eyes.
“You called her?” Had they argued?
“Yeah. She was still in New York at her hotel. She’d sounded excited yet nervous. But she wouldn’t say what was bothering her. You’ve got to help me, Casey. You were there that morning. You’ve got to help me understand why someone would do this to her.”
Perhaps if I’d had a full night’s sleep or if my head didn’t still feel as if someone was playing the bongo drums inside it, I wouldn’t have made the promise I’d made to him that night. Even as I spoke the words, I realized the mistake I was making. But that didn’t stop me.
“I’ll help you, Lorenzo.” I placed my hand on the mystery novel in front of me as if swearing on a Bible. Despite my fears, I vowed to do something that would make the Miss Marples of the world proud. And who knew? Maybe someday people would write novels about me. “I’ll find out why someone killed your Pauline.”
Chapter Eight
“ H OLD up,” Fredrick called from inside the guard hut as I approached the White House gate the next morning. A moment later, Fredrick, his red hair bright against the robin’s egg blue sky, rushed out of the small white structure. He held up his ruddy hands when I started to wave my temporary security card in front of the reader. “I need you to wait out there.”
“Is the White House still on high alert from yesterday?” I asked, but Fredrick wasn’t listening.
Perhaps the banking summit protesters still had the Secret Service worried. I glanced behind me. The Secret Service and police had a larger presence than usual in the park today.
The protesters, dressed in old, tattered clothes, had also doubled in number from yesterday. Their angry shouts had grown louder, more frantic.
Joanna Lovell, attorney-at-law, was at the center of them with the hem of her shiny pale blue housecoat flapping. Many in her group waved oversized photo cutouts of the CEOs attending the White House meetings. Slogans such as WHERE’S MY BAILOUT? and CORPORATE GREED: STEAL FROM THE POOR AND GIVE TO THE RICH and THEY TAKE OUR MONEY AND GET RICH WHILE WE LOSE OUR JOBS had been scrawled in bold letters across cartoon moneybags the cutout bankers clutched in their hands.
“Fredrick? What’s going on? What’s the holdup?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Calhoun—” he started to say.
“Casey,” I corrected. He’d always called me Casey.
“Ms. Calhoun,” he said, more firmly this time, his face mottling several shades of red. “I’m not to let you pass until you’ve been searched. Please wait there. I need to make a call.” He started to duck back into the tiny wooden hut. “I’ll try to make this quick,” he tossed over his shoulder, and then was gone.
I leaned against the iron fence trying to look nonchalant while I waited for Fredrick to return. A West Wing staffer eyed me with caution as she passed through the gate. No one dashed out of the guard hut to stop her, which made me suspect my detention was personal.
Goodie.
“Excuse me.” A dark-haired man dressed in a navy blue jogging suit brushed past me as he came through the first gate. He carried a briefcase up to the small white guard hut. “I need to get this to Richard Templeton. He’s attending the banking summit,” the man explained to Fredrick, who’d emerged from the hut to greet him. “I’m Wallace Clegg, Richard’s personal assistant.”
“I’ll have to make a call,” Fredrick said.
“Can you do it right away? These are important papers for this morning’s meeting.” Clegg’s voice was strained, like the man was on the verge of a panic attack.
“Don’t worry. Once I get clearance, I’ll fetch a staffer to carry it to him directly.”
When Fredrick disappeared into the guard hut, Clegg glanced back at me. He gave a nervous smile. “It’s been one hell of a morning.”
“Hopefully, it’ll get better,” I replied.
He nodded. “Hopefully.” His hair was a shiny blue-black. His square features made him
“You called her?” Had they argued?
“Yeah. She was still in New York at her hotel. She’d sounded excited yet nervous. But she wouldn’t say what was bothering her. You’ve got to help me, Casey. You were there that morning. You’ve got to help me understand why someone would do this to her.”
Perhaps if I’d had a full night’s sleep or if my head didn’t still feel as if someone was playing the bongo drums inside it, I wouldn’t have made the promise I’d made to him that night. Even as I spoke the words, I realized the mistake I was making. But that didn’t stop me.
“I’ll help you, Lorenzo.” I placed my hand on the mystery novel in front of me as if swearing on a Bible. Despite my fears, I vowed to do something that would make the Miss Marples of the world proud. And who knew? Maybe someday people would write novels about me. “I’ll find out why someone killed your Pauline.”
Chapter Eight
“ H OLD up,” Fredrick called from inside the guard hut as I approached the White House gate the next morning. A moment later, Fredrick, his red hair bright against the robin’s egg blue sky, rushed out of the small white structure. He held up his ruddy hands when I started to wave my temporary security card in front of the reader. “I need you to wait out there.”
“Is the White House still on high alert from yesterday?” I asked, but Fredrick wasn’t listening.
Perhaps the banking summit protesters still had the Secret Service worried. I glanced behind me. The Secret Service and police had a larger presence than usual in the park today.
The protesters, dressed in old, tattered clothes, had also doubled in number from yesterday. Their angry shouts had grown louder, more frantic.
Joanna Lovell, attorney-at-law, was at the center of them with the hem of her shiny pale blue housecoat flapping. Many in her group waved oversized photo cutouts of the CEOs attending the White House meetings. Slogans such as WHERE’S MY BAILOUT? and CORPORATE GREED: STEAL FROM THE POOR AND GIVE TO THE RICH and THEY TAKE OUR MONEY AND GET RICH WHILE WE LOSE OUR JOBS had been scrawled in bold letters across cartoon moneybags the cutout bankers clutched in their hands.
“Fredrick? What’s going on? What’s the holdup?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Calhoun—” he started to say.
“Casey,” I corrected. He’d always called me Casey.
“Ms. Calhoun,” he said, more firmly this time, his face mottling several shades of red. “I’m not to let you pass until you’ve been searched. Please wait there. I need to make a call.” He started to duck back into the tiny wooden hut. “I’ll try to make this quick,” he tossed over his shoulder, and then was gone.
I leaned against the iron fence trying to look nonchalant while I waited for Fredrick to return. A West Wing staffer eyed me with caution as she passed through the gate. No one dashed out of the guard hut to stop her, which made me suspect my detention was personal.
Goodie.
“Excuse me.” A dark-haired man dressed in a navy blue jogging suit brushed past me as he came through the first gate. He carried a briefcase up to the small white guard hut. “I need to get this to Richard Templeton. He’s attending the banking summit,” the man explained to Fredrick, who’d emerged from the hut to greet him. “I’m Wallace Clegg, Richard’s personal assistant.”
“I’ll have to make a call,” Fredrick said.
“Can you do it right away? These are important papers for this morning’s meeting.” Clegg’s voice was strained, like the man was on the verge of a panic attack.
“Don’t worry. Once I get clearance, I’ll fetch a staffer to carry it to him directly.”
When Fredrick disappeared into the guard hut, Clegg glanced back at me. He gave a nervous smile. “It’s been one hell of a morning.”
“Hopefully, it’ll get better,” I replied.
He nodded. “Hopefully.” His hair was a shiny blue-black. His square features made him
Similar Books
