by Julie Hyzy
“Two compliments in one day?” I sat back. “Peter, you’re losing your edge.”
“If I’m not careful, I risk losing a great deal more than that. This isn’t the first unexplained issue that’s come up in recent months. But it is the first one I can track down.” With an expression so brittle I was afraid his face would crack if he moved, he added, “That is, with your help.”
Truth was, I was desperate to know what was going on—not just for Sargeant’s sake but for my own. There was something rotten roiling just below the surface. Framing our sensitivity director—no matter how appealing the prospect was—just wasn’t right. Whatever or whoever was behind it needed to be stopped, even if doing so resulted in Sargeant benefiting from my efforts. “No guarantees I’ll find anything.”
He tried to mask his reaction to my response. Surprised, clearly. And pleased. “Let me know if you need my assistance.”
“There is one thing,” I said.
He nodded in a “Go ahead” gesture.
“Be a little nicer to Milton.”
The fuming little squirrel of a man was back in a heartbeat. He rearranged his mouth several times, as though fighting to keep caustic words from blurting out on their own. “I appreciate your help in this matter,” he said finally. “Now, I believe we have another visit to Jean-Luc’s to discuss…”
CHAPTER 18
I WAS BACK AT MY APARTMENT THAT NIGHT, after yet another conversation-less drive with Agent Scorroco. Tonight, however, when he’d asked his perfunctory question about needing to pick up anything along the way, I’d surprised him by requesting a stop. There was something I needed tonight, and I needed it badly.
A quart of Baskin-Robbins ice cream sat on my lap as I sat on the couch, enjoying spoonful after cold, creamy spoonful. My favorite flavor, mint chocolate chip. A second quart, same flavor, waited in the freezer. At the rate I was going, I might even crack it open tonight.
Dipping in again, I savored the creamy mint and told myself for the millionth time that no one made this flavor better than Baskin-Robbins did. I also told myself that drowning my sorrows in this softening vat of ice cream was better than melting down myself.
The TV stayed off, the room was dark, and only minimal light came through the split in the curtains that covered my balcony doors. Gav had told me to keep them closed and I did. Quiet tonight. Peaceful. No bad guys breaking in. An armed guard outside.
I dug out another helping.
I didn’t usually sit around feeling sorry for myself. Truth be told, I wasn’t even doing so right now. What I was doing was giving myself breathing space. As I popped in another minty bite, I amended that thought. Eating space, too.
The whole Sargeant situation had me puzzled. I didn’t know what I thought I might uncover regarding the mystery of how the wrong list got sent to the calligraphers, but I took small comfort in the fact that for the first time in a while, the person in trouble wasn’t me.
I pictured Bucky and Cyan reminding me that when I had been in trouble, Sargeant had been the first in line to gloat. He’d sooner use his precious, perfect handkerchief to mop up after the First Dog than lift a finger to help me. Yet here I was, helping him out.
We each have to be true to our own nature, I thought. I took another mouthful, letting the ice cream ooze onto my tongue.
With the spoon still in my mouth, I ticked off everything that had gone wrong lately: my apartment had been broken into, probably by the same people who had targeted Secretary of State Quinones. Probably by the same people who had killed Chief of Staff Cawley and Patty Woodruff.
Reason enough to polish off an entire quart of ice cream, if you asked me.
But I wasn’t finished listing.
As much as I appreciated the security an armed guard provided, having them covering my every move put a serious crimp in my life. Not to mention bringing whatever relationship Gav and I were beginning to a screeching halt.
Gav. He got a tick on the list all to himself.
I held another finger up. Possibly worst of all, I was in charge of acting as liaison to this massive birthday party with Sargeant as a partner. Could there be a worse combination?
Oh wait. I couldn’t forget Virgil.
I was fast running out of fingers.
The Diplomatic Reception Room, an oval-shaped beauty on the ground floor, was where—as the name suggested—diplomats were often received during official visits. With its south-facing outer doors, the room also served as an entrance to the White House for the First Family. We staffers didn’t use it as frequently, but today, with an armed escort waiting at my beck and call, it was a convenient exit. Tuesday morning, Sargeant and I met there at nine. “How many more times do we have to visit Jean-Luc’s?” Sargeant asked as we made our way to the waiting car.
“As many times as it takes,” I said, taking a moment to appreciate the clear day. I took a deep breath of the air that was finally beginning to warm up. “It’s a shame we can’t walk today.” As we approached, our Secret Service agent was adjusting his official pin. They must have just gotten new ones. This was a rectangular-shaped green one, with the Secret Service star prominent at its center. Agents changed pins regularly as a security precaution to prevent criminal infiltration. When guarding the president, these pins were sometimes changed on an hourly basis.
“You can’t walk,” Sargeant said. “I could if I wanted to.” Without even a passing glance at the Secret Service agent holding the back door of the car open for him, he added, “But I don’t want to.”
“Thank you,” I said to the agent as I got in.
He shut the door and got into the driver’s seat. “My name is Agent Edgar,” he said into the rearview mirror. “If there is anything you need, please let me know.”
Sargeant jammed himself into the far corner. I sat right behind Agent Edgar. “Thank you,” I said again.
