Chapter 3

CHAPTER3

Griffin glanced discreetly around the corner before exiting the curator’s office. The center hall of the White House basement level was empty except for two ushers setting up the folding screens that would keep the visitors from wandering where they shouldn’t once the mansion opened up to guided tours.

“Dude, she isn’t likely to come down here before noon,” Adam Lockett said from beside him. “You don’t need to be on the lookout.”

They walked the ten yards down the hall to the office of the White House Secret Service Director, Steve Worcester, and stepped into the reception area.

“I’m not looking for anyone,” Griffin told his friend. “Except a thief. And now, it seems, a White House curator who is AWOL.”

Adam shot him a speaking look, but wisely let the subject drop. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that you found those paintings two nights ago and our curator hasn’t shown up for work since?”

“You know as well as I do that in our business, there’s no such thing as a coincidence.” He acknowledged the director’s secretary with a vague smile.

A flush crept up her neck to her cheeks in response. The young woman always reacted that way at the sight of Griffin. Hell, most women did. His sister jokingly referred to women’s reactions to him as the “Dimple Phenomenon.”

Griffin sighed and continued their conversation. “With the missing curator, it looks like I’ll be in town longer than I thought. Can I bunk in my old room at the townhouse?”

Adam shook his head sheepishly. “Dawson’s been squatting there for the past three months. Much as Ben and I’d rather shoot hoops with you, the guy’s pretty low right now, and we can’t kick him out.”

“Dawson? Why isn’t he living with his wife and three kids?” Griffin asked, even though he could guess what Adam’s answer would be.

“Because they are living with an orthodontist in Rockville. One with normal working hours who doesn’t miss every major holiday. Or bring home a gun.”

The two men shared an empathetic look. Both had witnessed the toll a career in the Secret Service had on family life. Griffin would never subject a woman to such an unstable relationship. Even with that mythical thing called love, it was never enough. Thankfully his career provided all the fulfillment he needed.

Griffin rapped on the director’s open door. Both men made their way into his office just as Director Worcester was slamming down the phone.

“The admiral—excuse me, chief usher—will see us in his office in five minutes,” the director said with a grimace.

An inherent power struggle between the Secret Service and the usher’s office had always existed. But tensions had ratcheted up a notch with an admiral occupying the chief usher post. Clearly, it rankled the director to have play the subordinate.

“Still no word from the curator?”

Griffin shook his head. “According to his secretary, he usually doesn’t wander in until well after nine.” All three men glanced at their watches. It was nine-twenty.

“Lockett, sit outside his office,” the director ordered as he stood up and pulled on his suit jacket. “If there’s no sign of him by nine-thirty, buddy up and go check out his residence. I want to know where this guy is.”

“Got it, boss.” Adam slapped Griffin on the shoulder. “Welcome back to the Big Show, Griff. Try not to break any more hearts than usual while you’re here.”

Griffin shot his friend a menacing look. “When you’re done with your comedy routine, maybe you can email with those sniper profiles I asked you about?”

“I still don’t think anyone else besides me could have made that shot, but I’ll humor you and send you a list anyway,” Adam joked as he headed back down the hall.

The director and Griffin went in the opposite direction, taking the stairs up two flights to the chief usher’s private office in the old clock room on the mezzanine level. The admiral was waiting for them at the top of the stairs.

“We just received a call from the Falls Church Police Department,” he said without preamble. “They’ve found our curator.”

One look at the admiral’s face told them everything.

“How did he die?” Griffin asked as they followed him into his office.

“Wes hung himself.” The admiral gestured for them to take a seat at the conference table. Director Worcester was already on his cell phone to Adam instructing him to coordinate with the police.

“Or at least it appears that way to the detectives. His housekeeper found him,” the admiral continued, his expression pensive. “Wes was a pleasant guy. You wouldn’t know from interacting with him that he was troubled. Or that he would resort to taking his life.”

“Are we sure it was suicide?” Griffin asked. “Did he leave a note?”

The admiral studied Griffin for a long moment and then shook his head. “I’m not sure if part of me wishes it was or it wasn’t.” He scrubbed a hand down his face in frustration. “So now we’ve got a dead curator and three paintings stolen directly from their frames in this house.”

