by Julie Hyzy
The icy wind lifted my hair, creating goose bumps that danced across the back of my neck. I shivered. I was glad Lexington Place was our final destination for the day. As much as I didn’t want to credit Sargeant, taking a cab back to the White House might not be a bad idea.
We were a few steps past the alleyway when I heard a shout and the unmistakable sound of someone running. Too many unwelcome surprises in the past few years had made me wary of anything even slightly unusual and I spun defensively, turning just as the intruder emerged.
The man in the shabby coat looked harmless enough. Short, with a full head of dark hair streaked with gray, he stopped long enough to focus before scurrying over. He, too, held his collar tight against his neck. His unbelted open coat flapped as he ran. Nothing about him would have been the least bit remarkable except for the fact that his full attention was focused on us. On Sargeant, to be specific.
“Petey!” he shouted.
Sargeant had continued walking without me. At the man’s shout, his shoulders dropped and he turned. His face went through a series of contortions I’d characterize as pained.
“Petey?” I asked.
I swore he snarled at me. In the two seconds it took for the man to reach us, Sargeant jammed his fists into his sides. “Milton—”
The guy was breathless. “You told me you might stop by. But you just rushed right past without even looking in.”
“‘Might,’” Sargeant said through clenched teeth, “I said ‘might’ stop by. Something came up.” Pointing at me, he added, “I’m with a colleague. I’m busy.”
Sargeant referring to me as a colleague? Would wonders never cease?
“I knew you’d try to blow me off,” the man said. “Good thing I was keeping an eye out.”
Fresh cigarette smoke wafted off his body, surrounding our little group. I took a step back. Milton, whoever he was, didn’t seem to notice. Beneath the ratty coat, his kitchen whites were badly stained. I hoped to heaven he wasn’t a cook. His fingers were tobacco brown and the whites of his large, droopy eyes a sickly yellow. Red veins spidered across his cheeks and nose, leading me to believe he and Jack Daniels were close personal friends.
Sargeant was clearly not happy to see him. “We’ll talk later,” he said, backing away from the man.
With an uneasy smile, Milton moved in closer toward Sargeant, clapping the other man’s upper arms, looking ready to pull him into a bear hug.
Visibly repulsed, Sargeant flinched. “Kindly remove your hands.”
Milton’s cheeks darkened slightly, but he shrugged and backed off. “It’s been too long, Petey.”
Prissy as ever, Sargeant brushed down the sides of both his arms as though to flick away germs. Silently I watched their interplay, slowly realizing that Sargeant and Milton shared more than just short stature. Though less pinched and certainly more friendly, there was something in Milton’s face that reminded me of Sargeant’s. Age-wise, they were close. “Are you two brothers?” I asked.
Milton brightened, but Sargeant bristled. “No.”
“Pete’s my uncle,” Milton said.
I couldn’t hide my reaction. “Uncle?” I repeated. “But—”
Sargeant practically chewed the words before spitting them out. “My sister was much older.”
“Pete was a bonus baby,” Milton offered with a grin. “We’re only six months apart, but I’m his nephew. We went to school together, even. Kind of like growing up as brothers. Well, except for fifth grade, when he made me call him Uncle Pete.” Milton laughed at the memory.
Sargeant was not amused. He looked at his watch. “We have to go. We’re late.”
We weren’t, but I wasn’t about to correct him.
Milton rubbed his fingers, as though itching for a cigarette. He had a hopeful look on his florid face. “Did you get a chance to talk to the chief usher for me? I sent my resume weeks ago, but I haven’t heard from him. A good word from you would—”
“I haven’t had time, Milton. I’m very busy, you know.”
“Please, Pete. Just this one time. A word from you and I’m set. I’ll make you proud of me again. I swear.”
This was more family drama than I should be privy to. I took that moment to step back. Pointing in the general direction of Lexington Place, I said, “How about I meet you there?”
A man hurried toward us, head down. Not seeing him, Sargeant took a step closer and answered my question with a vehement thrust of his arm. “No!”
Just as he did, the man rushed by, crashing into Sargeant’s outstretched appendage and knocking our sensitivity director off balance. Milton grabbed his uncle to keep him from falling. “Hey!” Milton shouted. The man didn’t stop, didn’t turn, didn’t apologize. “You just bumped a White House official. You know, you could be arrested for that.”
The guy stopped in his tracks and turned fully around. He was too far away for me to notice much beyond his dark jacket, blue jeans, athletic shoes, and thick head of hair. I expected him to deliver some hand gesture in response to Milton’s shouts. Instead, he hunched his shoulders and turned away again, disappearing around the next corner.
“I really wish you hadn’t said that,” I said. “We don’t like to be outed in public. It’s not good for the image. Not good for security, either.”
“Some people have no respect,” Milton said. “They ought to be taught a lesson.”
Sargeant shrugged off his nephew’s protective hold. “You’re hardly in a position to do the teaching. For once Ms. Paras is right. There have been far too many skirmishes in the past involving staff members”—he glared at me—“to take our personal security for granted.” He tapped his watch. “Don’t you need to get back to work? Tous le Monde isn’t a dive, you know. These people won’t stand for your shenanigans.” His gaze roved up and down, assessing his nephew’s appearance. “It also wouldn’t hurt if you tried a little harder to at least look professional.”
