by Julie Hyzy
“The gold ones?” he asked with alarm. “No, that’s way too much. Plain brownies are fine. I don’t want anything special.”
Nothing special. Got it. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get started.”
We went through the motions of gathering, measuring, and combining ingredients in near silence. Josh was a polite enough kid to reply to my questions, but offered nothing in terms of flavor. His answers were quick and covered minimal ground.
I did learn that not all the students from his grammar school had automatically moved up to the same middle school. There were, in fact, only two boys from the old school who shared classes with him now. I also learned that Josh hadn’t yet found any extracurricular activities to participate in. He tolerated math and music. Hated gym.
By the time the brownies came out of the oven, we’d already prepared the frosting and apparently exhausted our conversation. “Do you mind if I take these upstairs and finish there?” Josh asked. “I have homework.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let me pack things up so you don’t burn your fingers.”
He looked as though he wanted to protest, but allowed me to place the still-hot muffin pans onto one of the rolling carts we used to send food up to the First Family. I covered the frosting bowl and tucked that onto the shelf below.
As if by magic, Josh’s Secret Service escorts arrived along with a butler to help manage the transport. “I could do this myself you know,” Josh said under his breath. “I’m not completely helpless.”
“People like to feel needed,” I said.
He shrugged.
“See you next time, Josh,” I said as they departed.
He turned and shot me a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
As soon as the elevator door closed behind them, Bucky said, “Well, wasn’t that fun?”
“I feel awful,” I said. “And I can’t tell if it’s because this was the most lackluster visit with Josh I’ve ever had, or if it’s because I’m relieved it’s over.” I pulled the stool out from beneath the computer, sat down, and massaged my forehead with both hands. “Maybe it was me. I mean, after the news about Margaret today, my heart wasn’t in this.”
“It wasn’t you, Ollie,” Bucky said. “He’s a good kid, but tonight he wanted to be anywhere but here. That was painfully obvious.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” I frowned at the ceiling. “I’ve never been an almost-twelve-year-old boy—”
“I have,” Bucky said. “Even now, all these years later, I remember how much I hated middle school. And compared to Josh, I had it easy. My father wasn’t the president of the United States.”
“I wish I could do something for him.”
“You can’t. Not this time.”
“I worry about him.”
“He’s a good kid,” Bucky said again. “Trust me. He’ll come around.”
CHAPTER 7
A staff memo went out informing all personnel that White House access codes and passwords were to be changed. That happened often enough around here, but after Margaret’s untimely and violent death, it was a crucial precaution.
Agent Neville Walker called me, personally, to inform me of another necessary safety measure. “I’m assigning an agent to escort you to and from the White House.”
I didn’t argue. “After today’s news about Margaret, I admit to being skittish walking alone in the dark,” I said. “But I do hope to regain my self-sufficiency soon.”
“Until we know more about your attack and whether it was in any way tied to what happened to Ms. Brown, we will take every precaution.”
“You don’t really believe they could be related, do you? The police are pretty sure they know who the gangbangers are.”
Neville cleared his throat. “Until we have more information, you will be escorted to and from home.”
“Understood,” I said. “Thank you.”
He hung up.
When it was time to leave I was pleased to discover I’d been assigned Agent Romero, the same agent I’d gotten to know yesterday. “How are you?” I asked when she showed up in the kitchen. “Looks like you’re stuck with me again.”
“I’m happy to see to your safety,” she said. “Have you gotten your locks changed?”
“I’m to pick up my new keys from James at the front desk tonight. The locksmith replaced both the handle and the deadbolt locks.”
“Good decision,” she said.
Agent Romero allowed me to sit in the passenger seat rather than insist I ride in the back. I’d had enough experience with both spots and much preferred sitting up front, where I felt less like a prisoner and more like an equal.
Agent Romero and I chatted amiably for a few minutes when my cell phone came alive with its default ringtone. I didn’t recognize the number on display.
I had high hopes, but answered cautiously. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Gav said.
Flushed with relief and happiness, I broke into a smile I knew he couldn’t see. “It’s good to hear from you.”
“Listen, I only have a minute but I wanted to let you know I won’t be home tonight.”
“Not again,” I said before I could stop the plaintive tone. “Sorry, sorry,” I amended. “I understand.” And I did.
“Two things,” he said. “I heard about Margaret Brown.”
“I wondered if you knew.”
“And I’ve been updated about what happened to you.”
“Who told you?” I asked.
“Neville Walker,” he said. “You and I need to talk more when I finally get home. I may not be able to call again before then. In the meantime, please be careful.”
“I am.”
“You’re being escorted to and from home, right?”
“As we speak.”
“Good. Neville said he’d take care of that.” I could almost hear him nod. “I’m sorry I can’t say more right now. It’s touch-and-go at my location.”
I wanted to ask if he was in Wisconsin at the Cenga Prison bombing site. Of course, I couldn’t. “I’m thinking about you,” was the best I could manage.
“I’m thinking about you, too. Always,” he said. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, but please, be extra careful.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure all this extra precaution is unnecessary.”
