Chapter 6

CHAPTER6

Of all the mornings Marin could have overslept, the Saturday before the Easter egg roll was not one of them. She was already behind on the centerpieces. Today, she and Diego were supposed to arrange the marzipan figures in the chocolate nests and build the sugar flowers that would complete the arrangements. At this rate, she’d be working until midnight.

She was late because sleep had eluded her the previous evening. Marin couldn’t seem to get the image of Anika, bloodied and unconscious, out of her head. She’d tried to call the hospital, but no one was able to give her any information on the young woman’s condition because Marin wasn’t family.

Anika wasn’t the only one haunting her thoughts last night, either. Griffin Keller’s sexy dimples kept appearing behind Marin’s eyelids every time she tried to close them. Marin’s body heated up when she recalled the feel of his hand on her lower back or his lips on her forehead. Thanks to the aggravating special agent, she’d tossed and turned until the early hours this morning.

She hurried through the northwest gate and jogged up the driveway to the North Portico steps. As she rushed past the usher’s office, the admiral’s voice halted her in her tracks.

“Chef Marin,” he called after her.

Marin swore under her breath. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned to face her boss.

His expression softened at the sight of her; he took several steps to close the gap between them.

“How are you this morning, Chef?”

She was late, that was how she was. And a little bewildered at the admiral’s obvious concern.

“I heard about the incident on the Metro last night,” he explained.

Marin relaxed a fraction, fearful if she relaxed too much, she might lose her composure. “It was unpleasant,” she said. “But I’m trying not to think about it. I’ve got way too much to do today.”

He quietly studied her. “No one would blame you if you needed to take a day. You’ve had quite a week. I can call in some of the contract chefs to finish what needs to be done for Monday.”

She bristled at his words. Marin would have to be bloody and unconscious herself before she’d let contractors—or anyone else, for that matter—in her pastry kitchen—in this case, the de-facto pastry kitchen in the residence. She’d worked long and hard planning the centerpieces and desserts for this event to let someone else mess them up.

“That’s not necessary.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

The admiral paused a moment before he nodded. “The offer stands for as long as you need it. If there’s anything my staff can do to help out, you let me know.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get to work.”

Marin had the sense he watched as she disappeared up the stairs to her third-floor office. She dumped her backpack onto her desk and reached into the closet to pull out a clean chef jacket and toque.

“The ladies in the linen room did their best to get the smoke smell out of your jackets and hats. I hope they were successful.”

She turned to see her friend, Terrie Bloodworth, standing in the doorway. Terrie was the head housekeeper for the White House. Next to the chief usher, she was the person who kept the place running like clockwork. Terrie had left her job as an executive overseeing the entire housekeeping efforts within the forty-five Chevalier hotels to come to the White House when President Manning’s predecessor was in office.

“I appreciate their efforts,” Marin said. “I’ll be sure and stop in to thank them when I get a spare minute.”

The two women headed down the stairs. “You look exhausted already.”

Marin sighed. “Trouble sleeping.”

“I heard about last night.”

“Word certainly travels quickly in this place.”

“No one’s gossiping about it, if that’s what you think,” Terrie explained. “As far as I know, the admiral, Director Worcester, and I are the only ones briefed on the stabbing. I think Agent Keller wanted to make sure you had some support today in case you needed it. He’s very thoughtful, that one.”

They passed the cosmetology room that served as both a barber shop and hair salon for the first family and headed to the center hall of the residence floor. Marin always loved to linger in the wide hallway because the large, half-moon windows at either end of the floor provided a gorgeous view of Washington. Today, she was more focused on what Terrie was saying about Griffin to take in the scenery.

“He was a hero for that poor woman, that’s for sure,” she said.

“Agent Keller is a very resourceful and dedicated agent. He cares for people. I got the sense this morning that he cares a lot about you, too.” Terrie wore a sly grin.

“Ha!” Marin laughed sarcastically. “He’s resourceful all right. Agent Keller only cares about my connections and how he can benefit from them. And as for being dedicated, I’ve heard how dedicated he was to certain members of the First Family.”

She stomped toward the kitchen. Terrie reached out and took Marin’s arm before she could get very far.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Marin,” the housekeeper admonished.

Terrie guided her over to one of the sofas in the west sitting area.

“Sit,” she commanded.

