Flowerbed of State

by Dorothy St. James

  A long line of White House employees had formed at the northwest gate. It didn’t seem to be moving.

  “What’s going on? Why the line?” I whispered to Turner.

  “Increased security. Slows things down to a crawl. It’s a standard precaution.”

  My heart dropped. I didn’t have time to wait it out at the end of this line, not if I still had any hope of making it to my meeting with the First Lady.

  I wasn’t the only unlucky gardener stuck in the queue. Lorenzo Parisi, Gordon’s other assistant, was standing close to the front of the line. He anxiously checked his watch, pulled a folded paper napkin from his pocket, and then checked his watch again.

  While I’d known Lorenzo for three months now, I still hadn’t figured him out. He dressed as if he belonged on the cover of GQ magazine. With his tanned, well-defined Mediterranean features, he had the looks to pull it off.

  Today, probably because he’d planned on sitting in on the meeting, he wore a dark gray suit with razor-sharp creases, a crisply pressed white shirt, and a dark purple silk tie. I’d never known a gardener to be so fashion conscious. I mean, we spent our lives digging in the ground. Just look at how I’d completely ruined my new outfit after just a few minutes pulling weeds.

  Lorenzo, on the other hand, could spend hours outside and not even have a smudge of dirt on him.

  “Casey?” Lorenzo called as Turner marched me to the front of the stalled line. He dabbed the cuff of his jacket with his paper napkin. Could that be a stain? On Lorenzo’s clothes? How odd. “What’s going on?”

  Turner tightened his grip on my arm as if he thought I’d rush over and run my mouth unfettered. I snorted. Like I needed to be reminded to keep quiet.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I called to Lorenzo.

  “What happened to ‘no comment’?” Turner asked.

  “He’s a gardener, not a reporter.”

  “Ah. I stand corrected.”

  Fredrick stood outside the guardhouse with his hands on his hips, his cheeks nearly as red as his hair. Three additional guards had joined him.

  “Where’s your security pass?” Turner asked as we bypassed the line and headed straight toward Fredrick at the gate. “I’ve noticed most of the gardening staff wear them on lanyards around their necks.”

  “I do, too.” I reached for mine. “We’re in and out of the gates so often, it’s more convenient. I keep it tucked into my shirt so it won’t get in the way.”

  Where was it? I dug around in my blouse, but I couldn’t feel the plastic lanyard anywhere.

  “It’s gone, isn’t it?” Turner asked.

  “It must have dropped off somewhere. We’ll have to go back.”

  His grip on my arm remained firm. “It’d be a waste of time.”

  “What am I going to do? I can’t—”

  “Don’t worry. I already suspected it was gone.” Turner passed through the gate Fredrick had opened.

  “Thatch is waiting for you,” Fredrick told Turner, who nodded.

  “Thatch? Who is Thatch?” I asked, but Turner hurried me past the guard hut and toward the West Wing before Fredrick could answer.

  “Who’s Thatch?” I asked Turner, but didn’t get an answer.

  “Good God, Jack, what happened to you?” demanded a burly Secret Service CAT agent with a shaved head who’d been waiting for us at the West Wing entrance. The agent swept open the door and followed us through the corridor and into the lobby.

  “Nothing,” Turner grumbled and tried to usher me toward the passageway to the left. But his colleague, who looked as if he’d played fullback in college, blocked him.

  “No, something happened out there. You were attacked ?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Since we were both running short on time—Turner had a killer to track down and I had a meeting with the First Lady to get to—I decided to hurry this conversation along.

  “I . . . er . . . might have shot him with pepper spray. Purely by accident, you understand. I thought he was attacking me. Now if you don’t mind—” I tried to move him out of the way.

  “Let me get this straight.” The agent refused to budge. “You let her—” He bit his quivering lower lip, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh. “You let this itty-bitty thing get the jump on you? She’s half your size, Jack. Just wait until the rest of the team hears about this.”

