"What about her past? Has she spoken of it?"
Daniel nodded. "Extensively. She was only a child when her father died, but she believes he was falsely accused— and pursued. Hounded is the word she used, I believe."
"We've checked her finances. Except for some small amounts of unexplained cash, she's made her own way. There were no windfalls."
Daniel's smile was humorless. "It was a false trail."
"It would seem so." Gottard leaned back in his chair and let his vision drift to a watercolor on the wall. It showed a front porch with a magnolia tree in bloom and a view of water. "That's the Biloxi beachfront," he said. "Before the casinos went in. It was a lovely, simple community."
"All things change." Daniel had no idea where Gottard was heading. His boss seldom made it a habit to reminisce in front of agents, or if he did, Daniel had never known about it.
"Cody was a loss to us."
"And to me." Daniel tried to see behind the faraway look, but he could tell nothing. He felt his hands clench the arms of the chair. Gottard was a tricky man.
"You know he was shot."
"I know." Daniel had seen the wound and knew that there was nothing he could do to help his friend.
"With your weapon, Daniel."
At first Daniel couldn't believe what he was hearing. Gottard's gaze was like a magnifying glass, inspecting him for any clue. "I told you my gun and my badge were taken when I was abducted from the Bingingtons'."
"We have no proof of that." Gottard's assessment was brutal.
"I called and reported it."
"That doesn't make it true."
Daniel felt the inclination to slug Gottard. Only years of practice checked his temper.
"Daniel, I'm giving you the facts. As many people would interpret them."
"And what do you believe?"
Gottard sighed. "I don't know. Joshua Jenkins said you paid him a visit. He was extremely interested in your 'career."'
Daniel waited silently. He'd learned years ago that the best information sometimes came in a void.
"Jenkins said he gave you some information on Sarah's background."
"He did."
"And did she confirm any of it?"
"She denied it all, unequivocally. In fact, she feels Jenkins was operating under a personal vendetta against her father. And I'm not so certain she isn't correct. Jenkins said there was an informant, someone who was feeding him information about Cal Covington."
"And did you discover who that informant is?"
Daniel hesitated. "Jenkins didn't give me any names."
The first smile crossed Gottard's face. "Which isn't any answer at all, Agent Dubonet."
"Agent?" Daniel waited, wondering what game Gottard played now.
"That's as ambiguous as your answer. And possibly as dangerous. It's a dance, Dubonet. The gathering of this type of information is a dance. It's your turn to lead."
Chapter Thirteen
Blast those photographers! How can I get near Socks if they're going to go into a motor-drive frenzy every time the First Cat tries to peep out the window? I can see now why Socks had to hire me to do his investigating. The poor cat can hardly do his business without making the national news. If I ever wanted fame, I know now that it isn't in the political arena. 'Tis far, far better to suffer amongst the masses, unknown and unfettered.
No time for poetic philosophizing. I have to get inside the White House. There's something troubling me, and it involves Chef André. The man who peppered Bureau Boy last night was tall. And there was something familiar, no pun intended, about him. A peculiar odor. Not toothpaste, after-shave, soap or powder, or any of the other perfumed substances that humans use to hide their natural scent. I'm not particularly fond of the seasoning, but I do believe it was garlic. A man who either cooks a lot or had recently eaten a lot of garlic!
Possibly a chef, would you think? I would. A jealous chef?
There's my break. A delivery man is hauling fresh seafood into the kitchen entrance. With a spurt of speed and a little luck— Yes! Now to find Chef André and then Socks.
There's the kitchen headquarters, and Chef André is in the middle of what appears to be a staff meeting. Guys and gals in white suits, listening very closely to André run over the daily schedule. He's tall, slender, and he has that very slight accent. More New Orleans than French, but just enough to sound foreign. Hmm. When he spies me, all hell is going to break loose, and I can't get close enough to him. Not that it matters. Every single one of these chefs smells of onions and garlic and seasonings. Drat! Better take a look at the calendar. To satisfy a point of personal curiosity.
Here it is, and yes, Lucinda's party is marked down for tomorrow. Even though no one from the White House staff is working it, it's on the calendar. Backtracking, I see the Bingington soiree is here, as well as junior's birthday party for the Georgia senator. Odd that outside jobs are kept on the main calendar. Very odd. Why would André care? How would he even know?
Now it's time to vacate and find my boss. Outside the hustle of the kitchen, this place is something else. Security people everywhere. All very official. All very professional. All very absorbed in their own work, thank goodness. I'm just strolling along acting as if I belong. Now I can make a dash for the personal quarters— the domain of the First Cat.
Socks, I hope you have some answers for 009. This feline is in need of some procedural advice.
* * *
SARAH ROTATED her tired and throbbing shoulders. She'd shopped, loaded, unloaded, mixed, seared, sautéed, battered, braised, puréed, pitted and pared until she couldn't think straight. The menu was under way for the party of the year. She would turn out a table that would make Lucinda Watts feel down-South at home and uptown elegant. The pecan-fudge flambé would be the crowning touch, just a little razzle-dazzle for a woman who knew the fine art of show business. Sarah smiled. It wasn't that she was a better cook than many of the fine chefs working in D.C. It was that she had an intuitive sense of her clients and what they liked. With a flaming dessert, Lucinda would feel that she'd gotten her money's worth. And every dish was in progress.
