Home of the Braised (13 page)

Bucky glared at her as he answered me. “He’s insisting that every staff member in every department meet with him for a one-on-one.”

I couldn’t help stating the obvious. “Except that you’re going together. That would be two-on-one.”

Cyan laughed. At this point there was no question about it. They were keeping something from me. I hoped it didn’t have to do with Virgil, or my decision to bring him deeper into the fold. It would be a hard enough slog to get him to behave without having to deal with any mischief these two might dream up. The sooner I found out what was going on, the better.

One thing I’d bet my job on: There was no way Sargeant would have called them both in for a meeting, together. I’d talk with him first, then corral these two another time, preferably when Virgil wasn’t around.

I DECIDED TO TALK WITH SARGEANT ON THE
Q.T. The question I had for him wasn’t one I cared to put in an e-mail, and calling him on the phone meant I risked being overheard. I didn’t want Bucky or Cyan to know I was checking up on them. I decided to drop in and see if he had a spare moment. When I arrived at the anteroom just outside the chief usher’s office, however, a woman I’d never seen before looked up at me.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Peter Sargeant,” I said, starting for his door.

At that, she stood, blocking my way. “I’m sorry. He isn’t in right now.” A slim, fashion-forward forty-something, she had short, dark hair and a pert expression on her face as she gave me an efficient once-over. Tiny in stature, she wore oversized tortoiseshell glasses and she fingered the side of them as she resumed her seat. “My name is Margaret. I’m Mr. Sargeant’s assistant.”

“Olivia Paras,” I said, leaning to shake her bony hand. “The executive chef.”

Her lips formed a circle and if she’d made a sound, it would have been “Oooh . . .” Instead, she said, “Of course. I’m happy to make your acquaintance. May I have Mr. Sargeant call you when he returns?”

Inwardly I grumbled. So much for keeping this on the down-low. “Sure,” I said. “But please let him know that this is a conversation I’d prefer to have in private.”

Her perfectly trimmed dark eyebrows reacted with a tiny twitch. “Of course,” she said smoothly.

“I have time now, Ms. Paras.” Sargeant appeared behind me, his voice deeper and more authoritative than I’d ever heard it. “Thank you, Margaret,” he said to his assistant. He strode to the door between the two offices, opened it, and ushered me in.

Once he closed the door behind us, I pointed the way we’d come. “She seems very nice.”

Sargeant took his seat behind the desk and I sat across from him. “Paul’s assistants were out of the office most of the time, running errands, performing tasks.” He waved the air. “It got to the point where anyone could pop in and talk to Paul anytime. And when Doug took over, things got worse.” Sargeant shuddered. “My plan is to run a much tighter organization. Paul was a good man and a good organizer.”

“He was,” I agreed.

Sargeant’s lips pulled together. Almost a smile. “I intend to be better.” Placing his hands atop his desk, he regarded me. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

“I understand you’re meeting with all staff members one-on-one,” I began.

He nodded. “I think it’s wise to start off by getting to know the people working for me. I’ve met nearly everyone, but I want to give each person a chance to tell me about his job and about what he brings to the organization.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I know Bucky and Cyan are looking forward to their appointment with you.”

He blinked. Then blinked again. “Yes.”

“Are you talking with them . . . together?” I asked.

He puckered his lips, blinking yet again. “Why do you ask?”

“They said they were meeting you tomorrow. Together.”

“And?”

“That seemed a little odd to me.”

“Did it?”

“For one-on-one meetings, yeah, I’d say so.”

He did a little wiggle with his shoulders. “Nothing at all the matter with that. We have many things to discuss.”

I digested that, taking in the fact that the good news was that Bucky and Cyan weren’t lying about their alleged meeting with the chief usher. The bad news is that none of this made sense. Unless . . . I lowered my voice despite the fact that I knew Margaret wouldn’t be able to hear through the door. “Does this have anything to do with Virgil?”

