Affairs of Steak

by Julie Hyzy

  He banged the pot down again, turned, and walked out.

  “Whoa, Ollie,” Bucky said. He high-fived Cyan. He knew better than to high-five me. As much as Virgil deserved it, I never derived pleasure taking someone to task like that. I wasn’t proud of myself, but I wasn’t ashamed, either. It had to be done. I did it effectively. Time to move on.

  I waited until my breathing slowed to ask Bucky, “How come you didn’t show me the article before you went after Virgil with it?”

  There was no remorse in his expression. “I found it this morning while you were busy. And,” he cocked an eyebrow, “if I would have told you first, you would have handled it yourself. What he did was wrong and I needed to take him down a peg.”

  “Feel good?”

  “I do.”

  I took a breath. “Thank you, Bucky. Thanks for sticking up for me. But next time, it would be better if you let me handle him.”

  He nodded acknowledgment but with a glint of triumph in his eye.

  The rest of the afternoon moved quickly. Too quickly. I was beginning to feel the way Sargeant had earlier—I didn’t want to leave tonight. It was safe here. If he and I stayed within the confines of the White House, that freed up more Secret Service agents to keep an eye on Milton.

  Virgil had returned, and not another word was said about his offense. Didn’t matter. The tension in the room was so thick you could taste it. Except for necessary conversation, we worked in silence. Four of us preparing a single dinner meant we were way overstaffed. “Why don’t you go home,” I said to Cyan. “You too, Bucky. Tomorrow is your day off, anyway; why not get an early start?”

  “If you’re sure,” he said. Cyan mumbled a similar comment.

  “Yeah, go ahead. We can handle this—right, Virgil?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Now there was resounding support.

  The minute they were gone he looked up at me. “Go ahead. You want to ream me out again. I can feel it. Let’s get it all out in the open.”

  I sliced a carrot into thirds. “I have no intention of reaming you out.”

  He barked a laugh.

  “I did want to ask you about the interview the other day. That came just as the news hit about the murders. How is it that they held that privileged information for so many days? From what I know of the media, if it bleeds, it leads. Your feature came out…how many days later?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why the delay?”

  Without looking at me, he pulled two onions from the nearby bin and sliced their ends off. “I didn’t tell them about that originally. It was part of their follow-up.”

  “They didn’t get the whole story while they were here?”

  He cut the onions in half. “It was a zoo here that day.”

  “I remember being surprised you got clearance for the cameras.”

  “I pulled a few strings.”

  “Sargeant?” I prompted. I seemed to recall that’s who he’d said had greased the wheels.

  “Yeah. He gave the okay.”

  “I’m surprised. I would have expected him to know better. How did you convince him?”

  “I didn’t have to. One of those social aides overheard and said he’d take care of it. He talked with Sargeant and got it all worked out for me.”

  I stopped what I was doing. “A social aide handled this?”

  “He cleared it through Sargeant. Said he had an in with him.”

  “What’s the social aide’s name?”

  Virgil sliced again. “I never caught it. He’s working here a lot these days nursing a broken wrist.” He shrugged. “Looked fine to me.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “Why? What’s wrong with that, now?”

  I didn’t want to say anything, but a thought ticked in my brain. Changing the subject back to my original question, I asked, “It’s just the two of us here. You can tell me. Why did the newspaper really call you for a follow-up? Was it about my involvement in the murder?”

  He sliced the onions hard. “No.”

  I waited.

  “They were going to pull the story. They told me there wasn’t enough interest right now. Too much going on behind the scenes at the White House that was newsworthy. The timing wouldn’t be right to do a feature on me.”

  Little pieces clicked into place. “By giving them that tidbit you made your story more relevant. Is that it?”

  He made eye contact. “I deserve more attention than you. I’m better at what I do.”

  “You may be right,” I said, “but I’m better at what I do.”

  He glared.

  I smiled. “Let’s not forget that.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THANK GOODNESS FOR UNEVENTFUL TRIPS home. Agent Scorroco dropped me off at my apartment, where Agent Rosenow waited at the door. She and I said hello to the elderly man at the desk—whose name I still didn’t know—and took the elevator to my apartment, where a second agent again stood guard. Mrs. Wentworth opened her door to greet us and ensure that all was well; Agent Rosenow said good night, and let me know that her relief would be on duty after three.

  And just like that, I was alone.

  After fixing myself a quick dinner and reading a few chapters in the latest mystery novel I’d picked up, I decided that tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow would dawn a new day. I hit the sack before ten, and fell into a dreamless sleep almost immediately.

  Banging at my door startled me awake. I glanced at my clock and saw that it was 2:30. I shouted that I was coming and hurried to the door.

  Gav stood there. “Your phone is turned off.”

  I rubbed my face. “I shut it off to charge and reboot. You’re supposed to do that sometimes.”

  Rosenow hovered behind him. There I was in my pajama pants and T-shirt—no bra—with half my face sleep-smashed and my hair in complete bedhead mode, standing before two agents who were dressed like it was the middle of the afternoon. My brain was still back in my room. “You came by because I didn’t answer?”

