Home of the Braised (21 page)

“No it isn’t,” I said, “but go on. Anything else?”

“A couple of binders with recipes. He said they were his, too,” she added with concern. “Weren’t they?”

“I’m sure they were,” I said. “All I want to do is double-check.” I wandered to our bookshelf. We kept the bulk of our cookbooks in another room, due to space considerations, but we kept a few favorites handy. Mine were still in their usual spots but Virgil’s binders were most definitely missing. “Did he take any cookbooks?”

“He did. Just one, though. The agent who was with us was particularly interested in that book. Said she’d been meaning to get a copy for herself.”

In a heartbeat I realized which book Virgil had removed. It had been his, all right. I remembered the one time Cyan had asked to borrow it. She’d spilled tomato sauce on one of its pages as she prepared the dish. Virgil had blown up at her. Page fifty-three, if I remembered correctly. I think he’d complained about that spill for a week straight, always referencing the page number and hinting that Cyan should replace the book for him. I shook my head at the memory. Much-loved cookbooks always got winged. They were supposed to. I considered that part of the books’ job description.

“I’m glad his departure went smoothly.” Knowing Virgil, I would have expected him to leave in a far more wild and dramatic manner. “Thanks, Margaret.”

With more eagerness than warranted, she asked, “Did he take something that didn’t belong to him?”

Sorry to disappoint you.
“No, it looks like everything is in order here. Thanks for your time.” After I hung up, I turned to Bucky and Cyan. “He took his binders and one cookbook. How much you want to bet his secret recipes for today’s meals are out of our reach?”

Cyan tapped a finger against her lip. “The salads and sides shouldn’t be a problem.”

Bucky leaned over her shoulder. “We can do this,” he said. “So what if we put our own spin on things? For instance, here: Virgil planned on pork with mango and apricot chutney for dinner tonight. He doesn’t specify a method of preparation for the pork, but we can improvise. No problem.”

“You’re okay with that?” I asked. “Even though we have a major dinner to prepare in less than forty-eight hours?”

“We three have been called upon to be miracle workers before,” he said. “You have any doubt?”

“You know what?” I said, “I don’t. Not a one.”

WE FINALLY WRAPPED THINGS UP FOR THE DAY
by about six-thirty in the evening. We’d worked later than we were accustomed to, but considering how much we’d gotten accomplished, it was an excellent use of our time.

While Virgil’s absence necessitated extra effort on our parts, it also meant that Bucky, Cyan, and I were able to function more cleanly as a team. Long before Virgil had joined the kitchen, we’d established a rhythm that suited us all and resulted in meals prepared quickly, efficiently, and with minimal angst. We’d all fallen right back into that rhythm today without missing a step. Boy, it felt great.

I sprayed the center counter with disinfectant and wiped it dry. “Today was just like the old times, wasn’t it?” I said.

Bucky peeled off his apron and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. He gave me a half grin. “Best work we’ve done in months.”

“Even the SBA chefs we brought in for the pre-work today felt the difference. So much cheerier.” Cyan gave a little shudder. “Do you remember last time, when Virgil made that girl cry?”

Bucky snorted. “Since he’s been here, he’s made at least a
dozen
of our SBA chefs cry. Some men, some women. I’ll give him that, at least. He’s an equal-opportunity bully.”

“I wonder what will happen with him. ‘Administrative leave’ could mean anything,” Cyan said.

“I vote we don’t worry about it,” Bucky said. He stood in the doorway, with his finger on the light switch. “You ready to close up for tonight?”

I threw the dish towel I’d been using into the laundry bin. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” I said, and my stomach reacted with a light tremble. “Showtime.”

Cyan had grabbed her purse and I’d grabbed mine. Bucky shut off the lights. “What time are you both getting here in the morning?” he asked.

“Probably around four,” I said. “Which reminds me, I’ll have to let my favorite bodyguard know that he’s got an early call.”

“Is he meeting you out back tonight?” Cyan asked as she and Bucky turned toward the East Entrance, while I headed for the South.

“No, I texted him earlier to let him know he’s off duty this evening. I think he’s a little pushed in the nose that I don’t need him, again. Either that, or he suspects that I’m dodging him on purpose. I’m not, though. Gav is picking me up.” I grinned. “Thank goodness the Secret Service isn’t insisting we be chaperoned.”

“Hey, that’s right, weren’t you planning to pick up your marriage license this afternoon?”

I shook my head. “The only time I could get out, Urlich was busy, and vice versa. With the dinner tomorrow night, I know I won’t be able to get out there tomorrow, either. Maybe Monday.”