Feeling like a chastised schoolgirl, Marin did as she was told. Terrie joined her on the sofa and seemed to give careful thought to her next words.

“Despite our duty to not gossip about the First Family or what goes on inside this house, I’m afraid rumors still have a way of making the rounds. I’m assuming you heard something to the effect that Agent Keller was inappropriately involved with Farrah?”

Marin nodded, feeling a little guilty now that Terrie had put it in those terms.

“Well, I can unequivocally state that those rumors are only half true.”

That got Marin’s attention. “‘Half true’?”

Terrie nodded. “Any relationship was strictly one-sided. Farrah was pursuing Agent Keller. Quite relentlessly, I might add.”

The news didn’t surprise Marin. She’d seen Arabelle’s mother in action with any number of male visitors to the White House.

“Agent Keller endured it while remaining professional and stoically continuing to do his job protecting the president. I don’t think he ever intended to say a word to anyone.”

“But he’s no longer on the president’s protective detail?”

Terrie smiled smugly. “That’s because someone else spoke up for him.”

“You?”

The housekeeper nodded. “The poor man was miserable. And Farrah was unconscionable. Nothing will deter that girl from what she wants. I don’t know how…” Terrie slammed her mouth shut and shook her head. “It’s not our place to gossip. But I had to let the admiral and Director Worcester know the harassment that he was being exposed to.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Rumors had already started, probably because Agent Keller tried so hard to ignore what was happening. I doubt he’ll ever set the record straight.”

Marin closed her eyes and let her head drop back against the top of the sofa. Griffin was the man her heart believed him to be. A warmth seemed to settle over her body; she felt a slow grin spread over her face.

“I see I was right in sharing this information with you,” Terrie said. Marin heard the smile in the housekeeper’s voice.

“Oh, sure, Boss, you enjoy yourself lounging around on the president’s furniture while I work my fingers to the bone assembling flowers in here.”

Diego sounded genuinely miffed.

Marin leaped off the sofa. “I’m sorry, Diego. I’m coming right now.” She gave Terrie a quick hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Terrie replied. “Don’t be shy about asking for help today if you need it.”

Terrie headed down the hall to check on the housekeeping staff while Marin made her way to the kitchen, her step a lot lighter than it had been moments before.

“Guess what, Diego?” she called out. “I have a date to the wedding.”

“You know what else you have, Boss?” the sous chef asked. “Thirty centerpieces that need building before you can put your dancing shoes on.”

* * *

Griffin leaned a shoulder against the marble column supporting the Truman Balcony and gazed across the South Lawn. The sound of Marin’s unbridled laughter floated through the afternoon air and settled somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. She looked so damn innocent dressed in khakis and a pink T-shirt that fit her to perfection. He watched as the big Belgian Malinois nearly toppled her over in its efforts to catch the rubber Kong toy used by the K-9 handlers to reward the dogs.

“Off, Otto.” She laughed. “Or I won’t be able to throw the ball.”

The dog immediately sat, panting with anticipation.

“I’m glad to see her enjoying herself,” the admiral said after coming to stand beside Griffin. “She seems to have recovered well after last night’s events.”

“It would seem so,” Griffin agreed. He, on the other hand, was still struggling with what he’d seen in Marin’s penthouse apartment.

“The medical examiner’s results are back early.”

Griffin pushed away from the column, his attention piqued. “That never happens.”

“Mm-hmm. The homicide detectives are on their way over to discuss them with me in person, which could mean one of two things. Either the news is dire. Or they just want an opportunity to check out the interior of the White House,” the admiral mused.

“I’d like to sit in on that meeting.”

“I figured you might. The director and I are meeting them in the Map Room in fifteen minutes. We’ll expect you.”

With a curt nod, the admiral made his way back inside the White House.

Marin was kissing the dog on the head when Griffin refocused his attention on her. Something about the way she smiled at Otto made his gut clench.

“I am not jealous of a damn dog,” he mumbled.

A low whistle sounded and Otto sped off like a rocket racing across the lawn to find his handler. Marin watched him go before lifting her face to the bright April sunshine, seeming to revel in its warmth before resolutely striding toward the Palm Room entrance. Griffin stepped out from the shadows where he’d been observing her and intercepted Marin on the path.

“Agent—Griffin,” she said with a start. She paused on the pathway, taking in his suit and tie. “I didn’t realize you were working on a Saturday.”