  “No. May I come in?”

  Rosenow averted her eyes in a way that made me uncomfortable. Not like she was eavesdropping on a private conversation. More like she knew what Gav was here for and she didn’t want me to know she knew.

  “What happened?”

  “Can I come in?” he said again.

  “Sorry, yes.” I held the door open. “I’m still half-asleep.”

  As he brushed past me, I ran my hands over my hair, hoping to make myself look presentable, knowing it was a useless endeavor. He wasn’t making eye contact.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said. “What is it?”

  Hands curled into fists, he glanced over to make sure I’d shut the door. Wide awake now, my heart was speed-beating, waiting to hear the bad news. From the look on Gav’s face, it could be nothing else.

  He finally made eye contact. Fear, anger, frustration stared back at me. Now my hands fisted. “Just tell me,” I said. “As long as you’re here and you’re okay, it can’t be that bad.”

  If I hadn’t known him so well, I might have missed the flash of softness in his eyes when I said that. It was gone before I could react.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  We were facing each other, six feet apart, in the center of my living room, the only light coming from my small hallway, where I’d flicked on the lights before answering the door. It provided enough for me to see the pain in Gav’s expression.

  “Please,” I said. “I can’t take this another minute.”

  “Milton is dead.”

  The room spun out of control as my focus lasered in on Gav. I reached out to grab the arm of my sofa, half to steady myself, half to check if this was real. The nubby fabric didn’t dissolve beneath my fingers.

  “How?” I asked, fighting for control of my emotions, my brain, logic.

  “Please, sit.”

  I did.

  Gav remained standing. He clasped his hands
together. “I have no words. I’m very sorry.”

  “How?” I asked again. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. It had to be. Milton had just—

  “Police originally thought it was a break-in gone bad. He was shot in the head from behind.”

  “Execution style? Just like Cawley?”

  Gav nodded. “His place had been ransacked, but it’s hard to determine if anything’s missing. The only reason Metro Police called us was because we’d put that alert on him.”

  “No one was watching his house?”

  Gav flinched. “He wasn’t being covered the way you and Sargeant are. Our agents were simply told to keep an eye on him. Once he was in for the night, their job was done. We didn’t know he was vulnerable.”

  I clenched my hands and stared down at them. “More vulnerable than you realized.”

  “What can I do for you, Ollie?”

  Looking up at him now would just cause me to go weak. I couldn’t risk it. I had to stay strong. I had to fight. I was in this now until the end, and there was no way I could let my guard down. Not for one minute. I couldn’t rely on Gav because he would make me feel safe. That was far too dangerous, because I was anything but.

  “Does Sargeant know?” I asked.

  “Tom is talking to him right now.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  Maybe he sensed what I was feeling, because he didn’t move closer. He wanted me to look up—I could feel it—but I just stared at my fingers, twisting themselves as though they belonged to someone else. “Ollie, please. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  I finally looked up. “There’s nothing.” I could feel heat building behind my eyes, but I blinked it back. “I need time. I need to be alone.”

  I could tell he wanted to say more—wanted to do more. But he respected my wish and left without another word. I heard the door click shut behind him.

  Would this be how it always was between us? Keeping each other at arm’s length when we were sad, or scared, or confused? I was as guilty as he was at avoiding closeness when I most feared exposing weaknesses. And I was feeling very weak right now.

  Milton. Poor Milton. He’d just been trying to help.

  I sat on the couch staring at nothing until it was time to get ready for work.

  Cyan came up behind me. “What’s wrong?”

  I was washing dishes when she’d come in. Pots, actually. We hadn’t used these for at least a week, and I thought they might have gathered dust. Keeping my hands plunged in the hot soapy water and scrubbing stainless steel pots that really didn’t need attention kept me busy while my brain worked overtime.

  She walked around to my left side, where she could see my face. One side of it, at least. “We have people to do our dishes. Why are you doing them? What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t answer right away. What could I say? That I was mourning a man I barely knew? That, despite the fact that I’d warned Milton—repeatedly—to back away from this investigation, I felt responsible for his death? It wasn’t a job at the White House he was after. Ultimately, all he’d wanted was respect. He’d wanted someone to care about him. Now that it was too late, he’d never know I had cared. “Rough night.”

  Cyan crossed her arms. “Spill it.”

  I turned the pot in the sink and ran the dishcloth along its smooth inside. “Can’t,” I said, “not yet.”

  She shifted her weight. “Whatever it is, Ollie, you know we’re behind you.”

  Who had been behind Milton? No one. “I know that.” I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. Part of me wished Bucky was here today instead of Cyan. Prickly and persnickety as he was, he understood when I needed to be left alone. “Means a lot to me.”

  She scrutinized me a moment longer before loosening her arms and backing off. “Just let me know what you need. Okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Virgil took care of the president’s meals with nary a peep. Whether it was because he read my mood or because of our prior conversation, I didn’t know. Nor did I care. As long as the kitchen ran smoothly, I could get through this day.

