Eggsecutive Orders (16 page)

He waited a beat. “So, what’s up?”

Was it my imagination, or was there a lilt of impatience in his tone? “The White House Egg Roll,” I began.

“We’ve been over that.”

“No,” I said carefully. “You said you expected they would cancel it. But they can’t.”

“They ‘can’t’?”

“You know what I mean.” I grimaced at the pleading tone in my voice. “I think it’s a mistake to cancel the Egg Roll.”

“Oh you do?”

“Yes I do,” I said, getting my back up. “Who can I talk to about it?”

“I’ll look into it for you.”

“No, Tom,” I said, regaining a little composure. “You’re responsible for my actions, remember?” Without waiting for him to answer, I pressed on. “That means that you have a conflict of interest. You believe keeping me out of the kitchen will keep me out of trouble. Or,” I added, with a smidge of sarcasm, “your perception of trouble. I think it makes more sense for me to talk with someone else about this. Do you have Craig’s cell phone number handy?”

“You would go over my head?”

I wouldn’t really, but I was desperate and I didn’t want him to call my bluff. Even though we occasionally got angry with one another, we knew our limits. Calling Craig would push things and I truly didn’t want to cause irreparable damage to our relationship. Even if this
was
turning into my career versus his career. “Maybe Craig isn’t my best option. How about if I talk with Paul Vasquez?”

Seconds ticked by without my being able to read his mood. Why were so many of our conversations so antagonistic lately?

“That might be a good idea,” he finally answered and I sensed conciliation in his words. “I do understand how important this is for you.”

“I know you do, and I also know you’re in a tough position.”

We were both silent for a long moment.

“I’m probably less likely to get into trouble if I’m at work,” I said.

He made a noise that might have been a laugh. “You may be right.” Shifting gears, he asked, “Anything else new?”

I debated telling him about Bucky having the Minkus file on his home computer, but decided to hold that back for now. No need to get Bucky into trouble unnecessarily. “I’m planning to go over every step of dinner preparations. I’ll make notes of anything that might be helpful to you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Thanks for helping out with Suzie and Steve earlier. They’re having me over for dinner tonight to thank me for getting the news hounds off their front lawn.”

“Nice. I do all the work, you get the reward.”

“Want to come with?”

“Some other time.” He made a sound—like he was sucking his bottom lip. “Until this investigation is complete, it’s a good idea if you and I aren’t seen out together.”

That stung, too. Even more than the Internet postings had. “I guess you’re right.”

“Try not to talk about the case with your SizzleMaster friends, okay?”

“Pretty hard to do after reporters showed up on their front lawn.”

He was silent again. “Just try to keep a low profile.”

“I did just think of something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I know we’re under suspicion, and so are Suzie and Steve. But what about the other guests at dinner that night? I mean, Carl Minkus’s second-in-command sure stands to gain now that his boss is dead. And what about Alicia Parker? Or her husband? They were there, too.”

Tom’s long, deep breath wasn’t quite as annoyed-sounding as I’d expected it to be. “First off, people don’t just go killing one another to get job promotions. At least not usually. Sure, you’ll be able to quote some news story where that happened, but in the real world, most people just don’t operate that way.”

“What about—”

“Alicia Parker?” He laughed. “She’s too big for even you to touch, Ollie. Alicia Parker is a cabinet member. I’m sure there are people looking into her background, but this is one hot wire you don’t want to even get near. Trust me.”

He was right about that. I’d only met Secretary Parker in passing once or twice, although I’d seen her interviewed on TV fairly often. She came across as strong-minded, honest, and brave. “Yeah,” I agreed. “And anyway, she strikes me as the type who—if she wanted you dead—would just come straight up and shoot you. I don’t see her sneaking poison into an eggplant entrée.”

“Keep in mind, Ollie,” Tom said, and the warning was back in his tone, “Minkus might have died of natural causes.”

“Natural causes could also mean a food allergy,” I said. “And if the medical examiner proves that, then I’m out of a job for sure.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the gentleness in his tone catching me off-guard. “With this new directive from Craig, I haven’t been very supportive recently, have I?”

“You have,” I said, remembering that he picked up my family from the airport and stood by me while I was being interrogated. “I shouldn’t be so difficult. You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“I am. And I hope you can understand that.”

“I do,” I said. And I did. Mostly.

 

 

My mom cornered me when I got off the phone to let me know that Mrs. Wentworth and Stanley had invited us out to dinner. I declined because of my meeting with Bucky and dinner plans with Suzie and Steve. Mom and Nana had, however, jumped at the chance to see more of the area, and I was glad. Knowing they were in good hands with my neighbors allowed me to feel a little less guilty leaving them.

I called Paul on the way. Although I was lucky enough to get to speak with him directly, he was running late for a meeting. When I pressed him about letting us back into the kitchen, he hedged. But that was better than saying no. Plus, they hadn’t yet canceled the Egg Roll. I took that as a positive even as I got him to promise to get back to me. But when I hung up, I realized he hadn’t said by when.

Bucky’s Bethesda home surprised me. I’d never been inside, and except for the recent trip in the limousine when the Guzy brothers dropped him off, I’d never even known exactly where he lived. This was a cheerful little neighborhood, with lots of shiny cars outside tidy front lawns. Parallel parking on residential streets was never difficult for a native Chicagoan, and I tucked my little coupe into a tight spot between two SUVs.

Although this was an old neighborhood, every town house on this street and the next sparkled like new. I’d heard that this section had undergone major renovations in the past decade. I could see the allure of living here. The trees were mature, the homes well-tended.

