“Protesters?” I whispered.
She nodded grimly, her jaw set. “You come to expect these things. Not everyone is happy with our government’s policies, and frustrated people are looking for someone to blame.”
“I’m glad no one got hurt,” I started, but then Ortiz turned to me, her gaze fierce—so much so that it made me back up a step.
“The police arrested four armed men in that crowd. If they’d decided to use their guns—”
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Candace said to Mrs. Jennings, guiding her to the studio. “I hope you won’t bruise where you were hit.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Jennings climed up the steps next to Candace. Ortiz and the other agents trailed.
Taj watched them go, then turned and gathered his things. “I’ve gotta go make a call.”
“I’ll see—” I never got the rest of my sentence out, he was gone that fast.
Okay.
It was quiet again. All the important people had gone up to the studio to fuss over Mrs. Jennings and Lidia.
Opportunity …
I crept upstairs. The studio room door was ajar. Murmuring voices rippled out. They’d be busy with Mrs. Jennings for a little while, but still, I probably didn’t have much time, and who knew when I’d get this chance again. I slipped into Serena and Kevin’s shared office.
There was no unusual equipment on or near Serena’s desk. Crouching, I examined the cables connected to her computer. There was one connected to the printer, another to the wall outlet. And all dusty, as if they’d been there a while, not recently replaced, as the date on her receipt would suggest.
But maybe she’d bought them for someone else. I checked Kevin’s computer. No new cables. Noiselessly, I padded over to Parker/Candace’s empty office, noting the studio room door. People were still talking. So far, so good.
I found the same thing in Candace’s office—dust-covered cables connecting the computer tower to a printer and scanner. Nothing new.
“Miss Jackson?”
I whipped around. There was Varon standing in the door. Didn’t they need him in the studio to fuss over Mrs. Jennings? Hold Candace’s train?
“Hi, Varon.”
He narrowed his dark eyes at me. “I don’t need to ask you—”
“What I’m doing here?” I said overly cheerful.
What do I say, what do I say, what do I say? I spied one of Candace’s crystal glasses, but I’d already used that excuse. Would the truth be better than a lie at this point? I took a deep breath.
“There were these cables on Serena’s expense report.”
He cocked a skeptical brow.
“And I was checking to see it if was legit.”
“You were conducting a forensic investigation?” he said doubtfully.
I shrugged. “Guess so. Believe it or not, Varon, that’s the truth.”
Varon sighed and shook his head. I don’t know if he believed me, but that was my story and I was sticking to it. If it stuck in his head, he might mention it to Candace. And if she gave any credence to my suspicions, she might give Serena a closer look, but I doubted it. More likely, she’d be convinced that I was up to no good. Nothing had been touched, so there really wasn’t anything she could do to me.
“Varon,” Candace called.
Motioning me out of the office, he waited for me to leave before closing the door and trotting back to the studio.
On my way down to the kitchen, I tried to work out what I’d discovered. The cables Serena bought could definitely have been used to tap into the internal systems on a car—but nothing indicated she was capable of that. Even if she somehow managed it, I didn’t think she’d want to do away with the First Lady. But I could see why she’d want Parker out of the way. With the biggest photo shoot in the magazine’s history coming up, Serena would have been top Chihuahua—if Candace hadn’t leap-frogged over her into the big chair. And it was obvious to everyone that she and Candace were not simpatico, although maybe she was playing all of us: after all, the best disguise for intelligence was to feign ignorance.
Before I could accuse her, I had to be sure.
Somewhat cleaned up, Mrs. Jennings was hustled out by the agents, probably back to the hotel. Once they were gone, the office settled down again. I retrieved my laptop and took advantage of the quiet to do a quick background search on Serena: education, jobs, hobbies. There was no indication that she had the know-how to break into a car’s computer system and take control.
Then why the cables?
I combed through the expense report I’d done for her, but nothing else seemed suspicious. Alone, buying new cables wasn’t enough evidence. I’d have to keep my eye on her.