  Sargeant wasn’t in. Of course not. Would my calling to offer condolences make things worse for our sensitivity director? Would he see my gesture as an intrusion, or would he see it for what it was—a sharing of sadness? Though I barely knew Milton, he’d left his mark on my life.

  I argued back and forth with myself for hours until I realized why I had to make the call. Because that was who I was. I couldn’t worry about what Sargeant might read into it. I had to do it because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.

  “I’ll be in the China Room,” I said to Cyan.

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “Unless it’s an emergency,” I continued, “I’d appreciate being left alone.”

  “Understood.”

  I dialed Sargeant’s cell and waited three rings before he picked up. “I was wondering if I would hear from you,” he said.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Keeping busy. Making arrangements. Did you know Milton wanted to be cremated?”

  “Peter,” I began, “I’m very sorry—”

  “Milton prepared a list of what he wanted done if he ever…” Sargeant’s voice caught. “He’s had this planned for years. Can you believe it? Who spends time planning his own funeral?”

  A person who isn’t sure anyone knows him well enough to get it right, I thought. “I’m sure he’s lucky to have you in charge.”

  “As his closest living relative, I have no choice.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  Sargeant said nothing.

  I hesitated, not knowing what else to say. “If there’s anything you need…”

  “Yes, thank you,” he said. “Good-bye.”

  I closed my phone and headed back to work.

  “Ms. Paras?”

  I looked up to see Gav in the doorway. So deep was I in musings, in replaying scenarios in my mind while I washed dishes that didn’t need cleaning, that it took me a half-second to realize it was him. “Special Agent Gavin,” I said without inflection.

  Cyan and Virgil looked up. They must have read the expression on his face because they didn’t stop what they were doing. Didn’t even say hello.

  “I have an update for you.”

  I dried my pruned hands on a towel and followed him out of the kitchen. He headed for the Library, but I pointed to the China Room. “It’s bad enough already. Choice of room doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  He led the way in and shut the door behind us. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I called Sargeant. He’s making arrangements.” I didn’t want to talk about my feelings right now. “You mentioned an update?”

  “Ethan Nagy is coming up clean.”

  That wasn’t much of an update, that was more of a dead end. “That’s it?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  This would be the moment where two people in a new relationship would come together, embrace, profess their undying love, and decide to work together to solve all their problems. We remained apart.

  “I’m hurting, Gav,” I said, “more than you can imagine.”

  “It’s not your fault. Not even a little bit.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He started to argue but I stopped him. “Tell me more about Ethan Nagy. You’re sure he’s clear?”

  “We’re missing a piece of this puzzle. I can feel it.”

  “Do the police have any leads on Milton’s killer?”

  He didn’t have to answer. I could see it on his face. “Ollie—”

  I felt myself holding back, holding tight. Afraid. “Last night, after you left, I asked myself if you and I would always be like this. If we would always push each other away when times get tough. Because they do get tough for us. Maybe you and I are destined to be friends who support each other, but who can’t get past all the obstacles—the murders, conspiracies, and const
ant threat of danger—in our lives.”

  He stared at me with a look I couldn’t parse. “Tough times,” he repeated, “you’re right.” He studied the fireplace for a moment, and seemed to find an answer there before looking at me again. “I promise you, Ollie. We will talk. Soon. In the meantime, do not hesitate to call me. For anything.”

  Instead of heading directly back to the kitchen, I decided to take a detour to the East Wing. Sargeant had more to deal with than he should. Despite my personal feelings for the man, I felt the need to try to lend a hand with the one problem where I might do some good. My gut told me that Lynn the calligrapher was not the type to seek me out with an update on her sticky note–leaving guardian angel. If she had any news, she would wait for me to come talk to her.

  She was alone in the calligraphy office when I stopped by, hunched over her slant-top desk, light bright on the project in front of her. “Lynn?”

  She spun in her seat. “Ms. Paras,” she said, “are you looking for Emily? She’s at lunch right now.” As though noticing the office empty for the first time, she added, “I guess everyone else is, too.”

  “You don’t eat?”

  When she smiled, her pale face lit up. She was prettier than I’d realized. “I have a date,” she said. Her gaze skittered over to the room’s clock and as she continued, her hands came up to pat down her already poker-straight hair. “He’s coming by in about five minutes.”

  Another budding romance in the White House. “I won’t keep you, then. I was just wondering if you’d heard anything more about who might have left that sticky note on your lamp. You remember? The one about the guest list?”

  She remembered, all right. Her eyes grew big and her cheeks flushed deep pink. Looking like a tow-headed toddler who’d just grabbed another child’s toy, she shook her head. “No, nothing at all. Nothing.”

  Her discomfort spurred me to push. “Did you ask around, like we talked about?”

  “Yeah, I did. Sure. I mentioned it around to a lot of people. But nobody said anything that I thought would help.”

  “But you heard something? Even if you don’t think so, it might be more help than you imagine. Who did you talk to?”