He didn’t bother to tell her he’d spent much of the day in the forensics lab with Ben, the two of them going over the video from the metro station frame-by-frame. He’d only stopped over at the White House to check on the progress of the audit of the artwork. And on her. Griffin told himself it was because he didn’t want his prime suspect to slip away. That was all.

“This job is twenty-four seven when I’ve got an open case,” he said.

“Are you any closer to finding out what happened to Wes?”

She was awfully curious about the curator’s death. Her keen interest rankled Griffin because he couldn’t determine whether it was concern for the curator or herself. He debated whether to tell her the police were coming with the autopsy results, just to see how she’d react. In the end, he decided to stick with procedure and play things close to the vest.

“Still working on it.”

Marin nodded. “I just came out for a breath of fresh air. Diego had to run a quick errand, and I was starting to feel closed in on such a beautiful day. We’ve still got hours’ worth of work to do.” She smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I doubt you care about all that. I’ll let you get back to whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“As it happens, I was looking for you. Again.”

She blushed prettily. Griffin cursed his body’s reaction.

“Well, if you’re coming to make your case for me to take you to the wedding, you don’t have to. I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. And I’ve already arranged my side of the bargain, as well. My brother, Sebastian, handles all the security issues. You have a breakfast meeting with him the day of the wedding.”

Griffin had to keep from rocking back on his heels; he was so stunned by her announcement. Given the abrupt way she’d dismissed him last night, he figured his shot at gaining access to the Chevalier inner sanctum was moot.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I agree to hold up my end of the bargain, complete with unending chivalry, dancing, and adoring glances when appropriate.”

Marin’s blush grew even deeper causing Griffin to scramble for another topic before he did something foolish like leaning in and kissing her.

“I have news about Anika.”

Her face blanched at the abrupt change in subject. “Please tell me she’s alive.”

He nodded, feeling like a heel at the sound of concern in her voice. “She’s stable, but not out of the woods yet.”

She turned her face away, brushing at her cheek as she did so. “I’ll just keep praying then.”

Her tears didn’t surprise Griffin, but they did conflict him even more where Marin Chevalier was concerned.

“Thank you for coming to tell me,” she said when she’d composed herself. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Diego should be back by now. When you’ve finished for the day, please stop by and I’ll give you the itinerary for the wedding. We can discuss travel arrangements then, too. Of course, I’ll pick up all the expenses.”

“How about dinner tonight?” His sudden, unplanned invitation was an excuse to get more information out of her. Nothing more. At least that was what he was telling himself.

“This is likely the only break I’ll get today,” she said, ruefully.

“I could go out to get something and bring it back to the House,” Griffin volunteered. “You have to eat.”

“I guess that would be okay.” Her smile was bright again. “Thank you.”

“It’s a date,” he said, causing her to blush once more.

Marin began walking backward away from him. “I have to get back up there. I’ll see you later.” She turned on her heel and briskly walked along the path until she disappeared into the Palm Room.

Griffin took a few minutes to compose his thoughts. Ben had been correct. Griffin just needed to rely on his legendary calm. The closer he got to Marin, the closer he was to breaking open this case. And if that meant leading her on, it was all just part of the job. The ends justified the means. Besides, he had to eat, too.

* * *

“Your curator died of asphyxiation,” one of the Virginia homicide detectives announced.

Griffin tried to hide his disappointment as the detective’s partner slid the admiral a sheet of paper that likely detailed the medical examiner’s succinct ruling as to cause of death. It would be hard to prove Wes hadn’t committed suicide with asphyxiation to blame.

“Can we say for sure it was suicide?” Director Worcester echoed Griffin’s thoughts.

“Actually,” the admiral said as he perused the report, “Wes’s death was asphyxiation by murder.” He slid the sheet of paper over to the director.

“Damn,” Director Worcester said before handing the sheet over to Griffin.

He quickly scanned the medical examiner’s findings. Wes had died from a lethal dose of succinylcholine, a common drug used in anesthesia that causes muscle paralysis. The curator was asphyxiated before the rope was put around his neck. It would not have been a swift or painless death. Griffin cringed. As murders went, this one was particularly inhumane and despicable. He wondered what the poor man had done to deserve such torture.