In the meantime, I reluctantly dragged out Dean Harding’s package—and a notebook and pen. I hadn’t put much of a dent in my assignments—that was the Dean’s fault. He should’ve let me use my computer. Who hand-wrote papers anymore? I might as well be in ancient Rome, using papyrus and a feather quill.
Sighing, I closed the file and put my laptop aside. I had to get some work done. I made myself a latte and went back to the dreaded packet. After about two hours, I’d gotten a good chunk of math done and had just switched to World Civ when I saw Dante step into the foyer, stopping at Francesca’s desk with several envelopes. As she wordlessly signed for them, he glanced around and spied me. He waved and smiled, which I returned. I was glad to know he wasn’t upset over the Pantheon incident. After Francesca returned his clipboard, he strode over and dragged a chair next to me.
“Homework?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“American history?”
“Huh? Oh. No. World Civ.” I tried to focus on history, but all I could think of was, did ancient Romans have such beautiful faces? Maybe all those flawless statues were accurate and everyone was gorgeous.
“World history!” he scoffed.“Boring. Just wars and generals. American history is more interesting. I memorize everything importante about American history. Ask me, I will tell you anything.” He crossed his arms and smiled broadly at me. It was infectious.
“Okay,” I said, playing along. “Who was the fourth president?”
“James Madison.”
“Correct.”
Dante huffed at my surprised look. “Too easy. Ask another question.”
I Googled James Madison and scrolled through his biography. “What is he known for?”
“He is the father of the Constitution, good friend of Thomas Jefferson. His wife, Dolly, saved George Washington’s portrait from the British when they invaded and burned the White House. 1812.”
“History’s dead. Life is for the living.”
I was startled to see Taj standing there. When had he come in?
Dante’s jaw clenched. He didn’t even bother to turn around when he rebuffed Taj. “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
“Very impressive, Dante,” said Candace, coming over to us. Even in her crazy heels she moved like a stealth bomber. You thought you were safe and then—Boom!—there she was. “But you’ve made your delivery. I’m sure you have others…?”
That was her unsubtle nudge for Dante to leave. I searched her face. If she wanted to chat about my unauthorized visit to her office, she didn’t show it.
Dante stood. “I see you later, Bec.” He didn’t acknowledge Taj, whose mouth was quirked to one side.
“Okay.” As he headed toward the door, Candace went upstairs into her office. Taj headed toward the kitchen and I was relieved to be alone. Suddenly Dante stopped, came back, and whispered in my ear, “Maybe I meet Mrs. Jennings sometime?”
Inwardly, I winced. “Sorry, but I don’t know her schedule. It’s kept secret for her protection. I never know when or where she’s going to show up.”
“You find out, I can come. Anytime.”
Not him too!
First Taj with his subtle questions and now Dante with his sweet but disconcerting earnestness. People just didn’t walk
up to the First Lady like she was a celebrity. He wasn’t stupid—he had to know that. Maybe Candace’s CIA paranoia was getting to me, but their interest in Mrs. Jennings made me uneasy.
Sophie, Aldo, and Ortiz all came in.
“Bye, Bella,” said Dante.
“Bye, Dante.” Sophie waved to Dante as he walked out. Then she sat next to me and bent close. “From the way he looks at you, I would say Dante likes you. And then yesterday, after dancing with Taj, there seemed to be something between you two. We need to have a long overdue chat.” She smiled secretively. “I have some news of my own.”
That brightened my mood. A night out with Sophie would be a great opportunity to see what she knew about Serena or if she’d noticed anything strange. I’d have to be very careful of my words. Last thing I needed to add to my chaotic life was a ticked-off Candace. “Want to go somewhere tonight?”
She sat down next to me. “I know a great market with a stall where you can get secondhand designer bags. You have to dump that backpack for something better. Maybe a Fendi satchel.”
