by Julie Hyzy
“Because you see what a success I am and you want it. You want to be part of my life and you’ll say anything to get into my good graces.”
Milton’s face went red and his bottom lip went slack as he looked away. We rode for a very silent, very tense block before he set his jaw and spoke again. “Maybe that’s true. Maybe I do want to be part of your life again, Petey. Like we were as kids. But what I’m telling you really happened.” To me, he said, “I don’t care if you don’t get me a job at the White House. I just care that my uncle and you stay safe.”
We dropped him back off at home. The moment the car door closed behind him, Sargeant scooted as far away from me as he could get. I knew he wouldn’t want to discuss this, but there was too much at stake. “I believe him,” I said.
“That’s your problem.”
“I think it’s our problem.”
“Not anymore. We held up our end of the bargain. Now he won’t contact us again.” Sargeant faced me. The hard glint in his eyes was back, full force. “Mission accomplished.”
CHAPTER 19
“LET’S GO TALK TO TOM,” I SAID TO SARGEANT when we arrived back at the White House.
“MacKenzie? The head of the PPD? Are you out of your mind?”
“Milton said—”
“Milton is delusional. He invents stories to bolster his self-esteem. Unfortunately, he believes the nonsense he makes up.”
“Peter—”
He held both hands up. “I will not be part of this. Milton tried to ruin me once, I won’t let that happen again. If the head of our Secret Service even sniffs that my nephew is trouble, do you know what will happen to me? I will be bounced out without a second thought. All because of Milton and his outlandish lies.”
I stopped in the center of the Diplomatic Reception Room. “What if he’s right?”
“Go talk to your old boyfriend. Tell him your conspiracy theories. Let him know you heard it from a lowlife busboy who’s traipsing around the city like he’s Sherlock Holmes.” He held a finger close to my nose. “But do not involve me. Why? Because I’ll tell you exactly what Agent MacKenzie’s reaction will be. He’s going to tell you you’re nuts.”
“No—”
“Yes. Now, you will excuse me,” he said and huffed away.
I hesitated for several minutes before making my way over to the West Wing to talk with Tom. The main reason for my delay was so that I wouldn’t have to walk with Sargeant. The other reason was because I thought this warranted a call to Gav. I dialed his number, disappointed when my call went to voicemail. I left him a cryptic message about needing to talk and stressing that it wasn’t personal. This was important. I could feel it. And it couldn’t wait.
“Again, Ollie?” Tom said from behind his desk. He hadn’t offered me a seat. “You’re bringing this to me…why? Do you want me to nab the secretary of state’s assistant and haul him in for questioning? Have you really lost it this time?”
“Milton said—”
“Milton is a nobody. Don’t you get that? Even if he swore that Ethan Nagy came to him and confessed to both murders and to abducting Secretary Quinones’s father-in-law, I wouldn’t believe it. This subject is closed. Now. Permanently. Got it?”
“Tom—”
He stood. “Ollie, I’m going to ask you to please let this go. There’s a lot going on behind the scenes that you’re not aware of. Nor should you be. By repeatedly meeting with this Milton Folgate, you’re stirring up trouble you can’t possibly understand.”
“How can Milton cause you any trouble?”
“It’s not him. It’s you. Have you forgotten? Every single place you go, we’re with you. We’re guarding you. Taking one of my agents on a joyride just to satisfy your amateur sleuth cravings is not a good use of my department’s time. Do you understand?”
His voice had grown louder with each syllable.
But what if? I wanted to say. What if Milton really did see Ethan Nagy with the two alleged killers? What if?
The look on Tom’s face was murderous. Angrier than I’d seen him in a very long time.
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you change your mind.”
That night, after Agent Scorroco dropped me off at my apartment, I said hello to a new agent—another female—who met me at the door and accompanied me upstairs where her partner was already standing guard. “If you get frightened during the night—if you hear a sound, or just need reassurance—I’ll be right here. Don’t hesitate.”
Clearly, she thought I was a wimp. “Thanks,” I said.
Inside, I opened my freezer, staring at the ice cream container until my nose got cold, fighting the temptation to finish the rest of it off tonight. If I polished it off now, I reasoned, it wouldn’t be there to tempt me tomorrow. Ah, the logic of the infuriated brain. Eventually I shut the freezer door to fix myself a much more healthy option. When I was home alone, I ate just the way I liked to eat. No standing on ceremony. No need to make the food look pretty. I steamed cauliflower in a saucepan for a side dish while I put together a quesadilla. Easy-peasy.
I sat down to enjoy my dinner and thought about what was really bugging me: Gav.
After he and I had first met and we’d seen the White House through a significant threat, he’d taken off for parts unknown. We’d kept in contact a little bit, but at that point I hadn’t considered our relationship anything beyond friendship. If I didn’t hear from him for two months, or three, or even six, it wasn’t a big deal. But now it was.
I took a bite of my quesadilla and marveled at how delicious something this easy could be. Two tortillas, a heaping scoop of grilled veggies, and a sprinkling of cheese. A few minutes in a hot panini maker and…voila!