“Three that we know of,” Griffin added.

The admiral groaned. “Pretty ballsy of someone to take them from right under our noses.”

“‘Ballsy’ is this group’s middle name,” Griffin said as the director ended his call. “They’re also not afraid to leave a few bodies lying around.”

“So, do we assume that Wes was in on it?” the admiral asked. “That would explain how the paintings got switched without anyone noticing.”

“It all sounds too neat and easy,” Director Worcester said. “I’d like to go over every piece of art in this house and figure out if anything else is missing. Obviously, the curator would have been a big help in that area, but now I don’t want to involve anyone in that office.”

“Agreed. I’ve called in a team from the Smithsonian who specializes in this type of thing. I’ll put the word out that we’re conducting an audit of all White House property beginning with the artwork,” the admiral explained. “They’ll let me know privately whether we have any more forgeries in our midst. There will be questions from the media about the curator’s death, but I want to keep the thefts quiet for as long as we can. I’ll brief the president this afternoon.”

“That’s a sound plan,” Director Worcester acknowledged. “We don’t want to tip anyone off.”

“That still leaves us with the kitchen staff,” Griffin said.

“Agent Keller, do you know how many towels, napkins, and placeholders are stolen from the House each month?” the admiral asked. “Stolen by supposedly respectable guests? Hell, an Academy Award-winning actress posted a picture on social media of the hand towels—plural—she took from the women’s lavatory outside the Oval Office. Do you think one dish towel holds the clue to our thief?”

“With all due respect, Admiral, I don’t think it can be ignored,” Griffin argued.

“None of this makes sense,” the admiral said. “Why would a bunch of counterfeiters suddenly branch out to stealing artwork? Especially artwork that is so visible?”

“We’ll never know if you don’t let me follow this lead.” Griffin sat stoically, refusing to give up. There was a connection somewhere. Griffin was sure of it. He just needed the opportunity to find it.

Director Worcester let out a beleaguered sigh. “The results of the autopsy won’t be back before Easter Monday. That gives you five days. I won’t be able to justify keeping you here in DC much longer than that. And I don’t have any extra agents to assign to help you with the questioning of the chefs. There are at least half a dozen, right Admiral?”

“Five full-time and three part-time,” he replied.

“Then I’d better work fast,” Griffin said.

The admiral pushed a pile of personal folders across the table. “Most of the kitchen staff has been here for more than five years. Some as long as twenty. But the two at the top are our most recent additions. Both of them work in the pastry kitchen. The sous chef transferred over from the Navy Mess about seven months ago. The executive pastry chef, Marin Chevalier, arrived last summer. They were both fully vetted via extensive background checks.”

Griffin opened the first folder and nearly flinched at the wide, effervescent smile staring back at him. The image of the nubile pastry chef was about as sweet as the confections she was employed to create for White House guests. Cheerful, cornflower-blue eyes and full, rosy cheeks rounded out her wholesome look. But, as Griffin knew firsthand, wholesome didn’t always mean innocent. He perused the pages of her file more deeply.

“She’s Max Chevalier’s granddaughter?” Griffin didn’t bother hiding his astonishment.

The admiral leaned back in his chair. “One of his granddaughters, yes. The Chevaliers are good friends of the president and his wife. But that doesn’t mean that Marin isn’t extremely qualified for the position. Mrs. Manning is a big fan of the chef’s inspired desserts.”

Director Worcester studied Griffin. “Is there some sort of connection between the counterfeiters and the Chevalier hotel chain, Agent Keller?”

“Not that we’ve been able to prove. Yet.” He gathered up the personnel folders and stood. Griffin needed to access his case files. Several of the Chevalier family’s five-star hotels had been used as designated pick-up points for the counterfeit money, both in the United States and overseas. This was one of those coincidences that Griffin didn’t believe in. “Admiral, do you mind if I take these down to the Secret Service lounge to study further?”

“As long as you keep them secure, I don’t see any problem. But Agent Keller—” The admiral’s voice had become steely. “Be very sure before you act on anything. As I said, the two families are close. And Marin is well liked around here. Upstairs and down.”