He fidgeted. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve invited Virgil to work on the upcoming Durasi dinner with us. Even though you and I both believe the kitchen is better served with him gone, the fact is that he’s here until further notice. Rather than keep fighting, I thought I’d try enticing him to join us. Maybe turn him around.”

As I spoke, I watched Sargeant relax. “Good plan, Ms. Paras. I most definitely approve.”

“That said,” I went on, “there is still the matter of your meeting with Bucky and Cyan. Would you like me to attend, as well?”

He pressed his lips together as though considering it, but I could tell it was for show. Clearly, he didn’t want me involved this time. “Thank you, but no. I need to establish a relationship with both staff members, and having you here could slow that process down.”

I found all of this very odd. Still, Sargeant could often
be
odd and perhaps this was nothing more than he claimed: an attempt to get to know Bucky and Cyan better. If that was the case, I had to admit that my presence could serve to hinder communication. We had guidelines in place instructing employees how to air grievances. If my staff ever had complaints about me and I wasn’t able to resolve them, they’d be required to take their concerns to Sargeant. The idea of a problem of that magnitude was distasteful, but I had to admit that it could happen.

“Fair enough,” I said. “If you need anything or change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I do indeed.”

• • •

I PACED THE MCPHERSON SQUARE METRO PLAT
form that evening, staring at my feet as I walked back and forth, thinking about what Gav had said. I’d missed the prior train by mere seconds and as I paced, more commuters joined me, making me look up from time to time to avoid bumping into them. Within minutes, the area became too crowded for me to keep up my mindless treks up and down the long walkway. I heaved a sigh and stopped moving, choosing instead to stare at the endless sea of concrete rectangles that made up the underground Metro’s walls and ceilings. Dull and dim, they presented an ideal, bland surface on which to project my ruminations.

I chanced a look around. Much too crowded to move now. Instead, I bounced on the balls of my feet. Eager, anxious, and wary. I couldn’t wait to talk with Gav tonight to find out if he’d discovered anything of interest. Last we’d talked, he’d voiced his intent to discover more about the other victims killed alongside Evan Bonder.

A homeless woman carrying two large shopping bags mumbled what might have been an apology as she bumped my backside.

“It’s okay,” I said, but she didn’t react. I was delayed from returning to my reverie by a prickle teasing its way up the back of my neck. A memory tug. For some reason, the homeless woman seemed to have triggered it. But that made no sense. Shrugging it off, I went back to staring at the lifeless walls, replaying the scene at the Ainsley Street Ministry.

It had been quiet there, too quiet. The entire neighborhood had appeared desolate. I still wondered if anyone—a neighbor, perhaps?—had seen something and was too afraid to report it. Then again, maybe someone had. Maybe that was the reason for the misguided newspaper piece about a carbon monoxide accident. As Gav had pointed out, there were powerful forces at work here. Clearly, they’d spun the story. But to what end?

Again I thought about how the neighborhood had looked that night, what it had sounded and smelled like. The moment I did, I felt a pinch in my brain. I glanced at the homeless woman again. Her presence seemed to be reminding me that it
hadn’t
been completely quiet that day. Rubbing my hands up against my eyes, I recreated the scene . . . walking in . . .

Wait. Back up.

The homeless guy.

Before
we’d walked in, we’d parked down the street.

My hands dropped to my sides as a vision of the half-naked man with the walking stick shot to my brain. “He tried to warn us,” I said aloud. Embarrassed, I glanced side to side to see if anyone had heard me. The other commuters paid me no attention whatsoever.

I got a better look at the homeless woman. Overflowing with her belongings, her parcels were wide, bulky, and encased within plastic grocery bags that were wedged inside giant paper ones. I couldn’t hazard a guess at her age because she kept her head down and wore a purple, patterned scarf over her hair. The day was too warm for so many layers, but maybe it was easier for her to wear as much as she could rather than add it to the bundles she carried. The bags themselves seemed to weigh her down, and I watched people give her a wide berth as she made her way through the crowd, heading back to this end once again.

