also just deep enough that there was no room to tuck even a Glock Slimline out of sight.

  The material flowed over her hips and down to a tasteful overlap that ended mid-thigh. It left her legs bare and the male shop clerk working near the changing rooms seemed to think they were worth a second and a third look.

  However, it clung enough that there wasn’t anywhere to hide a knife, much less a handgun in a thigh holster or the bulk of a taser. And her draw time from under a dress would be prohibitive.

  “What about a jacket of some sort? Then I could wear my usual shoulder holster.”

  Dilya poked around through the racks and came back with something called a bolero.

  “These are so weirdly old-fashioned. I don’t know why they make them anymore. It’s not like you’re a Spanish flamenco dancer or something.”

  It was the color of the Vermont leaves in autumn, all dark reds and rich golds. Frankly it looked too fancy for her, but Linda shrugged it on anyway, then gasped when she spotted the price tag dangling from the sleeve.

  “Hmm,” Dilya looked half-pleased, which would be a first in all this madness and which dropped the price from outrageous to incredibly painful. Not that her clothing budget was anything dramatic, but she was presently wearing more than a year’s worth of it.

  Linda turned to the mirror.

  A sexy and sophisticated woman looked back at her. Her mother would approve, which, under the circumstances, Linda supposed was a good thing. The jacket reached down to just below her ribs, emphasizing her reflection’s trim waist. It came close enough to closing in the front that she didn’t feel quite so revealed, yet stood open enough that it wouldn’t inhibit her drawing a weapon. The half-sleeves let the long sleeves of the black dress emphasize her arms.

  She shed it, pulled on her shoulder holster, and tugged the jacket back on. A Glock 42 slimline .380 and a lightweight holster would be a better option, but even her big FN Five-seveN was acceptable. Her folding knife and two spare magazines clipped on the other side didn’t show at all.

  “Not too shabby.”

  She answered Dilya’s “high” praise with an eyeroll that earned her a laugh. If it got her done and out of this store, Linda would find a way to live with the horrific price tag.

  She squatted and stood. Twisted side to side testing freedom of movement. She did a quick draw of her weapon, dropping into a crouch with both arms extended and holding the firearm.

  And then looked up at the startled faces of three women who had just stepped into the dressing area, their hands full of items on hangars. One of them screamed and sent clothes flying everywhere, which had the clerk rushing over.

  “Sorry,” Linda reholstered her weapon.

  Only Thor’s presence with his clearly labeled “Police K-9” harness finally calmed them down. Then they all had to pet and coo over him.

  “Can we get out of here?” Linda whispered to Dilya because she didn’t know how much more high, squeaky “Oh he’s so cute” she could take though Thor was clearly thrilled with the attention.

  “Sure. Just as soon as we get a purse you can hide the taser in, then shoes, then deal with your hair.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” She’d never owned a purse in her life. “No purse. I’ll sign out a compact taser and mount it on the harness. I want my hands free.”

  Dilya’s groan of exasperation said that she’d accept that—barely.

  “Maybe shoes, maybe.” Since all she owned were work boots and running shoes. “But nothing with heels.”

  Dilya’s evil elf smile was back.

  Crap!

  Chapter Twelve

  Clive was set up for the reception on the Residence’s Second Floor in the family kitchen and dining room. Waiters hustled in and out bearing trays of champagne and canapes: bruschetta with smoked salmon and basil, shrimp stuffed with prosciutto and Stilton cheese, and his little chocolate bouquets.

  Each bouquet was made up of five slender Pocky sticks thinner than a pencil and half as long. Three shades of chocolate: dark, milk, and white. Then to complement the white, he’d started with a white chocolate base to make two more: blueberry blue and also apple red. He’d made two separate biscuit doughs: a plain one beneath the first four, plus a maple syrup-honey-flavored core for the fifth red stick. All tied so that they stood together like a thistle bloom, using tiny golden ribbons bearing the Vermont state motto: Freedom and Unity.

  Chocolate and the American flag—in the flavors and spirit of Vermont.

  The guests would all interpret it one way, but he was hoping one person might interpret it another.

  He’d worked straight through last night and all day to get these right. For the banquet dessert, he still had the original design: a larger Pocky of plain biscuit and the Vietnamese and Philippine chocolates to complement the soup as well as harkening back to these. But the Pocky bouquet wasn’t for the diplomats. The bouquets were designed for one person alone, and never had he worked so hard or felt so inspired to achieve it.

  Jacques Torres had always spoken of the dessert of the heart.

