Chapter 8

CHAPTER8

The sound of the fire alarm awakened Marin from a fitful sleep. Disoriented, she glanced at her clock. Five a.m. She’d been asleep for barely forty-five minutes. She fell back down against her pillows, closing her eyes until the persistent ringing permeated the fog of her brain.

“Oh, my God!”

Marin jumped out of bed, grabbing her phone from the nightstand and her neatly piled clothes from a bench at the end of the bed. She slid her feet into her Skechers and headed for the front door, crying out when she bumped her knee on the corner of an end table in the dark living room. Snatching up her backpack from the chair in the foyer, she shoved her clothes inside. The alarm was still blaring when she reached for the door handle. Her father’s voice in her head stopped her from bolting out the door, however.

She turned on her heel and dashed to her kitchen, shooting up a prayer of thanks for the paranoia of the previous owners of the penthouse. She turned the key in the dead bolt on the back door leading to a private stairwell only accessible from her apartment.

“If the fire alarm ever goes off,” her father had advised her when she’d bought the place, “use this stairwell. It’s constructed from concrete blocks. A fire anywhere else in the building would never be able to permeate it.”

Marin placed her hand on the door, checking it for heat. Feeling nothing, she opened it cautiously.

“Bless you, Daddy,” she said when she slipped from her kitchen into the cool, quiet, smoke-free stairway. “And bless the archaic ordinance that says buildings within Washington, DC can only be thirteen stories.”

She trudged down the stairs, her exhaustion making her feet feel like lead.

“Shitty week is an understatement, Not-So-Special-Agent Dickweed,” Marin mumbled to the quiet walls. “Two fires! Who gets stuck in two freaking fires in one week?” She rounded the corner leading down another flight. “And two friends dead in the same week. How does that happen?”

She was surprised by the burn of more tears behind her eyes. Marin swore she’d cried them all out last night. “And let’s not forget the knife fight on the Metro where an innocent girl was injured.” She swiped at her nose as she descended another floor.

“And, thanks, by the way, for leaving me hanging last night, you colossal ass!” Marin’s mumble had risen to a shout, her words echoing off the cement walls as tears streamed down her face. “Because every woman enjoys being rejected in the middle of hooking-up.” She stomped around another corner. “You can forget your cushy security job with my family,” she yelled. “I’m calling my big brother right now to tell him what an ass you are!”

Marin sank down on one of the steps and dug her cell phone out of her pocket. “Great. With my luck, there will be a cute fireman waiting to rescue me, and I’m strutting around in my SpongeBob pajama pants.” She leaned her head against the wall and sighed. “No signal. It figures.” A fit of hysterical laughter bubbled up from her throat. “And to think, a few days ago, all I cared about was getting a date to Ava’s stupid wedding.”

She pushed to her feet. “Back to square one on that quest.”

Quickly jogging down the last four floors, she pushed through the exit door into the boiler room. The fire alarm was still blaring, although its sound was partially drowned out by the loud hum of the machinery that kept the eighty-one units of the Dupont comfortable. Marin glanced down at her phone, relieved to have signal finally. She scrolled for her father’s number, needing to hear his voice right now. Just as she was about to press the call button, however, she tripped and went sprawling across the floor. Marin glanced back to see what had caused her to fall.

It wasn’t a what, but a who: Seth, the building’s maintenance man. Lying on the floor in a pool of blood. A scream of shock caught in Marin’s throat. She struggled to breathe. She glanced around the vast room while her limbs were frozen in terror. Could whoever have done this still be here hiding? Not wanting to find out, she scrambled to her feet and ran to the lobby with a speed she didn’t know she possessed.

* * *

“We have to stop meeting like this, Chef Chevalier,” said the distinguished police detective who’d interviewed her and Griffin two nights ago. He set a steaming cup of tea down in front of her before he slid into the chair opposite hers. “Mayhem seems to be following you around, lately.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She reached out to pick up the tea, but her hand was shaking too badly to manage it, so she shoved her fingers into her pockets instead.