Bucky met me at the door, wearing a wide cotton apron tied over pale legs. It gave him the appearance of not wearing any pants, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned around to gesture me in and I saw his blue cutoff shorts. “It’s warm in here, sorry,” he said. “I’m working on a new quiche. Just drop your jacket anywhere.”

Sniffing the savory air, I shut the front door and followed him through the pristine living room toward the kitchen. My stomach growled as I picked up the scent of baking cheese. “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Eleven—no, twelve years,” he said, raising his voice so I could hear him. Whatever he was concocting in the kitchen must have needed his immediate attention, because I heard him clanking things in and out of the oven, even as I peeled off my jacket and draped it over the back of a purple couch. I ran my hand along its back pillow. Suede. Not at all what I would have imagined in Bucky’s home. “You should have seen this place back then.” He peeked his head around the corner. “Took a lot of work to get it to where it is now.”

“It’s gorgeous.” I wanted to ask if he lived alone, but I held my tongue. Bucky and I had never been friends in the sense that we discussed personal lives, and my being here suddenly seemed like an intrusion.

The living room was painted ecru, with matching crown molding and bare maple floors that shone, but didn’t squeak. Lights were on everywhere and I stopped on my way to the kitchen to admire some black-and-white photographs on the dining room wall. The shots had an Ansel Adams look to them, but the photographer’s name was listed as “B. Fields.”

“Did you do all the remodeling yourself?”

“With the hours we work at the White House? Are you kidding?” Back out of sight again, his voice was muffled. “I did do a lot, though. It’s invigorating.”

I joined him in the kitchen. What must have once been a tiny galley kitchen had been updated and expanded into a huge space that made me salivate. With gleaming pots hanging over a center island, not one, but two built-in stovetops, and two double ovens, this was the sort of kitchen I hoped to have in my own home some day. While my apartment’s small space was serviceable for my personal needs, I knew that if I ever settled down somewhere permanent, my kitchen would look just like this.

“Wow,” I said. “This is amazing.”

“We like it.”

Time to bite the bullet. “We?” I asked. “I didn’t know you were married. Are you?”

He gave a small smile. “Not yet.”

“Kids?”

This time he fixed me with a glare, though not an unfriendly one. “Do I really seem like the type who would have kids?”

“Whatever you’re making smells wonderful,” I said to change the subject.

“Good. I know we’re not going back to the White House anytime soon, and I don’t want to get rusty.”

“Bucky,” I said sincerely, “I doubt that could ever happen.”

He wiped his hands on a towel and removed his apron. “There. Everything’s good for now.” He set a timer. “Let’s go into the living room and take a look at that dossier.”

By the time the little clock dinged, we’d come up with almost nothing, dietary-wise, that we couldn’t have recited from memory.

Bucky pulled out a gently browned spinach quiche.

“Looks great,” I said, coming close to breathe in the aroma. “Smells wonderful, too.”

“Want some?” he asked.

“I’d love to, but I have dinner plans.”

His reaction was small: a slight drop of his shoulders, the quick twist of his mouth.

“But boy, it really does smell good,” I amended. “Maybe just a small piece?”

“Sure,” he said without reacting. But when he sliced a generous portion onto a piece of black and gold rimmed china and placed it in front of me, his eyes were bright with anticipation. “Let me know what you think.”

“Fancy plate,” I said.

“Why save the good stuff for special occasions?”

I forked a piece of the pie-shaped slice and pronounced it heavenly. If I hadn’t had plans to meet with Suzie and Steve in the next hour, I would have asked for seconds—even after this generous first serving. The quiche was so good, in fact, it was all I could do not to request a sample to take home to share with Mom and Nana. “You’ll have to give me this recipe,” I said.

“Already on our books.” He smiled, and it dawned on me what an unusual sight that was. “I plan to include it . . .” Stopping himself, the smile faded. “I should say, I
planned
to include it in the next set of samplings for Mrs. Campbell to taste.”

I patted his hand. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Well, that’s just another reason why we need to work hard at getting back into the kitchen. I don’t see anything in Minkus’s dietary profile that could have had such disastrous consequences, do you?”

Bucky had started to clean up the area and I marveled, again, at how pristine the place was. At the White House, when we were in the midst of preparing a state dinner, or other big event, the kitchen got a little cluttered. Although we had help and we cleaned up as we worked—there really was no way around that—at home I was not quite so fastidious. Bucky, however, was.

“You know,” I said, “we read over the rest of his dossier but we really didn’t digest it.”

He half turned. “What do you mean?”

“Here, for instance.” I pointed. “Minkus was appointed to his position during the prior administration. He worked hard to make a name for himself as a terrorist fighter. But he also held a position as a counterintelligence liaison to China.”

“So?”

“So isn’t that a little weird? Kind of a strange combination, I think.”

Bucky didn’t seem as interested in my musings as he was in putting his quiche away. “Who appointed him to the liaison position?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Obviously there’s a lot in his file we wouldn’t have access to. They only provided us this top-line information. Stuff that anyone could probably find in an Internet search, if they knew what they were looking for.”

“Hmph,” Bucky said, bustling around the kitchen as I pored through the file.

I mused aloud. “And what about Phil Cooper?”

“That’s the guy who reported to Minkus, right? Another security official.”

I pointed again, but Bucky just worked around me. “Exactly. Cooper worked for Minkus for about two years. It doesn’t say much here about him, except to mention that he’s part of Minkus’s staff.”