Griffin gave him a brusque nod. He didn’t care how adored the pastry chef was. It was his job to bust up a ring of counterfeiters. If the cherub in charge of the White House confections was somehow connected, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring her down.

“I take it you plan to keep out of sight while you’re here in the House?” Director Worcester asked after the two men left the chief usher’s office and were taking the stairs back down to the ground floor.

“I think it’s best, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. Just don’t leave me another mess to clean up after our unsuspecting pastry chef comes in contact with your irresistible good looks,” the director mumbled. “Although, if your dimples get the pastry chef to open up, by all means, use ’em.”

Griffin shook his head. He’d been teased about his looks his entire life. It wasn’t his fault women tended to throw themselves at him, though. Sure, he’d taken advantage of the situation on more than one occasion, but never in the workplace. Unfortunately, the president’s daughter-in-law wasn’t used to taking “no” for an answer from any man. Her unwanted advances had been what forced him to leave the president’s protective detail. Not that life in New York City was bad. He was closer to his family in Boston, and Griffin got a thrill out of tracking down counterfeiters. Still, he resented having to uproot his life just because a woman was attracted to him.

He headed to the lounge located in the West Wing, directly beneath the Oval Office, to formulate a plan—preferably one that didn’t involve his damn dimples.

* * *

Marin rushed up the spiral steps to the pastry kitchen. She’d spent most of the day in the small White House chocolate shop, tucked away on the mansion’s basement floor. By concentrating on the delicate task of creating edible birds’ nests for Diego’s marzipan figures, she’d been able to avoid focusing on her cousin’s wedding date ultimatum. Now, she had to hurry to get the kitchen ready to make cookies with Arabelle. She was looking forward to spending time with the little girl.

Unfortunately, when Marin stepped into the narrow workspace, she found her sanctuary invaded yet again. One of the main kitchen’s assistant chefs, Lillie, loaded a tray of sticky buns into the oven at the far end of the room while she chatted animatedly with a man Marin didn’t recognize. And she would definitely remember this guy had she seen him before.

Broad shoulders and a tall, athletic body perfectly filled out the gray suit he was wearing. The pin in his lapel identified him as a Secret Service agent, but the dark stubble along his jaw and the thick sable hair curling past his collar gave him a roguish demeanor so unlike the military look of the men who protected the first family. He murmured something to Lillie, and the rich, gravelly timbre of his voice brought goose bumps to Marin’s skin. Then he did the unexpected and grinned—so slowly, it was mesmerizing. Two devastating dimples formed at either side of his lips. Marin swallowed a sigh just as the agent’s gaze settled on her. Eyes that couldn’t decide whether they were blue or green quickly sized Marin up before he murmured something soft to the other chef. Lillie’s laugh was like a machine gun, piercing the room in small staccato bursts, startling Marin from her enthralled stance.

She ducked into the pantry, telling herself it was to grab the plastic cookie cutters she’d brought from home, but she spent a long moment trying to get rid of the disappointment that Agent Hottie wasn’t flirting with her. Not that she could blame the guy for his interest in Lillie. She was a petite, Asian woman with alluring eyes and delicate features. The total opposite of Marin whose daily runs were the only thing keeping her from being a plus-sized pastry chef. Glancing at herself in the small mirror that hung on the wall, she swiped at the hair that had escaped her ponytail and tucked it under her toque.

“Get real, Marin,” she admonished herself. Guys like Agent Hottie didn’t give Amazons like Marin the time of day. But it wouldn’t be the first time that she wished they would.

“Have you heard?” Diego’s quietly asked question startled Marin once again. Framed by the doorway of the pantry, his face was inexplicably drawn. His knuckles were white where his fingers gripped the doorjamb.

“About Wes?” she asked.

Diego nodded solemnly.

The chief usher’s office had sent out an email an hour earlier announcing that the White House curator had died suddenly that morning. Marin was as shocked as Diego appeared to be when she read the news. Wes was—or had been—a jovial man with an inordinate amount of patience and knowledge. Since arriving at the White House, she’d enjoyed many afternoons strolling with the curator and listening to his enthusiastic descriptions of the artifacts displayed within the mansion.