Gav was a serious man. More intense and staid than I would have ever imagined my being attracted to. But there it was. You don’t pick who you fall in love with, you just do. Was I in love with Gav?
I took another bite, wishing everything in my life was as easy as cooking.
“Hey, Ollie,” Bucky said when I walked in the next morning. “That special agent was in here looking for you.”
“What special agent?”
“This one.” I turned to see Gav in the doorway. “Good morning, Ms. Paras,” he said. “Mr. Reed is right. I was looking for you.”
I so seldom thought of Bucky as Mr. Reed that it took me a moment to comprehend. Or maybe it was Gav standing five feet away from me that had me discomposed. “Good morning, Special Agent. What can I do for you?”
As always when we were among other White House personnel, his face was without expression, but the rock hard look in his eyes I remembered from that first class he taught was back. “A moment of your time?”
Bucky made the oddest face as Gav led me out of the room.
“Not the China Room, please,” I said, remembering all the terse conversations I’d had in there over the years.
His voice was a growl. “I know. This way.” He passed the China Room and turned left into the Library, allowing me to enter first. “I just have a few minutes, but I need to talk to you before things get worse.”
“What happened?”
He shut the door behind us, so softly it barely made a sound. “You talked with Tom yesterday.” It wasn’t a question.
“Is there a problem? All I did was tell him what Milton—”
“I know what you told him. I’ve been briefed.”
I waited.
Gav ran a hand up his forehead and through his hair. “I admire the fact that you don’t go off investigating on your own, that you always keep the Secret Service in the loop…” He rubbed his eyes, keeping his hand there, squeezing.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you look like you’re ready to fire me?”
His hand dropped. “Fortunately for you that’s not my department.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Tom and I have a basic disagreeme
nt,” he said, ignoring my question. “He believes in playing his cards close to his chest. In most instances I would agree with him. But every once in a while you encounter an aberration.”
“An aberration?” I repeated.
“You.”
I opened my mouth but it took several seconds to come up with something to say. “I don’t know how to take that.”
“Tom sees it as a problem. I see it as an asset. You know that.” Gav began to pace the room. “You brought Tom intelligence that places Ethan Nagy in conversation with the two suspects in the double murder and Mr. Bettencourt’s abduction.”
“I wouldn’t call it intelligence. Milton just—”
He stopped pacing. “Ethan Nagy is under investigation.”
“Because of what I—”
“No. He’s been under investigation for the past several days. For reasons I can’t get into right now. But this is extremely hush-hush. Only the highest levels of the Secret Service are aware. A handful of us are investigating, working behind the scenes. Can you imagine what would happen if it got out that we were investigating the secretary of state’s right-hand man?”
“Oh.”
“Then you pop into Tom’s office and announce that Nagy might be a suspect. Do you have any idea how much trouble that could have caused?”
“I didn’t know…”
He tried to smile. “I know you didn’t. I know you did what you thought was best—”
“Agent Edgar!” I said. “The driver overheard everything. If he wasn’t originally one of your handful, I think there may be a security leak.”
“Already taken care of. Edgar is a good agent. We’ve brought him in on the investigation—reluctantly, of course—but he sees it as enhancing his career to be trusted with the information, so I think we’ll be safe from that end. What I need from you is a promise that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“I never would.”
“I didn’t think so. Tom said he ordered you to let it go. But ordering you to do something without explaining why? If I know you…” This time the smile was genuine.
“Sure seems like you do.”
“It would be wrong of me to ask you to come to me first, rather than go to Tom in the future, because chain of command is very important. But because—”
“Because I’m an aberration?”
He gave me a wry look. “Yes. That changes things.”
“I tried getting in touch with you first. I just thought this was important enough to mention right away.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m trying my best.”
For a split second I thought he might close the distance between us and pull me into his arms. But we were in the White House and there was no telling who might dash in here at any given moment. “We’ll talk soon, Ollie.”
I’d vowed not to push him. I’d vowed to wait. With that in mind I veered back to the topic at hand. “What motive would Nagy have for killing Cawley or Patty? Or for abducting Mr. Bettencourt?” I asked.
“That’s the biggest hurdle. Nagy had a shady past growing up, but he turned himself around and has proven himself to be quite the catalyst around D.C. Everybody is convinced Quinones is lucky to have him. Especially Quinones. But until we can come up with a motive, none of this makes sense.”
“Could he be working for someone else?”
Gav stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You’re good. That’s another hypothesis we’re exploring. But Quinones doesn’t seem to have very many enemies. We’re coming up empty there, too.”
“Thanks for being honest with me.”
“Always. I promise.”
By the time I left that night, a spring storm had rolled in, lashing the city in a high-pressure torrent. I scooted into the backseat of the car, running out from the Diplomatic Reception Room with Agent Scorroco holding an umbrella over both of us. As soon as he was seated behind the wheel, he turned to ask if there was anywhere I needed to stop on the way home. “Run out of ice cream yet?”
“Agent Scorroco, is that a little bit of personality I detect under that deadpan exterior of yours?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, “but I take pride in knowing my subject’s habits.”
