Affairs of Steak

by Julie Hyzy

  Her cheeks were bright red and she stammered as she explained, “I like to get in super early to get my work done in the quiet,” she said. “I work better when I’m all by myself.”

  I waited.

  “I’m just a calligrapher. I do the invitations and cards and whatever they assign to me. I don’t go looking for why we’re sending them and I really don’t pay attention as to who gets what. I just make sure that my work is good.”

  “Go on.” By her own admission, she didn’t pay attention to guest lists. Why had she done so this time?

  “When I came in the other morning, there was a sticky note on my overhead light. It read that I should cross-check the guest list for the secretary of state’s party against the current one. I thought Emily left the note for me, even though it didn’t really look like her handwriting.” She lifted her shoulders. “So I cross-checked. We print out hard copies of every guest list. It’s not a real green way to do things, but it makes it a whole lot easier for us calligraphers.”

  “I understand,” I said, just to keep her talking.

  “When I compared the two—line by line—I saw that one of the names was missing. I went to Emily and told her she was right about a discrepancy. Except she didn’t know what I was talking about. She hadn’t left the note for me to find. Either way, we made sure to fix the problem.”

  “So who left the note?”

  “Emily asked around, but nobody owned up to it.”

  “That’s odd.”

  Lynn’s cheeks still burned bright red. “Emily gave me credit for finding the mistake. I guess this would have been a really bad one if that Baumgartner couple hadn’t gotten an invitation, but it really wasn’t me. It was like a guardian angel came in and left it to make me look good.”

  “You did double-check,” I said, “that’s what counts. If you hadn’t, there would have been problems. So take credit for that.”

  “That’s the same thing Emily says.”

  “She’s right.” Lynn’s admission still didn’t explain how Sargeant’s file had been changed. “Can I ask you about the file you received? The one where the Baumgartners’ name was missing?”

  “What about it?”

  “Was there anything unusual about its delivery? I mean, did it seem as though perhaps someone other than Mr. Sargeant sent it to you?”

  “I don’t get files from Mr. Sargeant. Emily gets all that stuff and assigns projects to us, but she keeps us updated on what the whole department is doing. According to Emily, Mr. Sargeant put a message in the latest e-mail that noted this was the revised final. That’s why we planned to use it.” She bit her bottom lip. “Until I found that sticky note.”

  “Thanks, Lynn. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  Her expression perked up. “Really?”

  She’d actually created more questions than provided answers. There was a fishiness to this story I couldn’t put my finger on. “Yes, thanks a lot.” As she turned to leave,

  I stopped her. “Has anybody else asked you about this?

  I mean, other than Mr. Sargeant and Emily?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Thanks, Lynn.” I hesitated, then added, “Let me know if anyone does.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cyan asked when I got back.

  “Nothing really.”

  Bucky snorted. “Like I’ve said before, you should never play poker. Your face gives you away every time.”

  “It’s just—”

  They waited. I hedged.

  Cyan smirked. “It isn’t even noon yet, Ollie. All we’ve done is prepare breakfast. It’s a little early to get into trouble, even for you.”

  “Remember I told you about Sargeant’s problem? The mistake on the guest list? A mistake he swears he knows nothing about?”

  Bucky frowned. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

  “It just doesn’t make sense.” From the looks on their faces, I knew I was losing them. “There’s no reason to let him be hung out to dry for a mistake he didn’t make, right? I admit Sargeant is hardly my best buddy—”

  “There’s an understatement,” Cyan said. “He’s always had it in for you. If there was a chance to get you fired, don’t you think he’d jump all over that?” When I didn’t respond, she said, “He would. And you know it.”

  “Let me guess…you’re getting involved and asking questions on his behalf because no one else on staff would lift a finger to help him.” Bucky gave a deep, resigned sigh. “Even when there aren’t life-threatening issues involved, you can’t stop yourself from snooping around, can you?”

  “The problem is that I keep coming up with more questions than answers.”

  Bucky and Cyan exchanged a look. “So what else is new?” Cyan asked. “Just let it go, okay? For your own sanity as well as ours. Like I said before, for all you know Sargeant is setting you up.”

  There was no sense continuing this conversation. Picking their brains wouldn’t work. At least not where helping Sargeant was concerned.

  “You may be right.” Just to change the subject, I moved toward the computer. “What’s next on our agenda?”

  Bucky sidled up next to me and indicated a new addition to our schedule. “We’re hosting Secretary of State Quinones for lunch today. He and President Hyden are having a private meeting this afternoon.”

  “In addition to the Cabinet breakfast meeting?”

  Cyan nodded. “After the news conference.”

  “Whoa. What?”

  “While you were out sleuthing, we got an update from Doug. We’re on the hook for a late lunch for the president, secretary of state, and assorted others. The full slate is on one of the document tabs.”

  I studied the information there. “We changed the president’s lunch from soup and salad to cheeseburgers and fries?”

  Bucky shrugged. “You can always tell when the First Lady is out of town.”

  “Speaking of that,” Cyan said, “any idea when she and the kids are coming back?”