“Without a heads-up from you guys here in the White House, the ME wouldn’t have been looking for an injection site,” one of the detectives explained. “Sux doesn’t leave a metabolite trace in the bloodstream. Your colleague was paralyzed within seconds, unable to draw breath for several minutes before his heart stopped beating. An ugly way to die.”

The men sitting around the table in the historic Map Room were solemn for a long moment.

“Forensics didn’t turn up anything at the scene?” Griffin asked, still holding out hope for a lead.

Both detectives shook their heads. “We canvased neighbors, but no one saw anything. In a wealthy neighborhood like that, there are lots of home security cameras. We combed through every one where the curator’s house was in the frame. Nothing jumped out but a paper boy.” He pulled a photo out of a folder and passed it over to Griffin. The picture was grainy, but it showed a person on a bicycle with a large sack over his shoulder. A dark hooded rain jacket was pulled over his head, the brim of a baseball cap peeking out.

“I didn’t know papers were delivered by bike any longer,” Griffin commented.

“Not too many folks get a printed paper these days.” The detective shrugged. “Old-school delivery for old-school people.”

“Bottom line,” the other detective put in, “we’re coming up empty at every turn. Whoever killed your curator knew how to stage the scene and inflict ligature marks so that it looked like a routine suicide.”

Griffin’s adrenalin shot up another level as he exchanged a look with Director Worcester.

“We’re looking for a professional assassin here,” the director said.

“Yeah,” the homicide detective agreed. “And I was hoping you guys might have some leads since we don’t see too much of that in the suburbs of northern Virginia.”

“Gentlemen, I think it might be time we check in with our friends at the FBI,” the admiral announced.

* * *

Arnold loved working as the doorman at the Dupont, but never more so than on spring evenings like the current one. He propped the door open and stood in his red uniform, adorned with its sharp gold braids and epaulets, watching the happy tourists parade past after a long day spent wandering the monuments. When a sleepy young girl riding on her father’s shoulders dropped her stuffed rabbit, Arnold bent down to retrieve it, tipping his hat to the child as he handed it back to her.

“Thanks, mister,” the girl called out.

“You have a good evening,” Arnold responded.

Raised voices in the lobby drew his attention and Arnold marched inside.

“Is there a problem Mr. Harris?”

“This guy tried to jump through the security gate behind me and follow me onto the elevator.”

Mr. Harris was one of the Dupont’s more snobbish residents, but the rules were the rules, guests had to sign in before going upstairs. Arnold gestured to the interloper who was dressed in a delivery man’s garb to meet him at the concierge desk.

“Who are you here to see?” Arnold asked. He looked up from the directory sheet when the guy didn’t immediately answer. The poor man probably didn’t speak English. The city was filled with immigrants trying to eke out a living working at any job they could get without having fluency in the language.

Arnold noticed the guy was carrying a box with him. “You have a package to deliver?” he asked, careful to speak slowly and annunciate the words.

The man’s black ball cap nodded up and down.

“Well then, you’ve come to the right place,” Arnold said jovially. “You didn’t need to go upstairs at all. Residents pick up their packages right here at the desk. Just leave it with me. I’ll get it to”—he glanced at the package—“there’s no name on there. Who’s it going to?”

“The chef,” the guy mumbled, keeping his head dipped toward the counter. “In the penthouse.”

The doorman shook his head in aggravation. There was no problem with the delivery guy’s English, apparently. Arnold went to take the package from him, but the delivery man’s grip on it was firm. And the dope was wearing leather gloves. In April. Not an immigrant then, just a run-of-the-mill weirdo.

“If you leave it with me, I’ll make sure that Chef Chevalier gets it,” Arnold said before tugging on the box again.

“Today,” the delivery guy insisted, his hold on the package still strong.

“Sure thing, buddy.” Arnold was finally able to take the box from the guy’s grasp. “She’ll get it as soon as she walks through those doors.”

The other man nodded again.

“No need for you to worry about it being stolen or whatnot because those cameras behind me record everything.” Arnold pointed over his shoulder, his chest puffed up with pride. “Between you and me, this is a safe place with an honest staff. We don’t need Big Brother to keep it that way. But try telling that to management.”

The delivery guy did look up then. When his icy blue eyes met Arnold’s warm brown ones, the doorman felt the breath freeze in his lungs. And then the guy was gone.

“Weirdo,” Arnold murmured to himself as he carefully placed Chef Marin’s package on the shelf behind him.