“Does he have to know about any of this?”
“Suzie and Steve—yes. I’ll want to suggest that you’re present when we take a look at the DVD of that day’s filming. For whatever good that will do. And if you do talk with them, he’ll want to know if they said or did anything you consider unusual.”
“So they are suspects!”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Okay. Sorry,” I said. But my mind was racing.
“I have a few other things I want you to take a look at.”
“Like what?”
“It’ll wait. I’ll call you.”
Effectively dismissed, I hung up, but I stood outside, leaning on the balcony’s rail, even though it was wet and the chill seeped up through my forearms, making me shiver. When we’d first started our relationship, Tom and I both knew that our jobs—no, our careers—could cause strain. Emotional relationships were always fraught with peril, but his being a Secret Service agent, sworn to protect the president and his family above all else, made this one so much harder. I understood that there were things he couldn’t tell me. I had no problem with that. I also understood the pressures he was under. Craig and I had been friends before the first time I’d inadvertently gotten involved in Secret Service matters. Since then he had cooled toward me, and avoided me when he could. I suppose he didn’t believe I was worth his time, and I further supposed that Jack Brewster’s antagonistic bent during my intake questioning had more to do with Craig’s influence than with Jack’s personal impressions.
The street below was quiet except for the occasional car slicing through puddles, causing a sad sound that made me want to retreat into the warmth of my apartment—to where my mom was probably making something for us to eat, and where Nana was devouring the newspaper in my absence, pretending that she wasn’t hunting for mention of my role in this White House drama.
At least Tom had said he’d take care of Suzie and Steve. Still on the balcony, now ducking closer to the building to avoid the heavier rainfall, I dialed them back and let them know that the Secret Service had been alerted. “They better do something,” Steve said with uncharacteristic roughness. “They got us into this mess.”
I wanted to argue that it hadn’t been the Secret Service’s fault—but to what end?
“Where do you want to meet?” Steve asked as I was about to say good-bye.
“Excuse me?”
“We need to talk,” he said. In the background, I heard Suzie reiterate his statement.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
Suzie must have been listening in, because she grabbed the phone and started in on me. “Please, Ollie. You know we only agreed to come film at the White House because you wanted us to. We did this as a favor to you.”
That wasn’t how I remembered it. “I thought your production team wanted to use this for ratings week.”
“No,” she said, chastising now. “We did this because we knew it was important to you.”
It hadn’t been important to me in the least. I’d done it as a favor to them. Correction: The White House had agreed to the favor. I’d been left out of this decision entirely. Although they were indeed friends of mine, I’d been against them being in the kitchen while we were preparing a dinner for actual White House guests. I would have preferred to stage a fake dinner and treat the staff to whatever delicacies we came up with. “Actually, Suzie,” I began, but I was interrupted by a beep on the line. I took a look at the number. Tom. “I better let you go,” I said in a hurry to hang up.
“Please,” she said. “We really do need to talk.”
“Later,” I said. “I’ll call you back.”
“Please,” she said again. “But we have to meet in person. Just in case others are listening in.”
“I highly doubt anyone is tapping your line.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “But Steve and I will be more comfortable in person.”
I heard another beep. I wanted to switch over to talk with Tom. Now.
“Okay, fine. But I really need to get going.”
“Hang on.”
Steve took the phone. “We can’t get into this over open lines.”
“Got it,” I said, my exasperation evident. “But I can’t . . .” I took a look at my handset and realized Tom was no longer waiting for me to pick up. I bit my lip in anger and hoped he would leave a message.
“Let’s meet later,” Steve said.
Tom had said that there was no law keeping me from talking with friends. And right now there was no longer any need to get off the phone quickly. I sighed. “Sure. Where and when? I know my mom and nana will be excited to meet real television personalities.”
After a beat of silence, he said, “Just you, Ollie. Okay? Maybe we can meet your family another time.”
This was starting to feel a little bit strange. Steve persisted. “How about tonight? Do you think these camera crews will be gone by then?”
I heard Suzie in the background. “A police car just pulled up.”
“What do they want?” Steve asked her.
“How should I know?”
“Are they coming for us?”
“Steve,” I said, “you sound busy. How about I let you go?”
The balcony door opened behind me. “Are you okay out there?” Mom asked. She held the receiver of my apartment phone.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Tom’s on the line.” She held out the receiver and looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Maybe you should take this one.”
Steve was pleading in my ear. “Ollie, no. Don’t hang up.”
“I really have to—”
“The police are making them leave!” I heard Suzie say.
“But are the police coming for us?” Steve’s obvious tension made me wonder what he was so worried about.
My mom gave me one of those looks only moms can give and shook the phone at me. “He’s waiting.”
I tried again. “Steve, let me give you a call back in—”
“This is great,” he said. “They’re all taking off.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “The cops are gone, too. Good. We’ll be able to make it to the studio after all. Thanks so much, Ollie.”
“I really didn’t—”
“Let’s make her dinner tonight,” Suzie said in the background. “Have her come to the studio.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “The studio will be better than here.” Sounding a bit distracted, he added, “Tonight, you’re our guest. We’ll have a chance to chat in real privacy.”
“Okay, fine,” I answered hastily, trying to pantomime my frustration to my mom. “You have my e-mail, right? Just send me the address and a time. I really have to go now.”
“Sure thing, Ollie. And thanks again for all your help.”
I said good-bye quickly and grabbed the apartment phone while snapping my cell shut. “Sorry,” I mouthed.
My mom smiled and headed back in, leaving me on the cold balcony once again. “Tom?” I asked. “You still there? I was on another call with Suzie and Steve.”
“That was quick. You sure didn’t waste time getting in touch with them.”
