Affairs of Steak Page 5

  “What’s wrong, Ollie?” Cyan asked when I made it back to the kitchen. “What did Paul say?”

  “Same old, same old,” I lied. “Keep everything under wraps. Don’t talk to the media. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Where’s Virgil?”

  “Went home right after you went up. Bucky’s gone for the day, too. I stuck around to make sure you were okay. And before you ask, we have everything under control. There are literally hundreds of items that can be put together for snacks or even full meals. We’re good.”

  “I knew we would be,” I said, “but I may just stay around to keep an eye on things.”

  “After the day you had? No way. Jackson’s covering the night shift. And you know how good he is.”

  I did. “Maybe it is better I head home. After today, I could use a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.”

  She eyed me critically. “You need more than that.”

  I didn’t want to go down this road right now. “Are we in good shape for the morning?”

  “Don’t change the subject. You need someone to come home to. You haven’t had a date since Tom.”

  “Trying to forget that one you arranged for me?”

  Cyan’s face colored. “I didn’t actually arrange it. That just sort of materialized while I was around. Anyway, I mean besides that one.” She pressed on, “You need to get out a little.”

  “Thanks, but I’m very happy right now,” I said, “very happy.”

  Again the critical look, but this time there was a sparkle in her eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  I opened my mouth to discourage further discussion, but she interrupted.

  “What’s his name?”

  No way. Not yet. Indicating the computer, I asked, “Any further updates on the big news? Have they identified the victims yet or shared any details?”

  “I haven’t checked. To be honest, I don’t want to hear it. I could tell by your face that Patty was one of them.” She put her finger to her lips. “I know not to say anything to anyone until I hear it on the news, but the idea that someone so young and so full of energy could have her life snuffed out…” Cyan’s eyes teared up. “What’s wrong with people?”

  I didn’t have an answer for her. “Tomorrow’s going to be crazy around here. When the news finally does hit, it’s going to be big.”

  “Not just because of Patty?”

  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t tell her who the second victim was. “Believe me, it’s going to be a very bad day tomorrow. I plan to get in extra early.”

  “Got it, Ollie. See you then.”

  I resisted the urge to check updates online before I left. If the news about White House Chief of Staff Cawley and Patty Woodruff hadn’t hit already, it would soon. Coverage would undoubtedly go on all night.

  Poor Doug Lambert, taking over for Paul in the midst of this chaos. I wished him the best and vowed to do whatever I could to make his job easier. Part of me seriously considered staying here through the night. And part of me was utterly relieved to be going home.

  All of a sudden I craved quiet, though not solitude. Even though no one waited for me back at my apartment, I hoped to be able to talk about all the events tonight with the one person I knew I could trust and who—conveniently—possessed the clearance to hear it all. There were times I wished I possessed the clearance to hear everything he knew, but you can’t have everything.

  I glanced at my watch and frowned at the little timepiece. At least another hour before he’d call. That is, if he called. Today’s events could drag him into meetings that lasted far into the night.

  Thank goodness the days are getting longer, I thought, as I ducked my head against the freezing wind to make my way across Pennsylvania Avenue. Despite the unpleasant weather and dusk settling in, there were still several dozen tourists outside the White House fence, staring between the iron bars and posing for pictures.

  There were also tourists taking pictures of the tent directly across the street from the White House. Connie was a fixture on Pennsylvania Avenue in Lafayette Park, where she maintained her steady vigil against nuclear arms. Our neighbor of sorts, Connie had occupied the same spot since the early 1980s. From what I understood, her campaign was one of the longest-running continuous political protests in history, if not the longest.

  She had to be over sixty by now, but living outdoors had aged her beyond her years. I worried for her, particularly on days like this. Every so often I stopped by and dropped off a few dollars. It was the least I could do.

  I hoped she was keeping warm inside her tent tonight. I also hoped that the last tourist, a hat-and-scarf-wearing man still reading her posters, would pull his hands out of his pockets long enough to drop a donation before he left. Whether he supported her protest or not, the poor woman had to eat.

  McPherson Square station was a few blocks from the White House. Most days I found the walk enjoyable. Not so much this evening. The other pedestrians hurried along as fast as I did, fighting the chill that nabbed us in its icy grip.

  As I made my way north on 15th Street, I became aware of a person walking quickly behind me. I turned to see the same man who had been outside Connie’s tent, hurrying as though to catch up. He lifted a hand in greeting. “Excuse me,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the street, “can you help me?”

  I glanced around, slowing my pace. I was ever suspicious of strangers, but there were plenty of other people around and he looked harmless enough. “What do you need?” I asked.

  Wearing a brown fedora, dark jacket, and red plaid scarf across his mouth and nose, he puffed out a dramatic breath. “Thank you. I may be lost.” Nothing about him set off any alarms, but when he took a step closer, I stepped back.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone at a restaurant around here.” He stretched his left arm out and tapped the watch on his wrist. I’d expected a Rolex, but it looked more like a department-store Swatch. “I’m late and I can’t remember the name of the place. Which stinks, because I’m starving.”