“It’s so sad,” Marin said. “Folks downstairs were whispering that it was a suicide. Wes was such a sweet man. I just can’t imagine him taking his life. He didn’t seem the type.”

“Not sure there is a type,” Diego murmured. With a weary sigh, he dropped his hands and looked over his shoulder. “Hey, what are you doing hiding in here when there’s a potential wedding date candidate hanging out in your kitchen? A very hot one, if I do say so myself.”

“I think Lillie already has dibs,” Marin mumbled as she dug through her backpack looking for the cookie cutters. “But I’m sure you can take him if you’re that interested.”

Diego’s head snapped back around to stare at her disapprovingly. “Snarky doesn’t suit you, Boss. First of all, that guy out there is not gay.”

“How do you know this? Is there some secret code I’m missing?”

“And secondly,” Diego continued, ignoring her question, “I have it on good authority that Lillie is very happily involved with one of the assistant ushers. So, stop hiding in the pantry and making excuses.”

Marin wanted to argue that she was doing neither, but they’d both know she’d be lying. “Or we could make my life easier and you could come with me to the wedding?” she asked, a hint of pleading in her voice.

Reaching over to adjust her toque, Diego smiled softly. “This isn’t a Lifetime movie, Marin, where the gay friend rides to the rescue. You have two choices here. Either stand up to your bridezilla cousin or find a date.” He shook his head when Marin pointed at him. “A straight date.”

Standing up to Ava required more stamina than Marin possessed at the moment—or any other moment in her twenty-seven years. She blew out a pained breath. “Or, I could always go with option number three and hire an escort. That worked out in a movie once.”

Diego groaned in exasperation. “You don’t need to hire a guy. Not when there are plenty to choose from here. Starting with the hot dude in the kitchen.”

“That’s just the point,” Marin whispered. “That guy’s a hottie. And I’m…” she gestured to herself “…a nottie. Men like that aren’t interested in women like me.”

“What do you mean ‘women like me’?” Diego asked.

“You know.” She shot the sous chef an exasperated glare, angry she had to point out the obvious. “They prefer their women smaller. Like size zero smaller.”

“Zero is not a size,” Diego scoffed.

“Amen to that,” Marin replied. “But guys like Agent Hottie out there don’t go for big-boned girls with childbearing hips.”

Diego threw his head back and mumbled something at the ceiling in Spanish. She steeled herself for more arguments, but when his eyes met hers again, they were wide with surprise. “Do you smell smoke?”

The scent reached her nose just as his words registered in her ears and they were both clamoring out of the pantry when the smoke detectors began screeching. Black smoke was billowing from the oven where Lillie had put the sticky buns in to bake minutes before. Agent Hottie yanked the oven door open just as flames began to fan to life inside of it.

“Shit!” Diego managed to yell before the word was swallowed up in a flurry of coughs. He gestured for Marin to get out of the kitchen, but she wasn’t leaving her friend behind.

Heart racing, she snatched up a dish towel to use to beat the flames down when the entire oven suddenly erupted into a ball of fire. Agent Hottie jumped out of the way of the flames just in time, ducking onto his hands and knees. Diego grabbed the fire extinguisher and pulled its pin. Foam spewed all over Lillie’s sticky buns, dousing the flames, but not before the thick smoke had engulfed the narrow, low-ceilinged room. Breathable air vanished. Marin began to gasp frantically.

Her eyes burned, and her head was spinning. Fresh air. They needed fresh air. There was a window in the hallway a few steps down the spiral staircase. Marin would go and open it. Holding the dish towel to her mouth, she pushed on the door, but it was jammed.

No! Not today!

The old door had a tendency to stick. Marin had meant to have one of the carpenters look at it for months. She pushed again, using her shoulder this time, but no luck. Marin’s thoughts were beginning to scramble when Agent Hottie got to his feet and shoved her out of the way. Two swift kicks later, he had the door open. Marin didn’t wait around to thank him. Instead, she scrambled down the steps to the small window. But, she was only able to slide the window an inch before it became as stuck as the door. Dropping the towel, she tried to pull it open with both hands, yet it still wouldn’t budge. Marin opened her mouth to swear or scream, she wasn’t sure, but she was overcome by a coughing spasm instead.