  Clive had assumed he’d been talking about creating with passion and a desire to discover something new. But now he understood. This treat was so simple and delicate in one way, but in another he had never created anything so perfect. If ever there was to be a single dessert of his heart, this was the one.

  He just hoped to god that it worked.

>   Linda Hamlin just hoped to god that she didn’t faint.

  Unwilling to risk the Secret Service Ready Room close beside the downstairs kitchen, she’d changed into her dress over in the West Wing. Even threats of being tasered hadn’t wiped the smiles off any of the agent’s faces as she’d stowed her work clothes under a desk in the ready room there.

  Captain Baxter waved her into his office as he hung up his phone. He, at least, wasn’t leering. Instead he looked grim.

  “We just took down a car loaded with weapons. A real mash-up of conventional shit: handguns, shotguns. No sense to it. Not like someone’s collection.”

  “Where?” Linda felt a shiver run up her spine.

  “Abandoned on Embassy Row. The guys who dumped it knew where the cameras were well enough to hide their faces.”

  “Japan’s people?”

  “Or any of fifty others in that strip. Not quite in anyone’s front yard. Your guess is as good as mine. Car rented by a drug runner…who then reported it carjacked.”

  “What makes you think it was related to us, then?”

  “The drug runner was from East LA, never been here before. He received instructions, a plane ticket, and ten grand cash in an unmarked envelope. Did nothing illegal, but I’m holding him for forty-eight hours for ‘protection’. He was jacked by, and I’m quoting, ‘a couple of Asian dudes with some serious shit.’ Chinese Type 77 handguns. He’d never seen them before, but picked them out of a book fast enough. Said having one nearly shoved up his nose had made it real memorable.”

  “That’s a very distinctive weapon, right down to the Chinese star on the handgrip.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Too distinctive. You were right, someone is definitely messing with us tonight. We’ve got the grounds locked down hard, but you’re inside. Keep your eyes open tonight, Hamlin.”

  Walking across to the Residence had been a major challenge. She’d only partially won the shoe battle with Dilya. She wasn’t wearing spikes, but the black ankle boots had a wide two-inch heel that she still didn’t have a feel for though she’d practiced with them in her apartment last night. She got lots of practice because it wasn’t like she was having any luck sleeping.

  Every time she’d lain down, her bed felt cold and empty. And while she lay there studying the ceiling, she’d only been able to remember Clive lying in that Barcalounger like the remains of some innocent, caught in the unexpected blast of an IED. She’d dozed a little. Not enough to dream, but enough for her mind to free associate in a new and hideous fashion. It was as if they had traded places and she was the one lying there with her chest cut open and someone inspecting the empty cavity where her heart should have been.

  She’d even tried pulling on her dog tags as she wandered around the tiny apartment—in her new boots—because she couldn’t stand being in the bed anymore. All they did was remind her of Clive’s kiss that he always had made a point of planting there. She took them off and ended up watching an I Love Lucy marathon until it was time to go prepare for the reception.

  Linda had spent the entire day at her desk studying the profiles of every guest invited to the reception until she could recite their schooling, family, and career.

  And now she was here and couldn’t remember how to breathe.

  Zackie greeted Thor at the head of the Grand Staircase. Dilya looked elegant, if a little loud, in a bias-cut gold lamé top with a draped collar matched to black slacks. She wore a pretty scarf of green and dark blue, almost big enough to be a shawl.

  “I always wear it when I want to be fancy.”

  “How come I’m stuck in these stupid heels and you get to wear red Converse sneakers?”

  “Some of us just have better fashion sense than others.” Dilya’s smile flashed brilliantly before she and Zackie moved away.

  Linda surveyed the layout from the staircase landing at one end of the party. The Center Hall stretched twenty feet wide and over a hundred long including the West Sitting Room through the broad archway beyond. Done in warm beiges and dark wood, it was an attractive space for a party. She almost laughed, a room that would absolutely kill her mother to know that her daughter was invited to. High time that Linda left her grudge behind.

  She surveyed the crowd. A pianist played light music at a grand piano tucked close against one wall. There were eight potted palms spaced evenly down the length of the hall with a roughly equal number of Secret Service agents. Small clusters of chairs, some occupied, some not—most people stood. There should be fifty-three guests in all including the three prime ministers and their entourages, scattered in loose groups. Most held wine glasses. A few, she was pleased to see, weren’t dressed any fancier than she was. Though she was definitely in the lower-tier amidst so many fine tuxedos and stunning evening gowns, but that didn’t matter to her. She was a Secret Service officer here as a guest. As long as she didn’t stand out, Dilya had done her job well.