Marin had been sitting in the manager of the Dupont’s office for over two hours while a string of firefighters and police officers asked her the same questions, over and over again. Her head was pounding so badly; she was surprised none of the others in the room heard.

“You didn’t exit your apartment at all after arriving home last evening?” the detective asked.

“No.” She swallowed painfully remembering how it had taken her an hour to drag her limp body off the sofa and into the shower. After thirty minutes of sobbing under the warm spray of water, she’d staggered to her bed, wrestling with sleep for several more hours. “Not until the fire alarm went off this morning.”

“And Agent Keller, what time did he leave?”

Not soon enough.Shame made Marin’s cheeks flush. She imagined the detective interpreted her blush a totally different way.

“Uh, he stayed for maybe fifteen minutes, but I’m not sure exactly. They keep a log at the front desk.” She nearly choked on the last two words remembering that the last two people to man the front desk were now dead.

“And no one else came to the penthouse last night?”

Marin was surprised by the intensity of his question. “I told you, no.”

He looked out the window and sighed heavily. “There was no fire here this morning, Chef,” he said. “It was a false alarm. A prank, it would seem.”

Her head spun when she sat up too quickly in her chair. She’d been so overwrought stumbling over Seth’s dead body that she hadn’t even asked about the fire. “Someone pulled the fire alarm?”

The detective eyed her carefully. “Yes. The one on the penthouse floor.”

“What!” Her stomach rolled, and she had to sit on her hands to keep their trembling under control. “You have to have a key to get up to my floor. Even when using the stairs.”

“So I understand.”

“Well, I don’t!” Marin cried. “I don’t understand any of this. People around me are dying all of a sudden! And I can’t make any sense of it!”

The detective left his chair and came around the table to sit next to Marin.

“You don’t have to make any sense of it. That’s my job,” he tried to soothe her. “Like I said, I think you’ve just had a run of bad luck by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ll figure it out, though. You just need to get some rest now.”

Marin glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven thirty-five. She needed to get to work on the Easter luncheon the First Family was expecting later that day. “I need to get to the White House.” She tried to stand up, but her legs didn’t seem to be getting the message.

“You just sit. Someone from the White House is on the way here now. They’ll drive you.”

“No!” Marin surged to her feet, grabbing onto the table for support. The last person she wanted to see was Griffin Keller riding in like a white knight. “I can get myself to the White House.”

“All the same,” the admiral chimed in from behind her. “I’d appreciate it if you’d ride with me. I can make that an order if I have to, Chef. Please don’t force me to do so.”

“I wish you had let me go upstairs and change out of my pajamas,” Marin said when they arrived at the White House ten minutes later. She didn’t bother apologizing for her churlish tone. Her SpongeBob pajama pants were embarrassment enough.

The admiral smiled. “They’re nothing I haven’t seen before. My daughter took a similar pair to college this year.” He took her elbow and helped her up the steps.

“Marin!” Her aunt Harriett, the First Lady, charged out of the usher’s office. “Sweetheart.” She wrapped her arms around Marin, holding her tightly. It was too much. Marin dissolved into tears again.

Time seemed to be hopping because the next thing she knew, they were standing in the Queen’s bedroom on the second floor. The ornate four-poster bed swam before Marin’s misty eyes.

“I need to be in the kitchen,” she stammered.

“Not today,” Aunt Harriett insisted. “You, my girl, are going to rest.”

One of the maids arrived with towels and a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Aunt Harriett murmured, taking the glass from the maid. She handed it to Marin, opening her other hand to reveal a small pill. “Here, take this.”

Marin blanched. “What is it?”

“Something to help you sleep. From the looks of you, sixteen hours ought to do it.”

“You’re drugging me?”