  He didn’t scan the street for potential meeting places, he stared at me—studying me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t like that I couldn’t see his whole face. “There are a lot of restaurants around here,” I said as I inched away, “why don’t you call your friend and ask?”

  He stepped closer. “Left my cell back at work. Hey,” he said as though the thought had just occurred to him. “Can I borrow yours? Just for a minute?”

  There seemed to be far fewer pedestrians than there had been just moments ago. I was definitely getting the creeps from this guy now. As he took another half-step closer, I said, “It won’t do you any good if his number is in your phone’s memory.”

  He blinked. “Right.” Switching gears, he continued, “You seem a little frazzled. Rough day at the office?”

  This conversation was very wrong, and I needed to get away without making any sudden moves. I worked up a smile of my own and took a step back, making sure to memorize all I could about this weirdo, just in case. Twenty-five to thirty-five years old, by my limited best guess. Dark eyes. No moles, no birthmarks in the part of his face I could see. “I hope you find your friend,” I said, giving a little wave. I started away at a brisk clip.

  Within seconds, he was at my side again. “Maybe if I describe the restaurant to you. It’s supposed to be famous for its gourmet menu. Do you know anything about food?”

  I didn’t slow my pace, didn’t look at him. “Not much.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Instinctively, I glanced over. I couldn’t tell whether he knew who I was or whether he was just socially inept. He shrugged, said, “Women always know the best restaurants,” then studied the streets, as though looking for an opportunity. “Where do you work?”

  Picking up my pace, I pointed east. “There’s a great steakhouse about a block from here.” I gave him the name. “On the next street. If that isn’t right, I’m sure they’ll be able to h
elp you find the right one.” I tapped my wrist. “Gotta run.”

  “Wait—”

  I didn’t. I flat-out ran the rest of the way to McPherson and reached the entrance to the station panting. My hungry friend didn’t follow, thank goodness, but when I peered back around the corner, I swore I saw him pull out his left-at-work cell phone and make a call.

  What had just happened?

  CHAPTER 5

  MY OWN CELL PHONE HAD RUN SO LOW ON power that I didn’t risk making a call unless it was an emergency. I kept the little device tight in my sweaty hand as I waited for the next Metro train. There were two men on the platform with me. One was a large fellow wearing a hat, a cell phone tight to his ear.

  The other man was elderly, white-haired, with bushy eyebrows. He leaned on a four-foot aluminum cane and stared down the tunnel as though awaiting the train’s arrival. Except he was staring in the wrong direction.

  Not that it mattered. The train came soon enough and I readied myself to get on, wondering if the elderly man needed assistance. Just as the doors opened, however, the man in the hat was behind us, nudging the old fellow in. I couldn’t tell for certain whether the two knew each other or whether the younger man was just impatient. Either way, you didn’t push people with canes. It just wasn’t right.

  Once inside the car, I made sure to study each and every commuter. Two young women chattered about an upcoming wedding. Neither gave me a passing glance. They were safe.

  The hat-wearing younger man sat behind the two girls, while the older man took a seat by the door. Apparently they didn’t know each other after all. Across the aisle from him, a younger man sat with his legs wide apart, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though ready to leap into action. When I walked past him, he gave me a curious look, but maybe that was because he’d felt the weight of my stare.

  Paranoia and I made our way to the middle of the car, choosing one of the many empty aisle seats. My senses were so heightened by my recent encounter that I sat ramrod straight, trying to quiet the thrumming of my heart. Again I wondered what had just happened outside. “Come on,” I whispered, urging the train to depart. I needed to get home. Today’s gruesome discovery was weighing heavily on my mind and was undoubtedly the source of my intense suspicion. Deep breath, I told myself, it’s safe now. It’s okay to relax.

  The man with the hat got up just as the Metro doors closed. I watched as he lumbered over. He wore a business suit under an open, camel-colored trench coat, and his hat was pulled low over his eyes. All I could see of his face was the deep cleft of his chin, until he pushed back the brim of his hat, made eye contact, and took the aisle seat across from me. “Cold draft over there,” he said.

  There were plenty of other choices in the nearly empty car. Why pick one so close to mine?

  Annoyed, I gripped my phone tighter, snugged my purse under my arm, and pretended to brush debris off the seat next to me. With a shake of my head and a disappointed huff, I stood up and walked farther back in the car, proud of my dramatic talents. Three rows behind the guy with the hat, I had a wide, unobstructed view of all occupants. I liked it much better this way.

  To my relief, the guy stayed in his seat. He pulled a Metro map from his pocket and spread it open across his lap, studying it for a few minutes before jamming a finger near the bottom to hold his place while he looked around. Apparently pleased by whatever he saw, he folded the map up again and slid it back into his pocket. Probably an out-

  of-towner on a business trip.

  The two women and the antsy young man got off at Foggy Bottom, leaving me with the elderly gent with the cane and Map Man for company. The older fellow’s head drooped lower and lower and I thought I heard him snore. The man with the map kept his hands folded as he read the ads on either side of the car. Neither of those two seemed particularly interested in me, so I tucked my phone back into my purse and stared out the window, able to relax a little, finally.