The ride was short and quiet. Just as we arrived at Jean-Luc’s, Agent Edgar broke the silence. “My orders are to come pick you up when you’re ready to leave.” He handed two business cards over the seat and we took them. “Just let me know.”
“Yes,” Sargeant said as he got out. The moment his feet hit the pavement, I heard him groan.
I stepped out and saw the reason for his reaction. “Hello, Wyatt,” I said to the young man waiting for us. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He pointed to his wrist. “You know how it is when you can’t do your real work. You just have to find something to keep busy. I heard you were both coming here today, and I knew I could be a big help.”
“How did you know we would be here?” Sargeant asked.
Wyatt pointed in the general direction of the White House. “Doug,” he said as though Sargeant was an idiot for asking. Pointing now at the departing car, he asked, “What’s with the escort? How did you two rank a ride?”
“Long story,” I said, effectively shutting up Sargeant, who looked ready to explain. “What about you, did you walk?”
“Yeah. Do you mind if I bum a ride back when we’re done here?”
Sargeant made that growling noise again, then coughed to cover it. “I’m sorry, but we will be making a stop on the way back.”
Wyatt looked about to ask what it was.
“A personal stop,” Sargeant said, cutting him off. “Ms. Paras and I are meeting someone privately.”
This was news to me.
Wyatt said, “Sure, no problem,” and loped up the stairs.
I whispered to Sargeant on the way up. “That wasn’t very nice. No need to lie. We could have easily given him a ride back.”
“It wasn’t a lie.” He leaned in closer. “Milton called again. I told him we would talk with him on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“This is the last time either of us hear from him unless we initiate contact.”
“You’re so generous, Peter.”
He missed my sarcasm.
Armed with a list of to-dos, Sargeant and I hit th
e ground running and within two hours had a significant chunk of the list completed. Wyatt tagged behind as we measured the overall space as well as the dance floor.
“I’m an impressive dancer, if I do say so myself,” Wyatt said.
We’d been treated to more of these Wyatt-tidbits than any human being should ever have to endure. I hadn’t exploded yet, but only because I’d been running interference, trying to keep Sargeant from biting the guy’s head off. Part of me almost wished he would. Wyatt could be so tedious.
I hadn’t told him not to go on, so Wyatt assumed he should. “My girlfriend says I’m the best dancer she’s ever met.”
Sargeant glanced up. “You have a girlfriend?”
Wyatt either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “Beverly Bronson. Isn’t that a perfect name? If we ever get married, she won’t even have to change her initials.”
The old rhyme came to mind: Change the name but not the letter, marry for worse instead of better, but I kept that to myself.
“You thinking about getting married?” I asked. From what I understood, social aides were always single. Maybe this was a way to ease him out.
“Nah. Not yet at least. I like to play the field.”
“Does your girlfriend know that?”
He shrugged. “It’s not like I’m actually seeing anybody else. But I do have a spare on the side. Just in case. You never want to be caught flat at the side of the road without a spare, you know.”
Had he really just compared girlfriends to tires? I vowed to stop asking him anything else about himself. Not that I expected him to keep quiet. This guy never shut up.
Trying our best to ignore his trivial musings, Sargeant and I took copious notes regarding the room’s colors. We also took plenty of pictures so that Kendra, our florist, would have a basic idea of how to plan. She would eventually make a trip out here herself, but this would give her a good start.
“Shouldn’t you have workers do this grunt work?” Wyatt asked.
“Maybe,” I said as I took a closer look at the banquet tables lined up along the room’s far end. “But until they assign our replacement, I’d like to be as thorough as possible. These are ten-tops, by the way.” I’d expected to find eight-top tables here. We had planned to seat eight guests per table. “This could give everyone more elbow room. How about we take one down and decide?”
Wyatt held up his injured wrist. “Sorry.”
Sargeant came to stand next to me. “Lot of help he is,” he said under his breath as we rolled a round table out from the pile and set it up.
We gave it a critical glance. “Two possibilities,” I said. “This could be perfect because each group of eight guests has extra elbow room, or it will be terrible because they’re spread too far apart for conversation.”
“I would prefer ten guests per table,” Wyatt said. “Did you know that Mrs. Pittala, of the New Jersey Pittalas, always crammed guests together as tightly as possible? She said it made for good friends and better conversation.”
I had no idea who the New Jersey Pittalas were, so I ignored him.
Sargeant said, “Let’s make a note. By the time the First Lady’s assistants are ready to assign seats, the decision as to how many to place per table will be taken out of our hands.”
In other words, avoid the problem. Sargeant had been hanging around with Wyatt too long. His influence was beginning to rub off.
“Did you know that the Pittala family raised championship beagles?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, hoping my tone of voice would express my disinterest. He’d been spewing useless drivel the entire time we’d been working here. “You know,” I said, pretending the thought had just occurred to me, “I think we’ve gotten almost everything done here for today. Why don’t you head back, Wyatt?”
He looked disappointed.
Sargeant tapped our notes. “We will bring this information to the various departments, and they in turn will have more questions. In fact, Ms. Paras has a number of kitchen issues we still need to work out.”