“Thanks, but no. Anyway, it’s raining. Not worth stopping. Even for ice cream.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We traveled in silence for the short jaunt.
Just as we got off I-395, exiting toward the Pentagon, a loud pop lurched the car out of control. “Whoa, hey,” Agent Scorroco shouted as he fought the steering wheel to keep the car on the roadway. Even wearing my seat belt, I tumbled sideways.
I righted myself to see Scorroco’s face in a tight grimace. He gripped the wheel with both hands as we half-pulled, half-skidded, onto the shoulder.
When the car stopped and Agent Scorroco lowered his hands, I asked, “What happened?”
“Tire blowout, I think,” he said. “Wait inside, I need to check.”
“But it’s pouring out there.”
“Tire’s not going to fix itself.”
“Can’t you call for help?”
“I intend to. But before I do anything, I need to assess the situation.”
“I thought these cars had tires that didn’t go flat.”
Meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, he looked annoyed at me for continuing the conversation. “This isn’t one of those.”
The loud shush of rain made me cringe when he opened the door. Even though he popped the umbrella over his head before getting out, I knew he’d be soaked in mere seconds. At this time of year and this time of day, with the sun beginning to set, he had to be icy cold. Scorroco ran around the front of the vehicle past the driver’s-side headlamp to take a look at the front passenger tire. I felt guilty staying warm and dry as Scorroco made his assessment. Within seconds he was back in his seat, dripping wet, calling for assistance. “Looks like a tire blowout,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone. “I can’t see so well. Visibility is bad and there’s no light here. Send another car ASAP.” He gave our location and hung up.
Oh great. Just what I wanted. Alone time with Agent Closed-Mouth.
“How did this happen?”
“Unknown.”
“How long until a new car gets here?”
“Unknown.”
Rain pounded the car’s roof, a sound that warped me back to my childhood, when I used to sit in the rear seat like this, back when I felt safe and warm and protected. A glimpse of memory—no more than that—had my dad at the wheel, my mom in the passenger seat. I tried to pull more but couldn’t. As hard as I tried, I could never conjure up a clear memory of my father. It was always like this—a hint of memory, a sense of him. That seemed to be the closest I would ever get.
“Do you hear that?” I asked Scorroco.
He must have because he held up a finger and faced the passenger side. There was an unmistakable tapping against the side of the car that beat a rhythm out of sync with our slapping windshield wipers. It seemed to be coming from the blown-out front tire. “Sounds like something’s ticking,” I said, “but it isn’t an even tempo. It’s…haphazard.”
“Stay here,” Scorroco said. He pulled up his umbrella, opened the door, and got out, slamming it behind himself before the rain drenched his seat. Again, he ran around the front of the vehicle.
Although the headlights were on, our warning flashers were not. Scorroco should have turned them on, but must have forgotten. Short as I am, I couldn’t quite reach the controls, so I unbuckled and eased myself over the middle to try to find the button, one leg in the front, one in the back. Before he returned to catch me in such an unladylike position, I shifted all my weight to the front leg, and searched the dashboard for the flashers. As soon as I hit them, I started back over the seat.
Just as I did so, I heard a sickening th
ump and the car rocked sideways. “Scorroco?” I couldn’t see him. Another thud.
The back passenger door opened. “Scorroco?”
Not Scorroco.
I screamed.
The man with a black face mask held an enormous gun pointed exactly where I’d been seated moments before. He leaned in, taking less than two heartbeats to find me in the front seat. I took advantage of those two heartbeats. As he shifted his aim, I kicked a foot at his gun hand.
To my surprise—and his, too, apparently—it fell to the seat. I slammed myself forward as he grappled for the gun, but I’d landed on top of it. I could feel the hard, cold shape under my awkwardly folded leg, and I used his few moments of confusion again to my advantage. I grabbed at his face mask, intent on pulling it off, but he yanked away from me. All I managed to do was twist it enough for me to get a good look at his jawline.
At that moment Scorroco appeared behind him, looking dazed. But not dazed enough. He socked the masked guy in the face. The would-be attacker grunted, fending off Scorroco’s fists as he righted his mask.
Why didn’t Scorroco pull out his gun?
Why didn’t I grab the one I was sitting on?
Feeling stupid, I started to pull it up, frightened to use it, frightened not to. Just as I got a good grip, the assailant ran off, Scorroco in pursuit.
My hands shook as I dialed my cell phone. “Gav,” I said the moment he answered, “we’ve been attacked.”
CHAPTER 20
GAV AND I WERE SEATED IN THE BACK OF ONE of five government-issue cars that had pulled up at the side of the road after my call for help. A sea of agents examined Scorroco’s car and the surrounding area for evidence. From what I’d gleaned so far, after shooting out the tire to disable our vehicle, the attacker had hit my agent-driver over the head, disarmed him, and then taken Scorroco’s weapon. The staff scouring the ground had come up empty finding it. The rain had not let up, rendering the agents’ flashlights almost invisible in the dark. Warm and dry, I watched them through wet windows.