“Ollie. It’s you we’re talking about.” Before I could reply to that, he said, “Gotta go. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
When I hung up, I looked longingly at my phone before tucking it back into my pocket.
Smiling, Romero kept her eyes on the road. “Gavin’s a good man.”
“The best,” I said.
* * *
The following morning, after breakfast had been served and the kitchen cleaned, Bucky and I began poring over plans for the week’s menus.
“Mrs. Hyden has two working lunches we need to talk about.”
“We didn’t plan for those last week?”
“Newly scheduled for this week. It’s a good thing we’re so flexible,” I said with a smile. “Tuesday at noon and Thursday at one-thirty. With the weather turning cooler, and the fact that the Tuesday meeting will likely run long, how about a hearty dish? I’d like to offer her something substantial, like chicken chili.”
“Got it.” Bucky scribbled notes on our working copy. “For Thursday, though, we probably ought to go lighter. The First Lady often mentions how much she enjoys finger sandwiches. Maybe we can work them in?”
“Exactly what I was thinking. How about an assortment of sandwiches served along with our mushroom-tomato bisque?”
The kitchen phone rang. I reached for it as Bucky answered me. “We haven’t made that soup in a while,” he said, continuing to jot notes. “Good idea.”
“Chef Paras?” Elaine said when I answered. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Mr. Sargeant and Agent Walker would like to meet with you in Mr. Sargeant’s
office.”
I made a “Yikes” face at Bucky as I asked, “Right now?”
“Yes, if that’s not too much of an imposition.” Elaine knew as well as I did that I had no choice in the matter. Although I appreciated the older woman’s gentle approach, it was in such stark contrast to what we’d become accustomed to from Margaret that I couldn’t help draw comparisons. Which made me think about Margaret’s brutal murder.
I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear as I untied my apron. “I’ll be right up.”
* * *
Sargeant’s office wasn’t very big. Though the space accommodated three adults with relative ease, it grew more cramped with each additional arrival. That’s why, when Elaine ushered me in, I stopped at the doorway, surprised to find myself the fifth to join the meeting.
“Come in, Olivia.” Sargeant sat behind his desk. He had his reading glasses in his right hand and gestured me in with his left. “I understand you’ve met Detectives Beem and Kager.”
“Yes,” I said, shaking hands with the two officers. Extra chairs had been brought in and I nodded a greeting to Neville Walker as I slipped into the only empty seat, next to him. Kager sat nearest the door to my right, Beem sat behind us, farthest from the desk.
Sargeant waited for Elaine to shut the office door. “Ms. Paras,” he began, adopting a more formal tone. “There has been a development that the detectives, Agent Walker, and I believe you should be made aware of.”
“Does this have to do with Margaret?” I asked.
Neville answered me. “Detectives Kager and Beem are not involved in investigating Ms. Brown’s homicide.”
“Then this”—I made a circular motion with my index finger—“has to do with my purse being stolen?” As unlikely as that seemed, it was the only conclusion that made sense.
“Yes, the detectives have a few more questions for you.”
With Neville to my left, Kager to my right, Sargeant across from me, and Beem in the back, I couldn’t make eye contact with all of them without turning and twisting in my seat while I talked. “I still haven’t been called to identify my attackers, so I assume that means you haven’t picked them up yet.” Settling my attention on Kager, I asked, “What’s going on?”
She pulled up a canvas bag that had been leaning against her chair and drew something out. “Does this belong to you?”
In her palm she held a set of car keys on an Eiffel Tower keychain.
“Yes, that’s mine,” I said. Although I didn’t use my little car often, I always kept the keys in my purse. About to pluck them from her, I stopped myself. “But shouldn’t that be in an evidence bag?”
“No.” After handing the keys to me, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the tops of her knees. I got the impression she wanted to secure my undivided attention. “The two men you identified as responsible for your attack Sunday night are dead.”
“Both of them? Oh no.” The entire room fell silent while I digested the information. Reading between the lines, I hazarded a guess, “Not by natural causes, I take it?”
She made eye contact with Neville as she answered me. “The two men were killed, execution style, in a manner not inconsistent with gang warfare.”
“Not inconsistent with gang warfare,” I repeated. “Wow. That’s some careful wording. I have to ask why you’re qualifying it that way. Is there something about their deaths that casts doubt on a gang hit?”
From over my shoulder, Neville said, “I told you she was sharp.”
Kager’s expression didn’t change. “When we were here the first time, we withheld the men’s names so as to avoid compromising the identification process.” Pulling the mug shots from her folder, she placed them on Sargeant’s desk and pointed to the one I’d referred to as Hunter. “This is Viceboy,” she said. “He had an unusual voice, and we believe that’s the reason he never said a word during the purse-snatch.”
She tapped the other photo. “And this is Dagger.” I recognized him as the one with the hairy knuckles. “Their bodies were found out of their territory. Very far beyond their borders. More telling than that, however, is the fact that there’s no chatter on the street about this hit. No one seems to know anything.”