  “You mean when is Virgil coming back, don’t you?” Bucky asked. “The longer he’s gone, the better. I like it quiet. Like this.”

  Cyan had pulled out a tray of seasoned ground beef and begun shaping it into patties. “I do, too. If there was some way to engineer Virgil getting fired, I’d be in on that plan. Even more than I would to get rid of Sargeant.”

  I looked up. There was no way either Bucky or Cyan would have played fast and loose with the guest list, was there? How would they have gained access? I was convinced that whoever had dropped the Baumgartners’ name had also left that sticky note for Lynn to find. The culprit apparently wasn’t interested in ruining the party—just in ruining Sargeant.

  Bucky was back to concentrating on his task. Cyan was back to humming.

  No way. I trusted these two. They might not shed a tear if Sargeant got the boot, but they wouldn’t be party to an underhanded scheme to make it happen.

  After the glorious lunch we served—bacon-topped cheeseburgers, crispy hot fries, and a side salad that no one had requested but that we’d added to inject a little extra nutrition into the mix—we cleaned up the kitchen again. Soon it would be time to start all over again for dinner. “The president’s dining alone tonight, isn’t he?” I asked. “No changes, right?”

  “None that we know of.”

  I meandered over to the computer and clicked in to watch the live broadcast of the press briefing going on upstairs. Cyan watched over my shoulder. “Why are you so interested?”

  I didn’t want to tell her that Gav had predicted this media event and that I wanted to see how close his prediction came to the real thing. “Ever since I met him and he gave me that present for helping with his father-in-law, I’ve felt protective of the family.”

  “That’s so like you.”

  “His father-in-law was just a lost soul,” I said. “And his wife—”

  “You met her?”

  “I only caught a glimpse of her at
the briefing after her father came back. She seemed so fragile.”

  Bucky had been listening in. “You got all that from a glimpse?”

  I wiggled my finger at them both. “Be very afraid,” I bantered back. “You should see what I come up with after I’ve known people for a while.”

  Secretary of State Quinones was about to begin speaking. A large, boisterous man, he had full, pink cheeks and deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He rarely shied away from the camera and was usually seen smiling, laughing, and talking. Always in a loud voice. Always a gregarious demeanor. From what I’d heard, his approach was often first met with criticism overseas, but once heads of state got to know him, they fell under his spell. In the short time he’d held the position, he’d made enormous strides. People referred to him using words and phrases like genius and one of a kind. Local pundits said he was that rare combination of brilliant strategist and all-around great guy.

  Today, however, he wasn’t smiling. “My friends.” He gripped the lectern with meaty hands and made eye contact with the camera. “You’ve already been told about the threats that have been received by my office…threats directed against my family.” He gestured to his right. “These sharp and talented men and women of the Secret Service, and those of the Metro Police have all assured me that my family and I will be protected around the clock from now until these threats can be eliminated.”

  “By eliminated, do you think he means sanctioned executions?” Cyan asked.

  “No,” I said, “I think he means until the bad guys are caught.”

  “Shh,” Bucky said from over my other shoulder.

  “I know you’ve been given vague details. Today I come before you to share specifics.”

  President Hyden was positioned just behind Quinones, with Ethan Nagy to his left and Tom to his right. Next to Tom was the White House press secretary. Not one of them cringed or reacted to Quinones’s promise of specifics. Part of the script.

  “You may remember that my wife and I addressed you a few short days ago when her father was found safe after having wandered away from our family home. We can now share with you that my father-in-law did not wander off. We believe he was abducted.” Pausing long enough for that information to sink in, he added, “Abducted by the very same people who are threatening me.”

  We couldn’t see the reporters react, but we could hear the onslaught of questions. Quinones held up a hand. “Let me continue. I’ll take questions afterward.”

  The reporters settled down and Quinones gripped the lectern again.

  “As you all know, the White House—and indeed all of us here—suffered a devastating blow last week with the murders of Mark Cawley and Patty Woodruff.” Quinones clenched his eyes for an extended moment, and when he opened them he said, “I knew them. Both of them.” He took another moment to compose himself. “We now believe that whoever killed those two good souls may also be behind these threats to my family.”

  From the TV, I heard the reporters gasp. From next to me I heard Cyan and Bucky gasp.

  Bucky turned to me, “You already knew that, didn’t

  you?”

  “I suspected.”

  “How?” Cyan asked.

  Bucky gave me a shrewd look but didn’t say anything.

  “Am I frightened?” Quinones was answering a question from the audience. “Of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I repeat, I have ultimate faith in our Secret Service and in our police department.” When he stared up at the camera again, his expression was grim. “Whoever you are,” he said in a low voice, “you will be caught. You will pay for your actions. Bet on it.”

  After answering a few more questions, Quinones stepped away and the press secretary took over.

  We logged off.

  “Never a dull moment around here,” Bucky said.

  Once the kitchen was put back in order and lunch delivered, I set out for the West Wing. This time I didn’t tell Bucky and Cyan where I was going. I knew they wouldn’t approve.