“Today?” Wyatt asked helpfully.
“Another day,” I lied. Anything to get him to leave. His manner, his personality, even his voice caused shivers of revulsion up the back of my neck.
“Okay, I guess I’ll see you around. Let me know when you need me back here. Although Doug will probably let me know.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
Sargeant was shooting daggers with his eyes.
When we finished up for the day, I called Agent Edgar while Sargeant pulled out his cell phone to dial Milton. “I have no idea if he’ll still be able to meet us,” he said to me. “I didn’t give him a specific time.”
Shortly thereafter, we made our way out to the car, where Agent Edgar opened the back door for us. As we climbed in, I said, “Looks like we have a stop along the way.”
Sargeant rattled off an address. Edgar turned around. “That’s not a great area.”
Sargeant sighed heavily. “It’s where my nephew lives.” Looking out the window, he added, “Pathetic.”
Edgar didn’t offer any further comment.
We pulled up to a three-story frame apartment building crammed cheek to jowl between identical neighbors. Every house on the block had cement stairs in various stages of disrepair, leading up to a barricaded front door. Milton’s building was white with a brown pitched roof. All homes on the block sported ornate iron bars across ground-floor windows. A couple of the miniature front yards were fenced in, some with upholstered furniture that had obviously been outside all winter. Correct that: several winters.
“I’ll call for backup,” Edgar said. “I’m not comfortable with you going in there.”
“Are you crazy, man?” Sargeant asked as he dialed his cell phone. “I wouldn’t step foot in one of those buildings. He’ll meet us out here.”
Moments later, Milton emerged from the top of the stairs. He waved hello as he made his way down and over to the car, which Edgar had been obliged to double park. Milton climbed into the backseat, causing Sargeant to scooch closer to me. “Why didn’t you just get in the front?” Sargeant asked. “I don’t appreciate being smashed like a sardine.”
Milton gave Edgar an exaggerated glance as he whispered, “Can we talk in front of this guy?”
“Is all this just a ridiculous game, Milton?” Sargeant asked. “This isn’t a spy novel or a government conspiracy. The gentleman behind the wheel is an armed Secret Service agent. We agreed to talk to you. So talk.”
With another wary glance at Edgar, Milton began, “Okay, so remember I told you I saw those two guys together with a big-shot political guy?”
Sargeant rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you brought us all the way here to rehash that?”
I wanted to tell Sargeant to quit interrupting. The sooner we let Milton talk, the sooner we could be on our way. Our government-issue vehicle was generating no small amount of interest from people on the street. “Agent Edgar?” I asked. “Do you think we could just drive around a little?”
“I was just about to suggest that,” he said. Seconds later we were gliding away from Milton’s neighborhood, able to talk without distraction.
I had my back to the door, sitting as far from Sargeant as I could. “I’m not rehashing,” Milton said. “I’m here to tell you that I’ve been following them.”
“You can’t,” I said. “Please don’t. If by some chance you are right about that guy being the one who bumped us—”
“I am. I’m sure of it now.”
“Then you could be putting yourself in danger.”
Sargeant was in a snit. “Not only that, you could be putting all of us in danger. Did you ever think of that?”
Milton had his back to his door. That left Sargeant in the middle, with the only really plum position in the backseat. “Of course I thought of that,” Milton said. Little white bubbles of spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth as his voice rose. “That’s why I’ve been extra car
eful. They have no idea I’ve been following them. No idea I saw them with their government friend.”
“We’re taking you back right now,” Sargeant said, sitting forward, “Agent Edgar—”
“Wait, please. You have to hear what happened next.”
Sargeant sat back and consulted his watch. “You have two minutes. Not a moment more.”
“The guy they met. I figured out who he is.”
“Who is he, then?” Sargeant asked.
“I don’t have his name—”
“Then why the blazes are you wasting our time?”
Milton sat back, almost as if slapped. “You guys have to know him. I can describe him to you. He was just on TV. The other day at that news conference.”
“Which news conference?” I asked.
Milton wiped his mouth. “The one with the secretary of state.”
“Milton.” Sargeant’s voice was low, trembling with anger. “If you’ve wasted our time here—”
“Wait.” I addressed Milton. “Which one was he?”
“He’s tall. Very fair. Really light blond. You’d probably think he was handsome.”
“Ethan Nagy?” I asked. Sargeant’s head snapped around and he stared at me.
“Are you actually buying into this foolishness? He probably saw the news conference and made all this up just to feel important. That’s what you do, isn’t it, Milton? Make up stories so you feel like you matter.”
“No, Petey. This is true. I swear.”
“But this is not the first time you’ve ‘sworn’ something is true, is it? Your two minutes are up.” He tapped the back of Agent Edgar’s seat. “Let’s turn around now. It’s time to take my nephew home.”
I wasn’t satisfied. “You’re saying that the two men you followed met with Ethan Nagy—the secretary of state’s assistant?”
“I don’t know the guy’s name or what he does. I can just tell you that he’s the guy I saw with the other two. For sure.”
Sargeant crossed his arms. “I don’t believe you.”
Milton’s tone was plaintive. “Why would I lie about this?”