And just like that, his tone annoyed me. I faced the glass doors that looked into my living room. My mom and nana were watching me, turning away when I caught them. I scratched at my head and was surprised when my hand came away wet. I’d been out here in the damp morning longer than I thought.
“Like you said,” I answered my tone sing-song, “there’s no law stopping me from having conversations with my friends.”
He made a noise—acknowledging the jab. “Are you going to be home later? Say, around eight thirty, nine tonight?”
I thought about Suzie and Steve’s offer to make me dinner. I should be home by eight-ish. “I’ll be here.”
“Craig wants you to look at a few things.” The dismissive tone was back. “I’ll stop by then.”
“You remember my mom and nana are still here?”
He blew out a breath. “I forgot.”
I started to appreciate how much pressure he was under. “They’ll give us privacy if we need it.”
“Fair enough.” He sounded all-too-eager to get me off the phone. “See you then.”
When I reentered the apartment Nana shook her head. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“Thanks.”
Mom wore one of her worried looks. “What’s up with Tom?”
“He’s stopping by later.”
At that they both brightened. I held up my hands. “Just official business,” I said, and just like that, their cheer dissipated. “Sorry.”
“Oh, Ollie,” Mom said. “We just want you to be happy.”
“Then let’s get out today,” I said, longing for something—anything—to get my mind off this mess. “I’d like to take you to the National Mall.” Turning, I cast a glance outside at the rain. “Of course, it’s not a very good day for that, is it?”
“It’s going to clear up by noon,” Mom said.
“It said that in the newspaper?”
“Nope,” she said with a grin. “I checked the forecast online.”
I touched base with Cyan, then Bucky. Neither had heard anything more than I had, but my second-in-command was greatly agitated.
I searched for something calming to say. “It’s just a matter of time before our staff is vindicated.”
Through the phone’s receiver I heard a rhythmic click-clack and I realized that Bucky was pacing across what sounded like a tile floor. At the same moment, I realized I’d been pacing as well. Weren’t we a nervous bunch?
Click-clack, click-clack. “How can you stay so calm?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell him that I wasn’t calm. That every moment of every day was agony until the word came down that we’d be allowed back into the kitchen. I couldn’t tell him that having my mom and nana here was both a blessing and a burden. If they weren’t here, maybe there would be something I could do to hasten the process along.
I thought about my promise to Tom and reconsidered that. Maybe having my family close by right now was the best thing I could ask for. They kept me out of trouble.
“I’m calm because I believe in our team,” I finally said.
“Do you? Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
“When have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?”
That got a laugh out of him, and I pounced on the break in the tension.
“Bucky, you know what a tight ship we run.”
“But what if someone set us up? What if this is a conspiracy?” He sucked in an audible breath. “We all know what the press can do to us. Won’t matter whether it’s really our fault. People are just too happy to watch other people fail.” There was validity in his words. “Every day people are uncovering dirt about each other. Even if none of it is true.”
He had a point. How many times had I received forwarded e-mails bashing a political figure, only to find out that the so-called “breaking story” held no truth whatsoever? Occasionally these stories were rescinded, but after the damage was done. As I gripped the phone, I vowed never to forward another negative-spirited e-mail again.
I needed to convince Bucky that everything would be better soon. If I could make him believe that we’d come out on top, maybe through cosmic energy and all-is-right-with-the-world equality, it would become so.
“I can’t stand all this waiting,” he said. The rhythmic pacing started again.
“Neither can I, but there isn’t a lot we can do right now. It’s not like they’re giving us access to the kitchen.”
“Oh my God,” he said, his voice panicked again. “Minkus’s dossier.”
“What about it?”
“You know we had it—we had all the guests’ dietary dossiers on file before the dinner.”
“So?”
“I—” He hesitated. “Remember that salad dressing we used?”
I started to get a crawling feeling in my stomach. “The one you came up with the day before the dinner?”
I heard Bucky swallow. “I created that one at home. I thought it would be a good idea to put a little extra effort . . .” He began to hyperventilate.
“I’m not understanding the problem,” I said. “Bucky. Talk to me. Was there something in the food that—”
“I have his dossier,” he said. “Minkus’s dossier. I sent the file to myself at home so I would have all his dietary needs on hand. Here.”
“You kept a list of his dietary preferences,” I said slowly, to clarify.
“Yes, but—”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that. Unless he had an allergy and you didn’t—”
“Don’t you understand? The fact that I sent this information to
my home computer
will be suspect. They’re going to ask me why.”
I did understand. But I couldn’t react to the alarm I felt. “And you have a perfectly valid answer.” I took a deep breath and tried again. “We all take information home. I’ve done that myself.”
“But have you ever had a guest die before?”
I knew better than to answer. Bucky’s voice had notched up a few octaves and he sounded on the brink of a breakdown.
He made an incoherent sound. “They’re going to investigate and find this. They’re going to put me in a room and interrogate me. What’s going to happen? My career is ruined.”
“Bucky.” I said his name sharply. “Is it just Minkus’s dietary restrictions, or do you have the whole file?”
Misery wrung out every word. “The whole file.”
While we were never granted access to classified information, we occasionally were given guests’ entire files, rather than just a list of their dietary needs. It came in handy to know, for instance, if a guest spent years in South America, or Russia, or Japan. Little tidbits helped us design creative and enjoyable menus.
The first thing that came to mind was that Bucky was right. Pretty soon someone would notice that Minkus’s information had been sent from our kitchen to Bucky’s home. The second thing that came to mind was that I wanted a look at that file. Although we worked hard to never make even the slightest mistake, I wanted a closer look at the information we’d been provided. Having it on Bucky’s computer was too tempting to pass up. I was sure we hadn’t missed anything, but it would feel very good to reassure ourselves.