Beem piped up from the back of the room. “When it’s an act of revenge, you hear talk. They want to get the word out. This time, nothing.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“For us, it means your case is closed.”
“And yet, here we are,” I said slowly. “I assume there’s more to the story.”
Kager made a so-so motion. “Every once in a while we come up against a situation like this one, where an act of gang violence doesn’t fit the pattern. Chances are the two victims were taken down by a rival gang. It happens all the time.”
I waited.
Neville leaned on Sargeant’s desk. I sat back to give him room. “The Secret Service would appreciate it greatly if you and Detective Beem kept us advised of your progress in this investigation.”
“As I said, our involvement is over and our case is closed. The homicides took place outside our jurisdiction,” Kager said. “We won’t be handling that.”
Neville blinked a few times and gave a thoughtful nod. “Let’s try this again. The Secret Service would appreciate it greatly if you and Detective Beem kept us informed as the homicide investigation progresses.”
She expelled one of those half-breaths that precedes a refusal. “Agent Walker,” she began.
Agent Walker rapped his fingers on Sargeant’s desk, commanding the floor. “We aren’t interested in gang warfare, if indeed that’s what’s going on here. We’re concerned as to whether or not Ms. Paras’s attack is connected to another staff member’s homicide.”
“I assure you—” Kager said.
“You cannot assure me of anything yet, can you, Detective?” he said smoothly. “I understand that both Ms. Brown’s homicide and the two gang members’ executions occurred out of your jurisdiction. We are in touch with authorities from both areas. I’m not asking you to overstep your boundaries. What I am asking you is to not let this matter drop.”
Kager lifted both hands in a helpless gesture. “There’s little else we can do.”
Sargeant cleared his throat. “The White House would appreciate your cooperation in this matter. We would consider it a personal favor.”
Kager glanced toward the back of the room and her partner. “Beem?” she asked. “What do you say?”
The older detective shook his head. “As my partner stated, the investigation into the attack on Ms. Paras is now closed,” he said.
Sargeant got to his feet. “Then this meeting is at an end.” He used his reading glasses to point the way out. “Thank you for your time, Detectives.”
Clearly surprised by the swift dismissal, the two officers stood. Beem turned back when he got to the door. “A personal favor to the White House, you say?”
Sargeant nodded.
“My partner and I will do what we can. There may be resources we can tap into to follow up,” Beem said. “That’s the best we can offer.”
“Then we look forward to receiving updates,” Sargeant replied. “Thank you.”
When they were gone, Sargeant returned to his seat. I faced the two men. “What don’t I know?”
Neville ran his thumb and index finger down the corners of his mouth. “Margaret Brown’s murder has us very concerned. Not only because of the loss of one of our own,” he said, “but because of the circumstances of her death.”
“What kind of circumstances?”
“Tell her.” Sargeant leaned both elbows on his desk, his forehead propped in his palms, rubbing his eyes. “It’s better she knows what’s going on.”
“I agree,” Neville said. “Margaret was killed in her home on Friday.”
“She called in Friday, didn’t she?” I directed my comment to Sargeant but he didn’t look up. “The family emergency?”
“That’s right,” Neville s
aid. “Whoever killed Ms. Brown must have ordered her to notify the White House that she’d be absent so that no one would come looking for her. That tells us that those responsible either targeted Margaret because of her position here, or panicked when she told them where she worked.”
When Sargeant looked up again, I was startled by the pouchy bags beneath his eyes. “She may have tried to bargain her way out.”
“She may have,” Neville allowed. “Evidence from the murder site leads us to believe that whoever killed her took his time. Additionally, there are indications that at least two individuals were involved. Margaret did not die quickly.”
I raised a fist to my lips. I had no words.
“Margaret Brown’s position here gave her access to a great deal of privileged information. While we mourn her loss, our primary concern right now must be security. We know whoever killed her took her White House–issued cell phone.”
“Before you ask,” Sargeant added, “no, we are unable to locate it. They’ve either turned it off or managed to disable the GPS. Until the device comes back online, we’re in the dark.”
“We have the means to track any attempts to infiltrate our systems,” Neville said. “But if it turns out that Ms. Brown was incentivized to share classified information . . .”
“Incentivized?” I asked. “Is that what you mean by ‘bargained’? That they told her they’d let her go if she shared information?”
Neville shot a glance toward Sargeant before answering. “She did not die quickly,” he said again. “We don’t know what transpired in her home, or what additional information she divulged to her killers, if any. The knowledge Margaret possessed goes far beyond access codes and passwords. Everything she knew about day-to-day life here at the White House could now be in criminal hands. And that puts us all at risk.”
I started to ask a question, but he silenced me with a look.
“The potential for a breach here is enormous. Understand that we have already taken steps to adjust the First Family’s schedule. Every activity they had scheduled outside the White House has now been changed. But that’s merely the tip of the iceberg. Margaret held a wealth of personal knowledge of staff members: who arrives at what time, which establishments people frequent after work”—he lowered his chin to deliver a meaningful look—“which Metro line the executive chef takes home every night.”