She tried not to check the clock. The hour hand was creeping along, and still there was no word from Daniel. Had they arrested him? That was a distinct possibility. Would he call? Would they allow him to?
Sarah knew the Miranda law as well as any television cop, but she also knew that once a man disappeared into the bowels of the federal intelligence community, rights weren't always honored. After all, did the FBI have the right to hound her father, literally, to his grave? Did they have a right to decide that he was guilty of some crime without even a scrap of evidence?
The answer to both questions was no. But they'd done it, anyway. Her fingers fumbled in a drawer and picked up a pencil. Trying to keep her eyes off the clock, she started making a list of the serving pieces she needed to gather.
Minutes passed before she glanced at the clock and realized she was chewing the pencil. There was only one item on her list.
She got up and paced the kitchen. She had garlic baking in the oven and a half dozen dishes in various stages of production. She couldn't go hunt for Daniel. Mumbling dire curses under her breath, she looked up the FBI number and placed the call.
Paul Gottard was Daniel's boss, and she asked for him. A young woman explained that he could not come to the telephone.
"I'm looking for Daniel Dubonet," Sarah explained. "Has he been in?"
There was a slight hesitation. "I couldn't say," the woman answered.
Sarah thanked her and replaced the phone, knowing that the secretary was lying. Daniel had been there, but they were not acknowledging the visit. Did they have him somewhere in the basement of the building? It was a ludicrous— and terrifying— thought.
She called his apartment and let the phone ring. As a last step, she dialed Uncle Vince. There was no answer there.
Another five minutes passed and Sarah felt the tension knot tighter. Where was Dani
el, and what was he doing? When he did finally call— and he had to call or show up— she was going to give him something to worry about.
And Familiar, too. That rascally cat had abandoned ship as soon as they'd arrived back in the city. One day Sarah was going to follow him around and see exactly where he went.
She was so deep into her interior tirade that the sound of the front bell ringing didn't register until she heard Sandra Fowler's sharp voice.
"I will not have any more of this, Sarah Covington. Not another minute, do you hear me?"
Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and pushed through the door into the shop.
"What— ?"
"No excuses. I know you're behind this. Those telephone men climbing all over the poles. My phone— my business phone— was down for two hours yesterday afternoon, and this morning it sounds like a tin can! My clients depend on me to have a working telephone."
"What— ?"
"You young folks have to have all the latest gadgets and doodads. It's ridiculous. You don't care who you inconvenience, just as long as you have everything your own way."
"Hold on a— "
"Well, I've taken this matter into my own hands. I've called the phone company myself, and they're looking into you. If you don't watch it, missy, they're going to cut your telephone out completely. It's a privilege to own a phone, not a right. A privilege. And when you abuse it, you lose it."
"Wait!" Sarah slammed a hand down on the counter. The loud noise seemed to short-circuit Sandra, and for the first time since she had entered the building, she paused.
"I haven't ordered any new telephone equipment. I haven't even been in town."
"You ordered that cable thing. That new…" Sandra stopped at the look on Sarah's face. "I'm sure they said it was your phone. I'm positive."
"Why would I want cable through my phone when I never have time to watch television?" Sarah felt like she was talking to a hardheaded child.
"But they said— "
"I can't help what they said. I haven't ordered any new phone equipment or changes. In fact, they were working on the lines a few days ago. There had been some problem." As she talked, a nagging worry grew at the back of her mind. Two telephone men, two separate phone incidents. It wasn't just coincidence. What was it Daniel told her— there was no such thing as coincidence in a law officer's mind.
"Sarah?" Sandra looked with some concern at the chef.
"It's okay. I'm just worried about the phone."
"Well, is it working?"
Sarah nodded. It had been working all afternoon, but there was an odd, hollow sound to it.
"Check it, and if anything is wrong, I'll report it."
Sarah ducked into the kitchen and lifted the receiver. The dial tone was there, just a little tinny sounding.
"It's fine," she said, walking back into the shop. "I wouldn't worry about any of it."
"I'm going to report this. I— "
"Leave it alone, Mrs. Fowler." Sarah smiled to make it sound less like a direct order. "I have some friends at the phone company. I'll get them to take care of it."
"Okay." She nodded. "That would be easier, just to get someone you know to handle it. Better service." She started toward the door and had pushed it halfway open when she stopped. "By the way, I saw that cat again this morning. He was hustling down the sidewalk like he had business at the White House." She frowned.
"You never know with Familiar. He might be advising the president at this very moment." Sarah grinned.
"I don't care who he advises as long as he stays away from my shop and my customers." With that, she made her exit.
"That woman would die if she couldn't get the last word." Sarah spoke aloud, and there was more than a hint of amusement in her voice. As soon as she went back into the kitchen and saw the phone, all amusement ended. Someone had been tampering with her telephone. Had they really tapped it? If so, who? Why? What had they heard?
It was another niggling concern that nibbled and ate at her as she continued to prepare her food. And wait for Daniel.