Tears of frustration and fear were running down her cheeks when suddenly, two hands gripped her own on the window. Together they tugged it wide open. Wheezing from the smoke, Marin thrust her head outside and gulped in a mouthful of fresh air. It wasn’t until her lungs started to clear that she realized there was a hard body pressed up against hers from behind. She glanced to her left and nearly collided with Agent Hottie’s cheek. From this close distance, she could see his eyes were the same blue color as the waters of the Caribbean. Smooth and tempting. He sucked in deep breaths of the fresh air and Marin could feel every expansion and contraction of his chest against her back. The shrill sound of the smoke alarm faded into the distance as they relaxed into one another as though their bodies were intimately familiar.

Their breathing was returning to normal when a line of people hurried up the stairs behind them. Rather than step back, the agent pressed closer into her. His palms were on the wall, bracketing her body, shielding her from being jostled by the agents and staff converging on the pastry kitchen.

“You okay?” he asked, so close, his breath fanned her ear.

Marin wasn’t sure whether it was the effect of the fire or his nearness that kept her speechless, but all she could do was nod.

“Good.” He pushed away from the wall—and her body. “Stay.”

Clearly, he was one of those men who thought his good looks gave him permission to dictate to others—women in particular. Except Marin wasn’t like most women. He’d gone two steps before Marin finally found her voice. “Like hell I will,” she choked out as she charged after him. “That’s my kitchen.”

He wisely refrained from issuing any more arrogant commands, but he wore a bemused expression when she slid by him on the narrow stairs. Neither of them got very far, however. The small room was crowded with members of the Secret Service’s Emergency Response Team, an assistant usher, and Diego who was breathing into an oxygen mask one of the officers had brought with them.

“Diego, are you all right?” Marin shoved into the room and rushed to her friend’s side.

“My sticky buns!” Lillie exclaimed when she stepped from the elevator. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” the admiral announced as he made his way into the room from the opposite direction.

Diego pulled the mask off his face. “What was in those damn buns?” he croaked.

“Nothing unusual. I just ran downstairs for a minute.” Lillie’s tone was a bit defensive. “I needed to check on the dinner preparations for the First Family.” She glanced at Agent Hottie. “You said you’d watch them.”

The heads of everyone in the room turned to stare at him. His mouth was set in a grim line.

“Agent Keller?” the admiral asked.

“Everything happened pretty quickly.” Agent Keller maneuvered between the assembled crowd and took a few steps toward the oven. “But I don’t think it was the buns.” He crouched down next to one of the other agents inspecting the charred oven. “The fire sparked to life too quickly and was too intense.”

“It looks like it started in the circuitry,” the other agent said, shining a flashlight on something at the back of the oven. “They build these appliances like little robots, nowadays. This one must have decided to go rogue on us.”

“Lillie’s sticky buns have that effect on men and machines,” Diego joked before he doubled over with another coughing fit.

“That’s it. Any investigating and cleanup can be handled by my staff. Chef Marin and Mr. Ruiz, I want you both in the physician’s office immediately,” the admiral commanded. He gestured to the assistant usher. “Peters, take them downstairs and don’t let them leave until the doctor gives them the okay. You, too, Agent Keller.”

Agent Keller hesitated, planting his hands on his hips. “Nothing gets cleaned up until Agent Seager from our forensic unit takes a look at that oven.”

Marin watched in fascination at the nonverbal exchange between the Secret Service agent and the admiral. Since she’d arrived at the White House, she hadn’t seen anyone countermand one of the admiral’s orders so directly. Clearly, Agent Hottie was an outsider. One who didn’t mind committing career suicide. To her fascination, though, the admiral simply cocked an eyebrow at the agent, before nodding brusquely.

“How long will that take?” Marin interjected urgently. “I can’t wait around for days. I need this room cleaned up as quickly as possible so I can prepare for Monday’s Easter egg roll.”