“I may be the First Lady, but I’m also your godmother. And I still have a license to practice medicine. Don’t forget I used to treat your diaper rash, young lady.”

She reluctantly took the pill from her aunt’s hand and swallowed it with a gulp of water.

Her mother’s best friend gently brushed the hair out of Marin’s eyes. “You’ve had quite a week. Let me take care of you. Your mother would do the same for my family if it came down to it. There are toiletries in the bathroom. Don’t be shy about asking for whatever you need. I’ll just be down the hall.”

When Marin emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Arabelle was leaning against one of the Queen Anne chairs, wearing a frilly pink dress, shiny white Mary Janes, and carrying a pile of books in her hands.

“Arabelle, don’t you look beautiful in your Easter dress.”

“I have a hat that goes with it, but Momma says I can’t wear it until we leave for church. She said I wasn’t supposed to come in here because I’ll wrinkle my dress, but Grandma Harriett said it would be okay if I read you some stories. Would you like that?”

The child’s expression was so earnest, Marin didn’t have the heart to disappoint her despite the fact that she was already feeling woozy. “I would love that, sweetie.”

Marin climbed into the big bed, pulling a blanket over her weary body. Arabelle walked to the other side and carefully spread the books out on top of the coverlet. “Which one do you want me to read first?”

“You pick.”

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Arabelle raced over to the chair, coming back with a worn stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. She carefully lifted the blanket off Marin and tucked the toy next to her. “This is Ellie. She always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

The supply of Marin’s tears seemed to be endless because her eyes welled up again. Arabelle flipped the pages in the book, retelling from memory the story that she’d likely heard a thousand times about a moose who wanted a muffin. Marin drifted off to sleep dreaming of muffins shaped like moose, vowing to make them for Arabelle’s birthday.

* * *

Griffin wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and, with a glance at his reflection, confirmed he looked as crappy as he felt. He swallowed two acetaminophens with a bottle of cold water hoping like hell they’d kick in soon. Not that he didn’t deserve the throbbing in his head. He deserved that and more after losing control and taking things too far with Marin last night—way too far. Today, he needed to get his head—the one on his shoulders—back on the case. And that meant some serious rethinking of the evidence and the suspects.

He stepped out of the bathroom and abruptly halted in his tracks, astounded to find Leslie sprawled out on his unmade bed, an empty bottle from the mini-bar dangling from her fingers.

“Did you have a little party for one last night?” the FBI agent asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

Griffin glanced at the door, but given his condition the previous evening, he obviously hadn’t bothered with the security lock. Adjusting the towel more snugly around his waist, he met her amused gaze.

“What are you doing in DC, Leslie? Specifically, in my hotel room?”

“Aw, come on, Griff. The last time I surprised you in your hotel room, you were a lot”—she glanced in the vicinity of his crotch—“happier to see me.”

“This isn’t Rome, Leslie.” And Griffin wasn’t sure he’d be happy to see any woman in his present condition. Not when the taste of Marin Chevalier was still haunting him.

Tilting her head to the side, she rose from the bed and crossed the room to where he stood. She reached out a finger, presumably to trace the drop of water sliding down his pectoral muscle, but Griffin flinched before her finger made contact.

Pain flashed in her green eyes before she quickly shuttered them. Griffin felt like an even bigger ass. Apparently, disappointing women was becoming a habit.

“Huh,” she said, dropping her hand to her side. “I’m here to investigate the homicide of the White House curator.”

“We turned that over to the local Feebs.”

“And they turned it over to me since the guy potentially died at the hands of a nasty counterfeit ring I’m investigating.”

The fact that she’d used the word ‘I’m’ and not ‘we’re’ wasn’t lost on Griffin. Nor was the fact that, given the trail of bodies the counterfeiters were piling up, this case could become solely that of the FBI at any moment. He needed to keep the peace with Leslie before she pulled the rug out from under him. But that didn’t mean he was going to have sex with her.