  “Hey, now!” I protested. I might not be built like a fullback, but I was by no means itty or bitty. I was taller than most women I knew. And I could take care of myself, thank you very much. And I would have told the agent just that if I hadn’t caught sight of the murderous glare Turner had pinned on me.

  “Right,” I said. “We’re in a hurry.”

  “Thatch is waiting for you in the main office.” The agent stepped out of our way.

  Turner grabbed my arm again and ushered me through a doorway to the left of the lobby. A deep chuckle followed us as we rushed down a narrow hallway.

  I’d been in the West Wing only twice before. The first time was during the whirlwind tour Ambrose Jones, the White House chief usher, had given me on my first day.

  The second time occurred on one of the rare days Gordon had called in sick. A potted pomegranate bush in the Chief of Staff’s office had started dropping its leaves. I’d taken the call to go have a look.

  The modest size of the West Wing struck me the same way it had on those two other occasions. Such big decisions were made on a daily basis in this intimate space. The history that had been made in these corridors was staggering, captured in photos decorating the walls we were passing. My step slowed.

  “We don’t have time for sightseeing.” Turner rushed me down a rather utilitarian and narrow set of stairs leading to the basement.

  “Look.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned toward me. “Just answer the questions asked of you. Let me explain what happened with the pepper spray. We don’t need to get distracted by irrelevant details. I need you to stay focused. A murder was committed.”

  “I know. I was there . . . apparently.”

  “Which makes you an important asset.”

  He wasn’t kidding about that. If I’d suffered from the sin of pride, which I didn’t, my head would have swelled from here to Charleston at the sight of the number of high-level staff members waiting for me in the Secret Service offices.

  The long, windowless room was filled with agents working from several dozen sleek metal desks set up in three tight rows that reminded me of NASA’s mission control. Large computer monitors flickered as pictures and data sped across the screens. The room had buzzed with activity until I stepped across the threshold. The activity ceased as the agents stopped work to turn and watch me.

  Near the door stood Gordon, Ambrose, and Dr. Stan, the White House staff M.D. They were deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. He had a full head of silver hair and an air of unquestioned authority. Though dressed in a dark suit, the man looked as if he’d be more comfortable in military fatigues and lugging an assault rifle like Turner still had slung over his shoulder. Noticing our entrance, he picked up a thick folder from a nearby desk with my name printed on the tab.

  “Mike Thatch, Special Agent in Charge of CAT,” he said in greeting. “Please come with me to the conference room, Ms. Calhoun.”

  Before I could follow, Gordon pushed Thatch out of the way and grabbed my shoulders.

  “When I heard that someone had attacked you and that there’d been a murder, I refused to believe it. Across the street from the White House? This is impossible! I should have never allowed you to go out there alone. It was too dark, too stormy. This is my fault that you’re hurt. But I never imagined it would be dangerous. Look at you.” He shook me in agitation. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I—I’m okay.” I had to pry his sweet but strong grip from my shoulders. My head simply couldn’t take any more rattling about without great risk of seeing my breakfast again . . . all over Gordon’s work boots. �
�Are those new? When did you get them?”

  “These things?” Gordon frowned at the dark leather boots on his feet. “Last weekend. Thought today would be a good day to try them out.”

  Although he planned on attending the presentation I’d prepared, not even an important meeting with the First Lady could get Gordon into a tie. But apparently he’d bought new boots for the occasion.

  “I don’t understand what you were doing out there at this time of morning, Casey,” Ambrose said. “And all by yourself.” His voice sounded tighter than usual. He looked me over from head to toe and rolled his eyes at my muddy self.

  Ambrose’s style hailed from an earlier, more formal era. He prided himself on running an efficient White House and had stressed to each and every employee working under him that he would not tolerate any behavior that disrupted the steady flow of day-to-day operations.