Sargeant started away without a backward glance. I turned to Milton and raised my hands helplessly as though to apologize for his uncle’s behavior. Like an abandoned puppy, Milton tilted his head and gave a sad smile. He’d known Sargeant a lot longer than I had. No doubt he was used to the man’s cutting remarks by now.
“Call me,” Milton shouted.
Sargeant raised a hand but didn’t turn. I double-stepped to catch up with him. “What was that all about?”
He waved me off.
“He wants a job at the White House, I take it,” I said, as though we were conversing normally and Sargeant wasn’t doing his level best to ignore me. I didn’t ask why Sargeant refused to put in a good word with our chief usher, Paul Vasquez, because I already knew the answer. Although one should never judge a book by its cover, in the two minutes I’d gotten to know Milton, I knew he wouldn’t be a good fit in the president’s home.
“I just have one question,” I said.
Sargeant glanced sideways. “He’s had a tough life. Is that what you want to know? Most of it is entirely his own fault. He made his bed, let him lie in it.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to ask. I wanted to know why you told him you were going to be in the area today. It’s pretty clear you had no intention of stopping by.”
Sargeant ran a hand up his forehead, frustration tightening his features. This had to be one of the first times he’d exhibited an unguarded, human reaction—at least in front of me. “Milton changes jobs like most people change channels. When he called, I thought he was still working on the other side of town. He wanted to meet for lunch, but I told him I’d be out here on official business. Little did I know he would be, too.”
“He seems tenacious.”
Sargeant glanced at me, his eyes flashing with anger. “It’s unfortunate he never used his tenacity to make a better life for himself. We both started out in the same place, yet look at where I am as compared to—” When Sargeant cut himself off, I didn’t push it. His family issues were none of my concern.
We
slowed as we approached Lexington Place. Built in the late 1800s, the Romanesque building was set back from the street behind a wide driveway. Even I could tell this was perfect for limos to drop off occupants behind a screen of Secret Service lookouts. We climbed the half-dozen marble steps up to the giant glass entry doors that had been retrofitted into the façade.
The green glass whispered open, allowing us entry. It was pretty quiet today. When not being used for black-tie dinners or other such illustrious affairs, Lexington Place served as a temporary gallery for fledgling artists. Free and open to the public during showings, Lexington Place had arranged for portable white walls to be set up cubicle style in its high-ceilinged, pillared lobby. Local artists—some classically trained, some self-taught—vied for spots inside. From what I understood, it was quite a coup to be featured here.
Today’s bad weather and the early hour apparently combined to prevent art lovers from venturing outdoors and into this space. Too bad. Even a cursory glance told me I’d enjoy spending time here. We looked around, but it appeared completely vacant. “Hello?” I said.
No answer.
Other than the hollow, clicking noises our footsteps made as we ventured into the lobby, the place was quiet as a tomb.
A female security guard came around one of the back cubicles. Wearing a wary look and a blue blazer two sizes too small, she ambled over. “We’re here to meet Patty Woodruff,” I said. “Is she here yet?”
The guard sized us up. “You the two from the White House?”
“We most certainly are,” Sargeant said, fussiness back in place. “Ms. Woodruff is expecting us.”
The guard glanced at her watch. “Yeah, that’s what she said.” Waving absently to the east, she continued. “She’s been here all morning up on the second floor. Elevator’s over there.” She pointed to the south. “Or you can take the stairs. Whatever suits you.”
“Is the kitchen on the second floor?” Patty wanted me to scope out the food preparation facilities. I intended to do that first. On my own, if possible. It was always much easier to focus and concentrate without one of the First Lady’s assistants or Peter Everett Sargeant breathing down my neck.
“She said she’d be waiting for you in the kitchen,” the guard replied. “West side of the second floor. Through the wooden door that reads PRIVATE, then take a right.”
There went the idea of exploring on my own. “Thanks,” I said and headed for the stairs.
Sargeant glowered.
“Take the elevator if you want.” I set off toward the wide marble steps at the very back of the lobby, resisting the urge to add, “I’ll beat you,” because Sargeant was not a playful man. To my surprise, he fell into step beside me.
“Are we the only ones here today?” he asked as we made our way up. With a noise of disgust, he added, “They call themselves green. How much heat do they waste keeping the building open all day? Not to mention electricity. Thousands of dollars wasted on the chance that some sightseers might drop in. It’s a shame.”
Sargeant’s mood was always foul when I was around, but after our encounter with Milton, it’d gotten worse. I decided to ignore his complaint. I didn’t know enough about green technology to offer up an argument, but I imagined the building’s certification had more to do with the methods it employed than solely on how many hours it remained open to the public each day.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was completely dark. I hesitated, unsure of proceeding, but the moment we cleared the last step, overhead lights went on to illuminate our path. “There you go,” I said, “conservation.” More lights automatically popped on as we headed down the hall.
“Hmph,” he said.