“Bummer,” Cyan said. “Do you and Gav have a romantic evening planned for tonight? It must be so much fun making plans about your future together.”

A trip to the hospital to visit a homeless man who’d been shot earlier in the day probably wouldn’t qualify as romantic or fun in Cyan’s mind, but I winked anyway. “You know it.”

Bucky gave me a shrewd look before walking out the door. “See you tomorrow, Chief. Be careful.”

• • •

“HOW DID YOU FIND OUT ABOUT THE KEEPER
getting shot?” I asked Gav as we sped toward the hospital. We were in a government-issue vehicle tonight, rather than Gav’s personal car. When I’d asked him how he’d managed to snag one while he was still on medical leave, he’d shrugged and told me that Tom had arranged for it.

“He and I are working together on this with a very small group of high-ranking people. We’ve all agreed that we can’t trust anyone else with what we know so far. Not yet,” he said. “Officially, I’m consulting. In fact, they called me in as soon as the Keeper was rushed to the hospital.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would anybody even think to call you? How does anyone know that you and I talked with him?”

“They don’t.” Gav kept his eyes on the road, and it occurred to me that we’d had most of our important conversations in a car lately. We’d spent precious little time together doing anything except talking about the five dead men at Evan’s place and the parts we unwittingly played in its investigation. “No one knows, and it’s important we keep it that way.”

“Then why did they call you—?”

“Because of the ballistics.”

My stomach jerked sideways. “I don’t understand.”

“Remember me telling you about the bullets that killed Secretary Cobault?”

Pulse beats throbbed inside my ears. This couldn’t be good. “Yes.”

“They’re the same kind that were used to shoot the Keeper.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“I know,” he said. “What does that tell you?”

Little clicks of understanding sounded in my brain, like itty-bitty magnets that clack together one at time, creating an instant column of comprehension. “Whoever shot the Keeper knew that we’d talked to him, didn’t they?” I didn’t wait for Gav to answer before continuing to build. “Which means that they must know what he told us. Or . . . at the very least, they have to suspect that we learned something from him.” I stared at Gav’s profile. “The timing is too perfect to be coincidence.”

“Yeah,” he said without turning.

“We were followed.” Suddenly wary, I looked out all the windows. “Do you think we’re being followed now?”

“That’s one of the reasons I opted for this car instead of my own. You didn’t tell anyone where we’re going, right?”

“No one.”

“As I said, Tom MacKenzie is fully apprised.” He shot a quick glance at me. “He’s doing what he can to look into the five deaths at Evan’s without raising any suspicions. Other than Tom, several members of the president’s cabinet, and the president himself, no one else knows what’s going on. And we’re doing our level best to keep it that way.”

“Sargeant?”

“We have not told him anything about the Ainsley Street murders.”

“What about Tyree and Larsen? And the other people who rushed in with gas masks?” I asked. “Surely they
have
to know what’s going on.”

“They do not. The decision has been made to insulate all the different factions.”

I considered that. “I get it. The fewer people who know the whole story, the better chance of noticing when the guilty party inadvertently blurts a piece of information they shouldn’t know.”

“Exactly.”

“The thing is”—fear slowed my words, but I had to ask—“this new ballistics information means that whoever killed the men at the Ainsley Street Ministry is trying to keep the Keeper quiet, too. Worse, it sounds as though you, Tom, and these shadowy, high-ranking officials are fairly certain that whoever is behind all this is someone on the inside.”

“That’s the theory we’re working with.”

Reasoning aloud helped me. “And the ballistics match means that whoever tried to kill the Keeper is the same person who killed Secretary Cobault—”

“Things have changed, Ollie. In a big way.” He worked his jaw. “When Tyree and Larsen interrogated me, they told me things I couldn’t tell you.”

“I remember.”

He shook his head. “At this point, I can’t decide whether they lied to me, or they’ve been lied to themselves.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m able to share some information with you now that I couldn’t share before.”

I waited.

“Tyree and Larsen inferred that a Durasi faction was behind the five murders.”

“What would the Durasi hope to accomplish?” I tried getting my head around that information. “And don’t political factions usually leap up in their eagerness to claim responsibility for things like that?”

“Exactly right. And, as you know, we haven’t heard a peep from any political corner. That was my first inkling that Tyree and Larsen were lying to me.”

“Or being lied to,” I added.

“Right. Or that.”

“What else?” I asked.

“Think about it.” His voice was so low I had to lean close to hear him. “What do we know?” he asked. “Five men killed, and an anonymous tip sends the authorities storming in. We stumble on the scene and all of a sudden there’s panic that we might know more than we’re letting on.”