She was almost sick with worry when she finally heard his knock at the back door. Darkness had fallen over the city and the streets outside were empty of parked cars. Sarah knew because she'd checked every three minutes.
"Where have you…?" The question died on her lips as she looked at him. "What happened? I was afraid they'd arrested you and were holding you prisoner in some dark reaches of a federal building." She tried to smile, but she couldn't. She'd really been afraid for him.
"Have you talked to anyone today?"
Daniel's question caught her by surprise. "About a hundred stores. Lucinda. The FBI." At Daniel's startled expression, she found a smile. "I called to check on you. They wouldn't even tell me you'd been there."
"That's interesting." He paced into the room, then lifted the cover of a pot on the stove.
Sarah took the hint and began to put together a plate. "Funny you should ask about the telephone. Sandra Fowler was over here this afternoon ready to string me up by my heels because she thought I'd ordered some new phone equipment and created an inconvenience for her."
"Your lines have been tapped. Very professionally. And I suspect you've been under surveillance by a 'team' of phony phone men."
Sarah wasn't nearly as shocked as she'd thought she would be. Instead, there was a distant vibration of anger and a feeling of helplessness. Her parents had had this conversation years ago. Cal had been convinced the phones to his home and office were tapped. But he'd never been able to find an official of the phone company who would verify his suspicions.
"How did you find out?" She put a bowl of gumbo in front of him.
"There are no records, but I had some friends who worked in electronic surveillance. They did a little hunting around and found the work order for a crew to go out in a telephone company truck." He picked up the corn bread she put beside his bowl and bit into it.
"The FBI ordered a tap of my phone?"
"Yes."
"Does this happen often?"
"More than the average citizen would ever think, but not as often as the movies would have you believe."
Sarah sat down and played with a piece of corn bread. Her appetite was gone. "How long?"
"Since the day you saw the man in the alley. He wasn't a phone company man. He was with the Bureau."
"Great." She felt a sudden fury. Someone had invaded her privacy, had tapped into private conversations when she had no idea they were listening. The very idea made her mad enough to spit nails.
"Makes you feel violated, doesn't it?" Daniel was watching her with a spoon raised halfway to his lips.
"It does. In fact, it's bringing back memories of what I went through as a child."
He wanted to say something to comfort her, but there were no words, and he knew it. "I can't undo what's happened, Sarah, but I can try to make whoever is responsible for all of this pay."
"All afternoon I've been worried sick about you. I've been trying to figure out why this is happening. What's triggered this? Do you have any ideas?"
Daniel shook his head. "It is odd. You've been in Washington three years. You've had this business now for almost a year. Nothing has changed. You haven't applied for a loan or opened a new checking account— "
"How do you know all this?" Sarah was amazed.
"The FBI can access all of your financial records. And they did. Gottard gave me a rundown today while I was visiting him."
The sense of outrage was even greater. Sarah sent a venomous glance at Daniel, but she knew he wasn't to blame. "This country is going to hell in a handbasket when the government can find out everything about a citizen without his even knowing he's being examined."
Daniel put his spoon down and reached across the table for her hand. "It's a tough call. National security over personal rights. That's one that will be argued again and again. Right now, the Bureau has the power to pull any financial records. It's how we find money laundering, all types o
f white-collar crime, as well as drug conspiracies and God knows what else."
"You sound like you approve of it." She was shocked.
"Sometimes I do. But when it comes to you, because I know you, and I know what a decent person you are, I find it wrong."
He let that sink in awhile as he picked up the spoon and ate some of the spicy gumbo. As he ate, he carefully watched the play of Sarah's emotions. He could see she was offended, and angry, but she also understood. It wasn't an issue with an easy answer.
"Since my finances are clear, why does the FBI still think I'm hiding money, or doing whatever they think I'm doing?"
"It could be the casinos down on the coastline. There could be something funny going on there." Daniel had racked his brain trying to think of what might have triggered the interest in Sarah and her past. There wasn't a single thing, or at least, he didn't see it. Paul Gottard had originally given him the assignment to check Sarah out, but the director had not given Daniel all of the necessary information.
"What should we do?" Sarah saw the fatigue in the skin around Daniel's eyes. He was tired. Worn down and dog tired.
"Let's book some flights for Biloxi for day after tomorrow. But we'll have to go to a pay phone and use assumed names."
"Why?" Sarah didn't object. She just didn't understand.
"They can trace our moves if we use credit cards or our real names. I'd just as soon not have a tail while we're working along the coast. If there's a problem with those casinos, I'd like to try to figure it out and live to tell about it."
"Great." Sarah felt worse, if possible. Now she couldn't even go home using her own name. "Should I buy a trench coat and a hat?"
Daniel's fingers circled her wrist. "I prefer that chef suit. The material has a way of clinging to just the right places."
Flattered and embarrassed, Sarah bent to kiss him. "I don't know why I was lucky enough to drag you into my life, but I'm glad you're here."
"Me, too." He looked around the kitchen. "Is everything secure down here or do we need to stir and whip before Lucinda's party tomorrow?"
Fear Familiar Bundle Page 106