I pushed through the door marked PRIVATE, less reluctant now to venture into the dark. As they had before, sensors tracked our movement and provided illumination. “I guess Patty hasn’t been out in the hall in the past few minutes,” I said. “I wonder how long the lights stay on before they shut themselves off.”
“I don’t like it,” Sargeant said.
Truth was, I didn’t like it, either. Dark rooms were never inviting and I got a sudden tingling along the back of my neck. “The guard did say Patty was in the kitchen, right?”
He didn’t answer. As instructed, we took a right at the first corridor. Though long and dark, two circles of light—windows in far doors—kept us moving forward. I wiggled my shoulders, trying to shake off the eerie sense of two big bright eyes watching us approach. I felt like a character in one of those “Don’t go through the door!” movies. When hallway lights popped on above, exposing a bright white set of swinging doors with porthole windows, I heard Sargeant breathe a sigh of relief.
“Patty?” I called, pushing through the right-hand door. “You here?”
The kitchen was empty. Dead-silent empty. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Sargeant looked around the room, confused as I was. “Ms. Woodruff must have just been here. The lights are still on.”
I’d been thinking the same thing as I moved toward the wall switch. “Nope,” I said, pointing. “This room is set to stay on until manually shut off. It’s an override just in case the person working here doesn’t move around enough to keep the sensors happy. I’ve seen things like this before.”
“Well then, where is she?”
Like I would know. I wandered around, hoping she’d peer around a corner but I couldn’t shake the sense that this floor was utterly devoid of life. “Until she shows up, we might as well get to work,” I said. “We’re here to assess, right?”
This kitchen was at least twice as big as ours. Stainless steel countertops, sinks, and work areas weren’t so spread out as to limit efficiency, but were nicely spaced. I made a circuit of the room, checking out their ovens, equipment, and preparation area, growing more impressed by the minute. At the room’s far end, I pushed open another set of doors. Lights in that short corridor snapped on and I poked around. When I came back, I said, “That leads to the banquet room.”
Sargeant clicked his tongue. “So where is she?”
“We are a little early.”
He checked his watch. “Not by much.”
Shrugging, I continued my perusal. “She’s got to be here somewhere, or else she would have called. I’m going to check out the rest of the kitchen. Might as well make good use of the time we have.” I wandered through, brimming with envy. This place had everything. Not only that, but everything was brand-new. The White House had to make do with what we already had. While we were never denied a necessary piece of equipment when we requested one, we were expected to nurse all current utensils until they fell to shreds on the floor. Even then, if there was any chance of refurbishing rather than replacing, we did so.
I made my way down a tiny hall in the room’s eastern corner. One side was an office, the other a long wall of stainless steel. I recognized the walk-in refrigeration and freezing units immediately. When I pulled at the heavy handle, unlocking the massive door to peek in, the lights went on. I looked around. “You could feed an army with what they’ve got stored here.”
As was my habit, I checked the door handle to ensure it could be opened from the inside. Equipment this new was probably safe, but it never hurt to check. I pushed it twice, watching the latch move with each attempt. Just fine. I was about to walk deeper into the unit to take a closer look at the inventory when Sargeant called.
“Olivia?”
I couldn’t remember him ever calling me anything but “Ms. Paras,” and the tone of his voice was strained.
“What is it?” I hurried back into the main part of the room.
“What do you think this is?” he asked.
I was about to lapse into smart-aleck mode and answer that it was a sink, but then I noticed where he was pointing. A thin line of red ran along the outer seam.
“At first glance I missed it. Anyone would have. But look.” He pointed to a single drop of red on the white industrial floor.
“Not yours, I take it
?”
“Maybe Ms. Woodruff cut herself,” he said, “and went for help?”
I crouched to look more closely at the red line snaking its way down the stainless steel side, then stood to view it from above. I brought my head even with the edge of the sink and tilted to get the light’s angle just right. “I think someone wiped this clean,” I said. “See that dull spot? It looks like a smear.”
“Should we call someone?”
I was about to answer when I noticed the two tilt-skillets just a few feet to my left. Giant rectangular boxes that sit about three feet off the floor, tilt-skillets are wonderful for creating crowd-sized portions of soups, stews, or other concoctions that require a heck of a bigger container than a standard Dutch oven. I loved our tilt-skillet at the White House and used it on a regular basis. Whenever it wasn’t being used, we almost always kept it open.
These two were closed.
I started for the one closest to me.
“Don’t!” Sargeant shouted.
I jumped. “I’m sure there’s nothing in there.”
“I think we should call the police.”
“And report what?” Swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, I started to reach for the handle. On second thought, I pulled the edge of my long sleeve top out from beneath my coat sleeve, covering my fingers with fabric.
“What are you doing?”
“Being silly. Letting my imagination run away with me.”
He backed up. “Just the same…”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
With that, I flung the tilt-skillet lid open.
I gasped, staggering backward. Patty’s cramped, twisted body had been jammed into the small space.
Sargeant yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his eyes. “I think we found her.”
CHAPTER 2
I STOOD PARALYZED FOR SEVERAL SECONDS, momentarily forgetting to breathe. “Call the police,” I finally said. Although there was no way Patty could be alive, not so perfectly still, not with that bloody gash across the back of her head, I had to check. I took a step closer.