  Back at the store, the girl had been oddly shy about Linda’s thanks, but accepted the offer of an ice cream sundae readily enough despite the January chill.

  Much to her surprise, Linda had some money left over despite the hair and shoes. It was a low trick to play on an unsuspecting dog, but Dilya had leveraged Thor’s fame with the store clerk and negotiated such a discount on the dress and jacket that Linda had felt it necessary to tip him generously when Dilya wasn’t watching. Or when she thought Dilya hadn’t been—the way she’d played with Thor afterward said that the girl had been crafty and calculated the entire deal. A child raised in a barter-based society clearly enjoyed outsmarting a retail-based one. And she’d seen it far enough ahead to tell Linda that she had to bring Thor to go dress shopping.

  As she stepped into the hall, Linda almost lost her balance when her heel caught the edge of the carpet.

  Thor glanced up at her.

  “Watch it or I’ll put you in heels and see how you do.”

  Thor looked unperturbed.

  Linda began matching up faces and names. The First and Second Couples were easy. Former President Matthews was also in attendance—his wife’s plane had been delayed and she wouldn’t be here until tomorrow’s meetings. She had no official capacity, but had close relations with all three guest countries through her UNESCO work.

  The leaders of the three guest countries were chatting with their American counterparts. There hadn’t been anything damning in any of their files.

  She spotted Harvey Lieber standing in a shadow along one of the walls, but close by the President. He afforded her a brief nod before turning back to study the room. The President shifted down the hall to join another conversation and Lieber followed. A massive black man did the same for former President Matthews.

  Speaker of the House. Majority and minority whips of the Senate. Secretary of Defense Archie Stevenson—a tall and spare man with light brown hair—was having a heated debate with Secretary of State Mallinson. Despite Archie’s attempts to remain calm, Mallinson was waving his hands about in such a way that a nearby Secret Service agent shuffled farther along the wall to avoid being impaled.

  Not a hard choice on who to root for—Secretary Stevenson was Dilya’s adoptive father, which was recommendation enough for Linda. Not wanting to enter Mallinson’s sphere of intolerable officiousness, she decided to circle the other way.

  Thor had already proven that he didn’t need to be “on task” to find explosives—three days ago they’d just been walking to work when he’d detected the diplomat—she simply let him choose her way into the room but kept his leash short. She had tried to groom him for the event. However, his crazy tangle of fur that seemed to grow in every direction, but mostly straight out, looked much the same before and after brushing. She hoped her own hair wasn’t too much the same.

  Thor drifted over to Agent Lieber, sniffed, then wagged up at him in greeting.

  “Go away, you.” Linda couldn’t tell if he was addressing Thor or herself. “Do your damn job.” Okay, that one she got, and signaled Thor to kee
p moving. They moved slowly up the south side of the hall until they reached the grand double-arched window that seemed to be in every movie ever made about the White House. That she was suddenly standing in the real-life version of the movie set made her wish once again that she was just out walking the fence line and had never heard of Miss Watson or the White House Protection Force.

  Taking a deep breath for fortitude, which didn’t provide any help at all, she crossed to the north side and began working her way back along the hall.

  She made it about twenty feet before she plowed squarely into Clive’s back.

  Clive had just wanted to take a peek into the West Sitting Hall to see how his part of the appetizer was faring. None were coming back on the serving trays, which he took as a good sign, but neither was much of anything else. He wanted to know if his were being eaten first or last of the selection.

  At least that’s what he told himself he was doing. He’d just step out, take a quick look, and then duck back into the dining room to continue the service.

  He wouldn’t be searching up the hall to see if there was a flounce of shining cocoa hair anywhere among the crowd. He wasn’t going to stoop that low.

  Clive stepped into the hall and someone slammed into his back.

  He tried to take a stumbling step forward, but a small dog—Thor—had circled around from behind him and stood with his forepaws practically on Clive’s shoes, happily wagging his tail. Unable to step forward, and overbalanced from behind, he went down like a drunkard on a storm-tossed sea. No handy furniture near enough to catch himself with, he crashed down on the rug. His tall chef’s hat tumbled away. Thor immediately raced over and stuck his head inside it.

  Well, at least Clive knew who had hit him.

  As did everyone else in the entire hall—they were all looking in his direction. As payback for bowling her into the men’s lavatory in the West Wing in front of her boss, this struck him as somewhat over the top.