But I loved my backpack. It had served me well. Still, a new one might be a good idea.…
“Bec!” From upstairs, Candace’s voice went through my head like a nail. She leaned over the balcony. “Sophie: you, Kevin, and Serena are going over the final copy to make any last-minute changes. Now.” She flicked a finger at me. “Your assistance is required for something else.”
And just like that, and our girls’ night out–info session vanished like a puff of excess setting powder.
I made a sad face at Sophie. “Soon,” I said with a sigh.
She nodded and, with palms up like “What can you do?” headed upstairs with me behind her.
It turned out that my assistance was required to help Candace pack the First Lady’s blue silk suit and accessories to be brought back to the hotel. She called for a cab, not taking any chances of something happening to the clothing while walking it over. When we got to the hotel, she ordered me to stay in the taxi while she ran the suit up.
“Ristorante Divino,” she told the driver when she got back in. Looking at me, she said, “I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“Why?” I was a little confused—and leery—of her growing familiarity. And generosity.
“You’ve been working hard. You need a little break.”
I wasn’t buying it. My look may have suggested as much, because she added, “We can have some girl time. Chat, that sort of thing.”
Girl time? With Candace? Was the Ice Queen finally melting?
“Uh, sure.” She probably got around to talking with Varon.
The car rolled to a stop in front of a modern bistro, sleek and shiny. The maître d’ greeted Candace warmly and ushered us to a quiet table near a back booth, away from the kitchen. Perfect place for an ambush, which I was sure this was, and I was the ambushee.
I fidgeted with my napkin, nervously expecting her to say my flight was already booked. The waiter bowed smartly and backed away. When Candace looked at me, there was an earnestness about her that was unnerving. It didn’t help when I spied Ortiz at the bar—drinking coffee. I was sure that her presence wasn’t a coincidence.
“The house chardonnay for me, and an acqua frizzante for my friend,” she said to the waiter as he laid menus by our places. “Or would you prefer a Coke?”
Friend?
Whatever. I guessed a glass of wine was out of the question. It was probably for the best, although I thought I understood now what Mom meant when she said she could really use a drink.
“No, water’s fine.” We sat silently until the drinks arrived. Candace took a sip from her goblet, filled with a golden wine. Another waiter stopped by, putting down a dish of baby artichokes. The scent of garlic and crushed herbs made my mouth water. Under Candace’s watchful eye, I took one and popped it into my mouth. She chose that moment to ask me a question.
“I know I’ve asked before, but this latest incident makes it so that we have to be extra vigilant. Has anyone asked you details about the First Lady?”
Who hadn’t been asking? I chewed, swallowed, and cleared my throat.
“Taj wanted to take pictures of the outfit she’s wearing tomorrow.” That was true and didn’t seem harmful in any way. I’d keep the part about him touching the suit to myself. It was only two fingers anyway.
“And what did you tell him?”
I tilted my head. “I said no. He can take some when she’s in the square. You and the Secret Service squad can keep an eye on him and everyone else.”
Candace smiled. “Good. And Dante?”
I didn’t want to ruin Dante’s life over something that might be nothing, but I wasn’t going to stop being mostly honest. “Like everyone else, he wants to meet the First Lady.”
That was true, too—for lots of people. Let Candace and the Secret Service make of it what they would. It was their job to figure out if Dante was a threat.
Candace sighed, taking a big sip of her wine. “It’s a nightmare trying to keep her movements and whereabouts quiet. She draws attention everywhere she goes, and she doesn’t like to be crowded by bodyguards or have her movements restricted. We’re hoping to get to the Vatican early tomorrow. The cardinals and the pope are more private and conservative about the news they share. I’m hoping we can be in and out of St. Peter’s Square without much interference from the crowds.” Candace chose an artichoke and chewed it slowly.