Her clothes were nondescript, but not dirty. Not ragged, either. She walked hunched over, like an elderly woman might, but she didn’t move like an old person. I knew I should ignore her, but curiosity nibbled at me once again. She didn’t fit the mold of a homeless person—not exactly. I wondered what her story was.

I wanted to get a better look at her face, but she didn’t raise her head. From this distance, about ten feet away, all I could see was a slightly bulbous nose and the bottom of her chin. She bumped into a few other commuters who hadn’t seen her coming, but she didn’t seem to care. She stopped to stare upward at the arrival time sign, giving me a better look at her face. Definitely not elderly; she was slim with high cheekbones and sucked-in features. Her nose was a smidge too large for her narrow face, and her mouth looked to be permanently downturned.

I followed her gaze, relieved to see that my train would be arriving in two minutes. Finally. Giving up on my perusal of the homeless woman, I smiled as the distant sound of the oncoming engine poured from the tunnel. The sooner I was home, the better.

As the sounds grew louder, I shuffled closer to the edge, along with the rest of the crowd. I heard a man on my right make a noise that sounded like “Oof,” then complain loudly, “Hey.” With a dramatic gesture, waving both hands in the air, he stepped away from the homeless woman. “Watch where you’re going, lady.”

On the move again, probably to snag a prime position to board, she ignored him. Commuters knew that there was no real precision at guessing where the train’s doors would land, but we all tried to predict it anyway. I stood with a smaller group, hoping to avoid the crush of boarding that usually happened when a train finally arrived. The homeless woman wound up next to me, still keeping her head down, her back hunched. The guy she’d bumped gave me a pointed eye roll before inching farther away from her.

In the past whenever I’d encountered a homeless person, they didn’t smell so great. Stale body odor usually coupled with weathered mustiness to deliver an unpleasant aroma. This woman, however, had no such scent about her. In fact, I could have sworn she smelled like lavender.

Less than a minute to go before the train was to arrive, I started to look down the tunnel again when I felt firm pressure against my back. In the breathless half-second it took for me to process what was going on, I felt my body weight forced forward. I stutter-stepped at the edge instinctively reaching out to grab something . . . anything . . . to regain my balance.

My fingers grazed another person’s bare arm. He or she, reacting just as instinctively, yanked away.

Helpless, I pitched forward. Fear gurgled in my throat and I saw nothing but the dark tracks below me, heard nothing but the approach of the rumbling train. I think I screamed. I know I turned. In an instant, like I was taking a picture, I saw that everyone on the platform had their attention on me. They were alarmed, eyes wide, mouths gaping. One or two reached out to grab me as the homeless woman gave me a final, vicious shove.

I fell sideways, landing hard on the tracks below with a bounce. I scrambled to my feet, aching and bruised. I’d avoided hitting the electrical rail—how? But didn’t have time to wonder. My mind screamed at me to climb back up the embankment. Even as adrenaline shot fireworks up the back of my spine, even as I lunged for the reaching hands, I knew it was too late.

The train’s light grew larger, its grinding approach louder. I felt the vibration beneath my feet and heard the screams of those above me, urging me to jump. Everything melded at once into a dull roar of terror.

Our brains are amazing instruments. Capable of processing information faster and more efficiently than any computer ever made, they leap into action at the first sign of trouble. In less time than it took to take a breath, I knew that there was no way I’d make it to safety above. No way at all. My brain had vaulted into high gear and had made all the necessary calculations, informing me dispassionately that there was not a chance of outrunning the train, and extremely unlikely I could reach the safety of the platform in time. It also reminded me, unnecessarily, that this engine was too powerful for me to stop with my bare hands.

My brain searched for another way out, assessing, calculating, reporting. Nope. Uh-uh. No. Not going to work. I could feel it surrender to the inevitable.

This was it.