“Go on.”

“Who gave them that tip?” Gav made a right turn, keeping his attention on the road. “We find that out and I believe we’ll find the person, or persons, who killed Evan and the other victims.”

“Do you suspect someone in the Secret Service?”

“I suspect everyone,” he said. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Something doesn’t make sense,” I said.

He looked at me as though he’d expected that response. “Go on.”

“Two of the dead men at the Ainsley Street Ministry, Evan and Jason, were working with the Secret Service and Kalto. Why would someone in either organization want those men dead?”

“Tom and I firmly believe that Jason and Evan knew about the pullout of forces from Durasi a short while before that information was made public.”

“Alec Baran knew at least a week ahead of time.”

Gav nodded. “I’m not surprised. We think Jason and Evan became aware of an undercurrent, a plot, or a coup of some sort that would serve to discredit that decision. Whoever is behind this is trying, perhaps, to get that decision reversed.”

“Who would benefit?” I asked. “Baran? He stands to lose millions once these contracts are up.”

“Another thing you don’t know is that several weeks ago, Tyree and Larsen were tagged by Baran to join Kalto. Once the decision was made to diminish forces, however, he pulled his offer of employment from both men.”

“That’s not enough to kill anyone over.”

“I agree, but it’s what we have so far.” Gav pulled into a parking spot in the hospital’s visitor’s lot. “I hope our Keeper friend can tell us more.”

• • •

THE KEEPER, WHO WAS BEING REFERRED TO AS
“John Doe” because the hospital couldn’t determine his real name, was in intensive care. A unit secretary at the fourth-floor desk checked our ID and consulted a list before we were allowed to visit. She leaned in close and spoke in a stage whisper. “Who
is
this patient? He’s not a serial killer or anything, is he?”

Gav answered her with a smile. “Which way, please?”

Frowning, she stood up. “I’ll take you.” As she led us down the hall, she tried again. “His type doesn’t usually get this kind of protection.” Affecting a shudder, she said, “He looks like that Unabomber guy.”

Gav didn’t respond.

She walked us down the hall to the heart of intensive care, where a Metro police officer was stationed outside the second glass-walled cubicle on the right. “Here you are,” she said, as though giving us one more chance to let her in on the man’s identity. “Ten minutes. No more.”

“Thank you.” The moment she was gone, Gav conferred with the cop, who assured us that no one else had been by to visit and that only approved doctors and staff members had interacted with the patient.

Inside the small, brightly lit area, the Keeper looked like a shriveled version of the man we’d spoken to a mere two days earlier. Even though his beard was gone—they’d shaved him clean—he was instantly recognizable. He had a thick, white dressing wrapped around his head, and an IV dripped into his bandaged left arm. His eyes were closed, and I could see his chest rise and fall beneath the flimsy, pastel-patterned hospital gown.

“I hate to wake him,” I said.

One of the Keeper’s eyes popped open. Then the other. His voice was raspy but clear. “Don’t whisper. It’s not polite.”

“You’re awake,” I said, moving to his side. “How do you feel?”

“How do you think?” he asked, lifting his bandaged arm and tapping his head. “I’m in this hospital because some fool shot me.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Gav, who looked as surprised as I felt. I hadn’t expected the Keeper to be this lucid or this aware. I wondered now if he’d been under the influence of some chemical when we’d seen him last. Or maybe he was under the control of drugs now—ones that helped him maintain the balance he sought.

Not wanting to waste a minute I asked, “Who did it? Who shot you?”

The Keeper gave me a hard look, then switched his attention to Gav for a moment before returning to me. “It was you two who came to talk to me, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “We asked you about the . . . um . . . demon. The one who killed Evan Bonder and his friends.”

“They came back,” he said. “The yin, the yang. The man, the woman. They came back.” He rubbed his hand against his bare chin, grimaced, then pointed straight at me. “They asked about you.”

“What did you tell them?”

His bushy brows came together. “I told them nothing.” If he had been stronger, his voice would have reverberated in the small area. As it was, it shook with fragile passion. “They are the demon. You are the enlightened. I see your shining auras, just as I saw their shadowy ones. I told them nothing. Nothing.”

“It’s okay.” I patted his arm. “Thank you for not telling them we came to see you. They asked about us?” I asked. “Specifically?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” In emphasis, he tried to sit up, then sucked in a gasp of pain before settling back with a small groan. “You left, they came. Talked to me. I pretended not to recognize them. Pretended I didn’t understand. I thought they would leave.” He tried to shift again, but changed his mind. “When I turned my back, they shot me. Left me for dead.”