Both men stared at her with identical looks of exasperation.

“Chef Marin,” the admiral said, his tone placating, “it will take several days to replace the oven if we are lucky. In the meantime, I will make every effort to ensure you have the proper equipment to perform your duties. Until then, I’d like you to report to the physician’s office immediately. Please.”

Swallowing an exasperated huff, Marin took Diego’s arm and guided him toward the elevator. Peters held the door open for them both.

“Coming, Agent Keller?” she called out, matching her tone to his smug look.

The admiral nodded toward the elevator. The agent muttered something to one of the other agents before joining her. Diego’s ragged cough filled the small chamber as they traveled down to the ground floor. When the doors slid open, Executive Chef Samuels was waiting to greet them.

“Jesus, Marin, if you didn’t want Lillie invading your turf, you could have just spoken up,” he joked. His face blanched when Diego was overcome with another coughing fit, however.

“Help me get him across the hall to the doctor’s office,” Peters said to Chef Samuels.

They each took one of Diego’s arms and led him away. Marin went to follow them when she was hit in the knees by thirty pounds of preschooler and one hundred and twenty pounds of Belgian Malinois.

“Chef Marin!” Arabelle cried as she wrapped her arms around Marin’s legs. “Me and Otto were so worried. Grandma Bita said there was a fire. Was somebody playing with matches?”

Arabelle’s big caramel eyes were wide with concern. Marin gave the little girl a reassuring smile. Brushing her hand over the wild dark curls that surrounded the child’s face, Marin bit back a laugh. Everything was simple to a five-year-old.

While kitchen fires weren’t a normal occurrence, Marin, like most cooking professionals, had been through her share and knew how to handle them. But most of those had been common grease fires caused by careless staff. Marin wasn’t careless. Neither was Lillie or anyone else who worked in the White House kitchens. A faulty oven was something she hadn’t expected to ever deal with. And the speed with which the fire spread was disconcerting.

Arabelle must have sensed Marin’s unease because her arms shot up. “I think you need a hug.”

Marin lifted the girl up. Arabelle wrapped her arms and legs around her like a little monkey. Otto sat on Marin’s foot. The weight of the child in her arms and the feel of the dog against her thigh went a long way in calming Marin.

Burying her face in Marin’s neck, Arabelle squeezed tightly. “I’m so glad you didn’t die,” she whispered.

“Me, too.” Had Diego or Agent Keller not been there, she might have been trapped in the kitchen until help arrived. The thought made her heart race again.

Arabelle pulled out of the embrace, her arms looped loosely around Marin’s neck. “But now we can’t bake cookies,” she said, her bottom lip protruding out.

“Sure we can. I just need to check on Diego and change clothes. We can make cookies in the oven upstairs in the residence.” Marin looked to Bita, who’d just joined them, for confirmation.

“That oven isn’t going to blow up, too, is it?” Arabelle asked, her eyes wide again.

“No. That oven is a nice old-fashioned one without any circuits to go haywire.”

Arabelle was reassured by Marin’s words, but Bita’s face was outlined in panic. Marin opened her mouth to soothe the grandmother’s nerves, but Bita spoke first.

“Agent Keller,” Bita hissed. “What are you doing here?”

Caught off guard by Bita’s question, Marin looked over her shoulder at the agent who she’d forgotten was standing behind her. He was as rumpled and filthy as she likely was, but it did nothing to deter the rugged handsomeness he exuded. The guarded expression on his face was less than welcoming, however.

“Agent Keller is in the House for a few days on special assignment,” Secret Service Director Worcester said from behind Bita. “And if you ladies will excuse him, I need to see him right away.” He waved Agent Keller in the direction of his office.

“Bye,” Arabelle said to the agent while her grandmother’s eyes narrowed with what looked to Marin like suspicion.

Agent Keller gave Marin’s elbow a gentle squeeze. “Make sure you have the doc look you over,” he commanded quietly before following the director down the hall and into the Secret Service office.

And just like that, he was gone. Marin was mad he’d left her with yet another arrogant order. But she was even angrier at herself for not thanking the agent for potentially saving her life.