  But instead of scolding me for working in the Lafayette Square flowerbeds alone and at such an early hour, as I’d expected, he pressed one of his starched, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs into my hand and raised it to my throbbing temple.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I’d never expected such kindness from him.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You were about to drip blood on the carpet,” he pointed out. The corner of his mouth twitched, a nervous tic I’d heard he developed whenever he was under considerable stress.

  “Of course, the carpet. What had I been thinking?” I pressed the handkerchief firmly to my temple, wincing at the tender lump forming there.

  “Here, let me have a look.” Dr. Stan had come prepared with a first-aid kit complete with antiseptic wipes and bandages of all shapes and sizes. With a deft touch, he cleaned the mud from my face and wound and gently probed the bruised areas on my head and neck.

  “I’m concerned about the blow she took to the head. She’d started to black out at the crime scene,” Turner reported as Dr. Stan stuck a large bandage to the side of my face. “I’ve kept her on her feet and moving.”

  Really? Turner had insisted on that quick march to keep me from passing out? Had I mistaken concern for annoyance? Perhaps he didn’t believe I was a flake after all.

  I tried to turn and see if I could detect a change in him, a softening in his attitude toward me. But Dr. Stan grabbed my chin and shined a penlight in my eyes. He asked me to look up and down, left and right. When I finally had a chance to look at Jack Turner, the fearless and, I hoped, forgiving member of the elite Counter Attack Team, he was gone.

  I’D SPENT MANY SEASONS IN THE GARDEN. MY time there had taught me the difficult art of patience, a trait that didn’t come naturally. Plants grow and develop at their own rate with absolutely no regard to anyone’s schedule. Some of my favorite cultivars can take years to mature to a point where they begin to produce fruits or flowers.

  As I sat in the conference room, describing the attack, the loss of my security badge, and what I’d remembered seeing—which unfortunately was turning out to be very little—I wondered whether Special Agent in Charge Mike Thatch had been a slow-growing oak in a past life. Every few minutes he’d interrupt my narrative to ask seemingly irrelevant questions that mainly focused on my impressions of the banking protestors gathered near the northwest gate. He certainly had no regard for my schedule.

  Dr. Stan had returned to his duties after his brief examination, making me promise I’d report to the medical center for a follow-up as soon as Thatch had finished questioning me. Ambrose had left with him.

  Gordon had remained, his nerves badly shaken. Worry and stress had deepened the lines on his pale, stricken face. He looked worse than I felt, and that was saying something. When Mike Thatch had directed me to the conference room, he’d stopped Gordon from following us inside.

  “I’ll wait for you out here,” Gordon had promised. “I still can’t believe someone tried to hurt you. This has never happened.”

  With one eye on the round metal clock above the conference room door, I watched as my meeting with the First Lady grew nearer and nearer.

  At eight thirty-eight, a little less than an hour before the Grounds Committee meeting was scheduled to start, Jack Turner slipped into the room.

  The assault rifle and sidearm were gone. His eyes weren’t quite as puffy. And his short hair looked damp, as if he’d showered. Without saying a word, he casually reached across the conference table and picked up a file folder with my name on the tab. He then dropped into a chair pushed up against the far wall. After listening for a few minutes, he started to flip through the contents of the folder.

  “You’d mentioned you saw a black-and-white leather shoe with a lightning bolt design on the side?” Thatch asked me.

  “Yes.” The shoe had an old-fashioned look, like it belonged in a vintage clothing store. The toe was wide and rounded and the soles beefy. On the black leather, the cobbler had used white stitching. And on the white leather, black stitching had been used.

  “And the man who attacked you, he was wearing this shoe?”

  I rubbed my temples as if trying to conjure a genie. “I think so. Maybe.” If I’d seen them on my attacker’s feet, why only remember one shoe and not a pair? “I don’t know. But I can tell you that the shoe had crushed three pink ruffled tulips.”

  Thatch didn’t jot that vital piece of information in his notebook. But he’d written pages about the banking protesters who, for all I knew, hadn’t molested a single tree or plant in Lafayette Square . . . much less have killed anyone.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” Thatch rose from the conference table and carried his notebook with him into the adjoining room. With a close eye on the clock, I drummed my fingers on the table.