  I knocked at Sargeant’s office door and he called for me to enter. As I did, I noticed for the first time that the room had no windows. How dull, and more than a little sad.

  “Peter?”

  “Come in. You’ve made quite an impression on Milton,” he said as I took a seat.

  “He’s a lost soul,” I said, “and he’s been very nice to me.”

  Sargeant chose not to comment. He folded his hands on his desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Paras?”

  “First of all, I want to thank you again for talking to Milton on my behalf.”

  “The last thing I need is for one of my relatives to get arrested for being a peeping Tom. I did it primarily for myself.”

  Bucky’s and Cyan’s warnings about not helping Sargeant jostled around in my brain. I understood their reluctance to help him. I might even agree with their position, but having the man fired or even reprimanded for something he didn’t do wasn’t right.

  “Was there something else, Ms. Paras?” he asked as though bored to tears by my very presence.

  Decision time: help him, or not?

  Stalling always worked when I wasn’t sure what to do next. “Why do you say that I made an impression on Milton? Have you spoken with him again?”

  “Thanks to you, I’ve had the pleasure”—Sargeant rolled his eyes in the exaggerated way only he could—“of a constant barrage of phone calls from my wayward nephew.” He held up a finger. “That’s not counting the personal visits.”

  “It’s only Monday,” I said. “How many times could he have contacted you in the past two days?”

  “You have the Secret Service guarding your apartment again, yes?” he asked as though he already knew the answer. “And an armed escort back and forth every day? Am I right?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know how I know that?”

  “Milton told you?”

  His face crinkled into a nasty smile. “Exactly. Seems you’ve inspired him to go play detective on your behalf.”

  “I never encouraged—”

  “You didn’t need to. To him you’re a damsel in distress, and although you and I both know you’re anything but helpless, assisting you appeals to Milton’s romantic streak. The fool.”

  “I should talk with him—”

  “Oh sure, go ahead.”

  Sargeant’s reaction surprised me.

  “Why not?” he said. “Go. Talk with him. Take him home and clean him up and give him a cozy little corner to sleep in and maybe take him out for a walk now and then.”

  “Peter, there’s no reason to—”

  “He’ll be happy to be appreciated. You’ll be happy to have a pet to take care of. A match made in heaven.”

  Sargeant was an unpleasant man. Probably the least pleasant man I’d ever encountered, but this particular spew was his harshest yet.

  When he finished, he stared as though daring me to fight back. But something else lurked behind his eyes. He wanted me to fight because he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to open up. Milton had hurt him in the past—that much I knew. From the fear that wriggled behind Sargeant’s eyes, I knew that Milton’s connection to me was more than the little man could handle.

  “I talked with Lynn,” I said, “the calligrapher.”

  The shift in his expression was so sudden it almost set me back. “What did she say?” Before I could answer, he leaned forward. “Does she have any idea who sent her the incorrect list?”

  “You generally forward guest lists to Emily in the calligraphy department, right?”

  “Yes, yes…” Even seated, he danced with impatience.

  “They were ready to use the wrong copy until Lynn’s ‘guardian angel’ intervened.” I went on to explain what Lynn had told me about the sticky note.

  Sargeant wasn’t buying it. “If one of her coworkers knew there was a mistake, why didn’t that person correct it himself…or herself? Her story makes no sense.”

  “It makes plenty of sense if someone
is trying to make you look bad.”

  I watched him digest that. “But I barely know anyone in the calligraphy office.”

  “That’s why I don’t believe the problem originated there. Whoever left the note is probably the same person who sent the erroneous file in the first place. Who has it in for you? Any ideas?”

  “Here? At the White House?” he asked. “Besides you?”

  I almost laughed. “For the record, it wasn’t me.”

  He stared away, concentrating. “Of course not. That isn’t your style. You don’t creep around in the background trying to undermine people. You undermine them straight to their faces.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  When he looked up at me I could have sworn I saw the faintest bit of humor flash across his features. “What do we do now?”

  “We still have quite a bit of work ahead of us on the secretary of state’s party—” I began.

  “I mean about this sabotage.”

  I knew what he meant. “Not much,” I said. “We’ve hit a brick wall. Unless we can find out who left that sticky note…”

  “We could question the staff. Methodically. Draw up a list of everyone with access to the White House. Ask who was near the calligraphers’ office the day the sticky note showed up. Ask who was near my office that day—who might have snuck in to send the e-mail in the first place—and then we’ll have our guilty party.”

  “Do you have any idea how impossible that is?”

  “If you and I—”

  I waved my hand, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in cutting him off for a change. “Count me out. Interrogating every single person who might, maybe, possibly, have seen someone who could have, perhaps, been in both those places at those specific times is ludicrous. Needles and haystacks don’t begin to describe it.” I couldn’t believe he even considered such a foolish idea. “I mean, poking around and seeing if anything pops is one thing. But turning this into a full-scale investigation would do you more harm than good.”

  He pounced. “Will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Poke around? See if anything pops?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “As much as it pains me to say so”—his eyes regained their familiar, unpleasant gleam—“you have proven adept at uncovering conspiracies.”