  Two stops later, we hadn’t picked up any passengers, but by then the old guy’s snores had taken on a life of their own. During an extended open-mouthed gurgle, Map Man turned to me and spoke in a stage whisper. “Should I wake him up? What if he misses his stop?”

  I shrugged. “If he’s not awake by Crystal City, maybe we should wake him then.”

  “Is that where you get off?”

  I looked away and pretended I hadn’t heard him.

  He pulled his map out again, but instead of reading it, he tapped it against his leg and kept looking at the elderly gentleman whose head bobbed and wagged with each bump and joggle of the train. We sailed through the next two stops without the old guy waking up. Map Man kept up a staccato rhythm against his leg, its tempo getting faster by the second as the old guy’s snores reverberated around us.

  “Maybe I’d better ask him.” Map Man got up and shook the sleeping fellow’s shoulder. “Hey, Gramps. You okay there?”

  Startled, the older guy blinked and leaned away from the intruder, clearly terrified. “What? What?” Frantically looking around, he asked, “Where are we? Is this my stop?”

  Our train began to slow as we approached Crystal City. I stood up.

  Map Man rolled his eyes. “Don’t know. Where do you get off?”

  He coughed. “Clarendon.”

  Oh no. I was about to offer to help when Map Man’s words froze me in my tracks. “Gramps, you got a problem. You didn’t just miss your stop. You’re on the wrong train. This is Blue. You should have switched at Rosslyn.” He pointed to the floor. “This is the wrong train, mister.”

  I stifled my surprise. Unless he possessed a photographic memory, an out-of-towner wouldn’t know that information off the top of his head. I fought the queasiness that took hold of my stomach. This could be nothing. A misunderstanding on my part. But I wasn’t about to take chances. Without making eye contact with Map Man, I approached the older gentleman.

  “Let’s get off here,” I said, taking his elbow and helping him to his feet as the train came to a stop. “I’ll get you onto the right train.”

  Map Man seemed surprised. “Is this your stop?” he asked.

  The doors opened.

  Map Man followed us out. “Let me help you.”

  “I’ll handle this, thanks.” I turned to my elderly charge. “What’s your name?”

  He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Bettencourt,” he said, pulling his arm from my grip, “Benjamin Bettencourt.”

  Map Man gave me a skeptical look over the back of Mr. Bettencourt’s head. “You sure you want to handle this on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Visibly vexed, Mr. Bettencourt stamped his cane on the ground. “For the love of Pete,” he said, “would you two stop acting as though I’m an idiot who’s lost all my marbles?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I just thought…”

  “I know what you thought,” he said, voice rising. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m feeble. Wait until you’re my age, girlie, and some do-gooder tries to manhandle you.”

  “My apologies,” I said, backing away. “I’m sure you’ll be fine from here.”

  “Darned right I am. This is my stop.”

  “I thought you said Clarendon,” I said.

  Bettencourt worked his mouth. “Yes, well. It’s none of your business where I get off. I just got confused for a minute. I was having a good dream before I got shaken awake.”

  Map Man pushed his hat farther back on his head and shot me an amused look. I didn’t return it. All I wanted was to get away. “Are you sure you don’t need help?” I asked Bettencourt.

  His face contorted as though highly annoyed. “My daughter will be waiting for me outside. She’s very important, you know.”

  Not totally convinced he really knew where he was, I was reluctant to leave him to his own wiles. And, selfishly, I figured that if I took charge of him, Map Man would back off. With any luck he’d get on the next train and disappear
. “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll go with you and wait until your daughter shows up. It’s getting late.”

  “You do-gooders are all alike,” he said, but at least he didn’t argue. As we set off for the escalators, he gripped my arm and spoke under his breath. “I may need to call her.”

  “Of course.” I turned to Map Man. “Another train should be here in a minute. Thanks for your help.”

  “This is my stop, too.”

  Oh great.

  With that familiar “something is not right” feeling tingling up my back, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. With any luck I’d have enough juice for this important call and another to Bettencourt’s daughter.

  “Who are you calling?” Map Man asked.

  I ignored him.

  Mr. Bettencourt cleared his throat several times as the number went to voicemail. “Hey,” I said into the receiver, “it’s me. I’m just getting off at Crystal City. Can you…can you meet me?” I didn’t know what else to say, so I hung up.

  We reached the top and made it through the turnstiles. “So, what’s your name?” Map Man asked.

  Again I ignored him. “Come on, Mr. Bettencourt, we’re almost there.”

  Map Man was nothing if not persistent. “My name’s Brad.”

  He looked like a Brad.

  “No need to give me the cold shoulder,” he said, trailing us through the exit and outside into the windy chill. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  When the frigid night wind hit me, I questioned myself. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly. To help out an older person. Why else would he hang out here in the cold if he didn’t have to? Maybe he knew the Metro system well and had brought home a map for a friend. Maybe he didn’t have an evil agenda and my fears were completely unfounded. I often picked up on conspiracies before others did. Trouble arose when I thought I detected one where none existed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “long day.”

  I looked up and down the street for Mr. Bettencourt’s daughter. “Is this the exit where you’ll meet her?” I asked. “Will she walk or drive?”