Part 15 (1/2)
”And what do you believe?”
Gottard sighed. ”I don't know. Joshua Jenkins said you paid him a visit. He was extremely interested in your 'career.'”
Daniel waited silently. He'd learned years ago that the best information sometimes came in a void.
”Jenkins said he gave you some information on Sarah's background.”
”He did.”
”And did she confirm any of it?”
”She denied it all, unequivocally. In fact, she feels Jenkins was operating under a personal vendetta against her father. And I'm not so certain she isn't correct. Jenkins said there was an informant, someone who was feeding him information about Cal Covington.”
”And did you discover who that informant is?”
Daniel hesitated. ”Jenkins didn't give me any names.”
The first smile crossed Gottard's face. ”Which isn't any answer at all, Agent Dubonet.”
”Agent?” Daniel waited, wondering what game Gottard played now.
”That's as ambiguous as your answer. And possibly as dangerous. It's a dance, Dubonet. The gathering of this type of information is a dance. It's your turn to lead.”
Chapter Thirteen.
Blast those photographers! How can I get near Socks if they 're going to go into a motor-drive frenzy every time the First Cat tries to peep out the window? I can see now why Socks had to hire me to do his investigating. The poor cat can hardly do his business without making the national news. If I ever wanted fame, I know now that it isn't in the political arena. ''Tis far, far better to suffer amongst the ma.s.ses, unknown and unfettered.
No time for poetic philosophizing. I have to get inside the White House. There's something troubling me, and it involves Chef Andre. The man who peppered Bureau Boy last night was tall. And there was something familiar, no pun intended, about him. A peculiar odor. Not toothpaste, after-shave, soap or powder, or any of the other perfumed substances that humans use to hide their natural scent. I'm not particularly fond of the seasoning, but I do believe it was garlic. A man who either cooks a lot or had recently eaten a lot of garlic!
Possibly a chef, would you think? I would. A jealous chef?
There's my break. A delivery man is hauling fresh seafood into the kitchen entrance. With a spurt of speed and a little luck- Yes! Now to find Chef Andre and then Socks.
There's the kitchen headquarters, and Chef Andre is in the middle of what appears to be a staff meeting. Guys and gals in white suits, listening very closely to Andre run over the daily schedule. He's tall, slender, and he has that very slight accent. More New Orleans than French, but just enough to sound foreign. Hmm. When he spies me, all h.e.l.l is going to break loose, and I can't get close enough to him. Not that it matters. Every single one of these chefs smells of onions and garlic and seasonings. Drat! Better take a look at the calendar. To satisfy a point of personal curiosity.
Here it is, and yes, Luanda's party is marked down for tomorrow. Even though no one from the White House staff is working it, it's on the calendar. Backtracking, I see the Bingington soiree is here, as well as junior's birthday party for the Georgia senator. Odd that outside jobs are kept on the main calendar. Very odd. Why would Andre care? How would he even know?
Now it's time to vacate and find my boss. Outside the hustle of the kitchen, this place is something else. Security people everywhere. All very official. All very professional. All very absorbed in their own work, thank goodness. I'm just strolling along acting as if I belong. Now I can make a dash for the personal quarters-the domain of the First Cat.
Socks, I hope you have some answers for 009. This feline is in need of some procedural advice.
SARAH ROTATED her tired and throbbing shoulders. She'd shopped, loaded, unloaded, mixed, seared, sauteed, battered, braised, pureed, pitted and pared until she couldn't think straight. The menu was under way for the party of the year. She would turn out a table that would make Lucinda Watts feel down-South at home and uptown elegant. The pecan-fudge flambe' would be the crowning touch, just a little razzle-dazzle for a woman who knew the fine art of show business. Sarah smiled. It wasn't that she was a better cook than many of the fine chefs working in D.C. It was that she had an intuitive sense of her clients and what they liked. With a flaming dessert, Lucinda would feel that she'd gotten her money's worth. And every dish was in progress.
She tried not to check the clock. The hour hand was creeping along, and still there was no word from Daniel. Had they arrested him? That was a distinct possibility. Would he call? Would they allow him to?
Sarah knew the Miranda law as well as any television cop, but she also knew that once a man disappeared into the bowels of the federal intelligence community, rights weren't always honored. After all, did the FBI have the right to hound her father, literally, to his grave? Did they have a right to decide that he was guilty of some crime without even a sc.r.a.p of evidence?
The answer to both questions was no. But they'd done it, anyway. Her fingers fumbled in a drawer and picked up a pencil. Trying to keep her eyes off the clock, she started making a list of the serving pieces she needed to gather.
Minutes pa.s.sed before she glanced at the clock and realized she was chewing the pencil. There was only one item on her list.
She got up and paced the kitchen. She had garlic baking in the oven and a half dozen dishes in various stages of production. She couldn't go hunt for Daniel. Mumbling dire curses under her breath, she looked up the FBI number and placed the call.
Paul Gottard was Daniel's boss, and she asked for him. A young woman explained that he could not come to the telephone.
”I'm looking for Daniel Dubonet,” Sarah explained. ”Has he been in?”
There was a slight hesitation. ”I couldn't say,” the woman answered.
Sarah thanked her and replaced the phone, knowing that the secretary was lying. Daniel had been there, but they were not acknowledging the visit. Did they have him somewhere in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building? It was a ludicrous-and terrifying-thought.
She called his apartment and let the phone ring. As a last step, she dialed Uncle Vince. There was no answer there.
Another five minutes pa.s.sed and Sarah felt the tension knot tighter. Where was Daniel, and what was he doing? When he did finally call-and he had to call or show up-she was going to give him something to worry about.
And Familiar, too. That rascally cat had abandoned s.h.i.+p as soon as they'd arrived back in the city. One day Sarah was going to follow him around and see exactly where he went.
She was so deep into her interior tirade that the sound of the front bell ringing didn't register until she heard Sandra Fowler's sharp voice.
”I will not have any more of this, Sarah Covington. Not another minute, do you hear me?”
Sarah wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and pushed through the door into the shop.
”What-?”
”No excuses. I know you're behind this. Those telephone men climbing all over the poles. My phone-my business phone-was down for two hours yesterday afternoon, and this morning it sounds like a tin can! My clients depend on me to have a working telephone.”
”What-?”
”You young folks have to have all the latest gadgets and doodads. It's ridiculous. You don't care who you inconvenience, just as long as you have everything your own way.”
”Hold on a-”
”Well, I've taken this matter into my own hands. I've called the phone company myself, and they're looking into you. If you don't watch it, missy, they're going to cut your telephone out completely. It's a privilege to own a phone, not a right. A privilege. And when you abuse it, you lose it.”
”Wait!” Sarah slammed a hand down on the counter. The loud noise seemed to short-circuit Sandra, and for the first time since she had entered the building, she paused.
”I haven't ordered any new telephone equipment. I haven't even been in town.”
”You ordered that cable thing. That new...” Sandra stopped at the look on Sarah's face. ”I'm sure they said it was your phone. I'm positive.”
”Why would I want cable through my phone when I never have time to watch television?” Sarah felt like she was talking to a hardheaded child.
”But they said-”
”I can't help what they said. I haven't ordered any new phone equipment or changes. In fact, they were working on the lines a few days ago. There had been some problem.” As she talked, a nagging worry grew at the back of her mind. Two telephone men, two separate phone incidents. It wasn't just coincidence. What was it Daniel told her-there was no such thing as coincidence in a law officer's mind.