“Here’s the deal,” she said after swallowing. “There are extremists out there who threaten political figures or their families. Most of them are harmless. It’s the few that are totally serious and might follow through that we have to find before anything happens. It’s standard procedure for us to ask if anyone has been saying anything against the president or First Lady, either at the office, around Rome, or wherever you’ve been.”
I shook my head vehemently. “No, not at all. I haven’t heard anything bad or even critical about Mrs. Jennings or the president.”
Candace leaned over, her gaze penetrating. “If you hear anything—and I mean anything, from anyone—that could be seen as a threat, no matter how silly it may seem, I want you to tell me. Or one of the Secret Service people if I’m not around. I’ll make sure you have all the agents’ numbers.”
I sat up straighter. “Is something going on?” Candace seemed more intense than usual.
Our food arrived: a flaky fish surrounded by baby plum tomatoes, zucchini, olive oil, and herbs for her; lobster ravioli for me. She waited until the waiter left before she leaned forward to say softly, “Some anti-American groups have been more active on the Internet lately. And of course, there was the attack at the prime minister’s, harmless as it may have seemed.”
She paused to taste her food. I stuffed a ravioli into my mouth while I had the chance. She chewed carefully and swallowed, taking a small sip of wine before continuing.
“Can I depend on you?”
Now that was a phrase that wasn’t used too often around me. And even though it was coming from Candace—or maybe especially since it was coming from Candace—it took me aback. No one ever asked me to do anything important like they needed or wanted my help.
She’s seen what you can do, and she respects that. Is that so hard to believe?
It was. But I did.
She didn’t say it, but I knew that she expected me to rat out Dante or Taj if they asked for too much. I’d always questioned authority, gone against the system. I never liked people telling me what I had to do. But I really liked Mrs. Jennings and felt protective of Parker. I’d do what I could to keep them both safe.
I had to ask myself where Taj and Dante fit: friends or possible foes? Their actions would determine that, not me.
“Absolutely,” I said. And as on that long-ago day when I had that heart-to-heart with Parker, I meant it. “I promise.”
TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL
Modesty is the best policy for job interviews, first dates, and business meet
ings. Other than that, all bets are off. Show your wild side!
22
It was Ortiz.
Ortiz had searched my room.
And I was surprised at how unaffected I was by the discovery. Maybe it was because I had a better handle on what was going on now. But it did explain a few things—like why she opened up about the car possibly being tampered with. Maybe she felt guilty for constantly invading my privacy. She was only doing her job; I saw that now, and I’d make it a point to be nicer to her.
I’d have a good chance at St. Peter’s. We were heading over to do Mrs. Jennings’s last off-site shoot. I finished getting dressed and went out to meet Candace in the sitting room.
“You can’t wear that,” she said, examining my outfit with an über-critical eye.
I looked at the dress I picked out. It fell a little below my knee, so not too short, and the boat neckline was beyond modest. My legs were bare, but it was warm and no one wore pantyhose anymore except old ladies and British royalty.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It doesn’t have sleeves and it’s too casual. We’re going to be in view of the Vatican with Theresa Jennings, not picnicking on the back of Romeo’s Vespa. We’re going to be seen by the entire world.”
“It’s Dante, not Romeo,” I corrected.
“He’s not important,” she said. “The rules for dressing were outlined in the e-mail I sent out yesterday.”
How could I forget? No bullet points, just paragraphs and paragraphs. I had no time to read through all of it; I was surprised she had time to write it.
“I went to the Vatican City Web site and checked the dress code—”
“You are representing Edge and are part of the First Lady’s entourage.” She fixed me with a stare. “Change.”
Sighing, I went back to my room. Sleeves … not as casual …
I found a pair of simple black pants. Everyone wore them, and mine showed not so much as a centimeter of leg. Those, along with a silk tee and jacket, would have to work because I had nothing else that would be considered appropriate. All of me would be covered up. Candace would have to deal with bare toes—I wasn’t meeting the pope, so my black studded sandals stayed. When I came back into the room, she nodded with approval.
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