  Gordon stepped through the door Thatch had left open. “Casey, you look pale,” he said. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?” he asked, which caused Turner to look up from his reading.

  “I feel fine,” I lied.

  “Perhaps I should call Dr. Stan and ask him to come back and take another look at you.” Gordon came into the conference room and crouched down beside me to stare at the large bandage on my head. “I’m worried about you. I think you should go to the hospital.”

  And miss the meeting with the First Lady? I didn’t think so. “Really, I’m fine. Give me a shovel and I’ll head over to the White House greenhouses to turn the compost pile by myself.”

  Turner raised a brow at that and then returned to reading whatever had so captured his interest in the file with my name on it.

  “Your health must come first, Casey,” Gordon said softly.

  Touched, I put my hand on his. “I’m shaken, not broken. But I am worried about making it to the First Lady’s meeting.”

  Gordon gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze as he rose. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. We can postpone the presentation, reschedule it for when you’re feeling better.”

  “No, don’t. Please, don’t. I’m fine.”

  Gordon nodded, but creased his brows. “Okay. I need to get to the First Lady’s office anyhow to set up for the meeting. I’ll explain why you’ll be running late. It won’t be a problem, Casey. The Grounds Committee will understand. I’ll make sure they do.”

  “Thank you, Gordon. That’ll make me feel better.”

  As Gordon left, Thatch hurried back into the room. He reminded me of the movie version of General Patton prepared to charge headlong into battle.

  “Let me summarize what we’ve got here.” He flipped back a few pages in his notebook as he sat down. “You remember seeing a man in a suit wearing a baseball cap. But you don’t think he was with the protestors. Is that correct?”

  “He didn’t seem to be heading toward them. And he wasn’t dressed in old clothes like they were. I got the impression that he was hurrying to his office or something.”

  Thatch nodded. “And you said he was carrying a silver briefcase. He may or may not have been the man who attacked you.”

  “What about the security cameras we’ve got out there?” T
urner glanced up from the folder in his lap to ask.

  Thatch shook his head. “That’s what I was checking just now. I’d hoped they’d be able to give us a good picture of our man. But the best we have is a partial image of a shadowy figure who seemed very aware of the cameras and was doing his best to avoid them.”

  “Then not a mugging gone wrong,” Turner said.

  “No,” Thatch agreed.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” I asked.

  Thatch frowned at his notebook longer than I thought necessary before answering. “The murder might be part of a bigger plot against the President.”

  “What plot?” I hadn’t heard anything about that.

  “We don’t have a clear picture of that. I assure you that if we did, the responsible parties would have been rounded up long before now.”

  “If this is something against the President, why kill that woman I found?”

  Thatch shook his head. “He might have been after something she was carrying.”

  “Then why did he attack me?” I certainly wasn’t carrying anything valuable or important with me.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Thatch said.

  Turner had told me earlier that, as a White House employee, I was a link in the chain of security that protected the President. He’d wondered if the attack had caused a security breach.

  “But it could have been just a mugging gone wrong, right?” I asked, grasping for an easy explanation. “I mean, maybe he wanted money?”

  “A mugger wouldn’t have worried about the security cameras like this guy did. And he wouldn’t have left you with your backpack,” Thatch said.

  “Or stuffed our victim’s purse in the trash can with her,” Turner added.

  My head buzzed and the room got fuzzy as I pictured the woman’s lifeless face and how her flowered tote bag had been callously tucked against her chest. I gripped the edge of the table as it swayed a bit. “Have you identified her? Was she a White House employee?” I asked, determined not to embarrass myself and faint in front of Turner, who seemed to be watching me too closely.

  “We don’t think so.” Thatch tapped his pen against his notebook. “But she might have had White House clearance. We’ll know more as soon as we get a positive ID.”