“It’s Easter Sunday. Shouldn’t you be hunting for Easter eggs with Dylan?” he asked carefully.

Her eyes shuttered again. “Dylan is with my ex this weekend.”

So she was lonely and deflecting with work. And, apparently, she’d hoped with Griffin’s body as well.

“I figured I could swing down here and piece through the evidence before anything gets cold,” she continued. “I brought Eric with me to dig through the curator’s personal computer. We might find something once we can access his email.”

“Eric’s one of the best at overriding a login password.”

“Well, if you’re not too hungover, we can take a ride over to the field office and see what he’s turned up.”

“I’m not quite dressed for it at the moment.”

Leslie’s mouth turned up at the corners. “You’re wearing too much if you ask me. Sure you don’t want to reconsider?”

“I’m not, um, at my best today, Leslie.” Said no red-blooded male ever. Griffin swore silently.

She had the nerve to laugh. “Not to feed your ego, Griff, but you at only half your best is a lot better than most men.”

Griffin sighed. “Thanks, I think. But I still need to get dressed.”

Leslie crossed her arms beneath her breasts—breasts that used to turn him on. Not today. He was beginning to wonder if something was physically wrong with him.

“Don’t let me stop you,” she purred.

“Damn it, Leslie!”

She laughed again before she turned and walked to the window. “I don’t know why you’re acting so shy. It’s not like I haven’t seen your good stuff before. Or touched it,” she added slyly.

Griffin shed his towel, pulled a pair of boxer-briefs from his suitcase and quickly slid them on. He grabbed his jeans off the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and stepped into them.

“So how is your search for the White House thief going?” she asked, her back still to him.

Shitty. He’d spent last night counting the numerous ways he’d screwed the investigation up, chasing each revelation with a swig from one of the bottles in the mini-bar. He’d almost compromised the whole damn case by sleeping with Marin. Not that there would have been much sleeping involved. He snatched a shirt off the hanger and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

“Are you still concentrating on Max Chevalier’s granddaughter?” She looked over her shoulder at him.

If concentrating was the same as lusting over, then, hell yeah.

Griffin didn’t bother sharing that little bit of intel with Leslie, though. There was no chance in hell he was going to the wedding after last night, either. He’d have to look for a link to the Chevalier family from another angle. If there even was a link between the hotelier and the counterfeit ring.

“I’m beginning to think the pastry chef is a red herring.” He buttoned up his shirt. “The director has given me until the end of the day tomorrow to flush out suspects. I want to dig a little deeper into the sous chef. But, really, anyone working in the White House could have had access to the kitchen towels, so this whole thing might just be a damn wild goose chase.” He pulled on his socks and sneakers. “Until we can determine whether or not any other artwork in the House is forged, I’m at a standstill.”

Leslie turned from the window and walked to the bed to retrieve her purse. “Well, I wouldn’t write off the pastry chef as a red herring just yet,” she said casually. “She apparently literally stumbled over a dead body early this morning leaving her cushy penthouse.”

Griffin’s hands stilled in the act of tying his shoes. “What?”

“I know how you feel about coincidences, Griff. This one may be too big to ignore.”

He shot out of the chair, grabbing his badge and his holster. “I’m gonna need to talk to her.” Provided Marin didn’t kick him in the balls as soon as she laid eyes on him. But a part of him just needed to know she was okay—the very same part of him that he shouldn’t be listening to right now.

“Word is she was pretty shaken up. FLOTUS has her resting at the White House. Of course, if she’s our thief, it was the perfect way for the fox to get into the henhouse.”

Leslie’s accusation angered Griffin, which was ridiculous because he’d thought the same thing of Marin after the fire in the pastry kitchen. Clearly, he was going soft on a suspect. And that path led to all kinds of trouble.

“Let’s go,” he said as headed out the door.

“I’ll text Eric and tell him we’re on our way.”

“Not yet. We’re stopping at the Dupont first.”