“What if no one was supposed to be in the pastry kitchen?” Griffin asked. “What if the fire was meant to be a distraction? Maybe it was a literal smoke screen for another heist. The arsonist couldn’t have known that Lillie would be using that particular oven. Or that I would be up there snooping around. You said all that the perp needed to do was to preheat the oven and then leave.”
“So why the jammed door and window?” Ben countered.
“To keep the fire going for as long as possible, while whoever was behind it stole whatever it was they intended to steal.”
Ben shrugged. “It’s as good a theory as any.”
Right now, it was the only theory Griffin had. Which meant he was jogging fifty paces behind Marin Chevalier as she zigzagged her way along the Mall on her way back to the White House. Thanks to one of the staff from the Uniformed Division, he’d discovered she liked to jog after lunch most days. Griffin had spent thirty minutes this afternoon blending in with tourists while waiting outside the south entrance of the White House for her to emerge before his patience had eventually paid off. His plan was to catch up to her as she returned to the southeast gate and make his appearance seem unintentional. Thanks to the director’s comments yesterday, she already knew he was in the White House on special assignment. The last thing he needed was for her to suspect thatshewas that special assignment.
She crossed Fourteenth Street and jogged to one of the walking paths in front of the Washington Monument. Griffin had to sprint to make the light so that he could keep her in his sights. Her pace hadn’t slowed in the thirty minutes he’d been following her and Griffin had to admire her stamina. He wasn’t the only one admiring Marin Chevalier, however.
A man wearing maroon nylon shorts and a gray muscle shirt had sped up to follow the pastry chef across the street, as well. With the fluid gait of a seasoned runner, the guy had been keeping pace with her from a discreet distance which meant he was about twenty feet in front of Griffin. The baseball cap the man wore bobbed along as he kept Marin’s ass in his sights. Not that Griffin could blame the guy because the woman did have a very fine ass. Clearly, he’d been out in the hot sun too long because Griffin had a sudden vision of his hands on that ass, not to mention other parts of her ample, well-proportioned body.
The light at Constitution Avenue was green and Marin jogged across without breaking her stride. Griffin gave his head a shake to refocus his thoughts. The guy pursuing her picked up his pace as they circumvented the Ellipse headed for the White House. Which meant Griffin had to pick up his own pace if he was going to make their meeting look accidental before the other guy decided to hit on her. He cursed the bum knee he’d aggravated kicking down the kitchen door yesterday, and he practically had to sprint to overtake the other guy. The three of them reached E Street at the same time and stopped at the light. Griffin sauntered up on her right side and blew out a breath.
The chef did a double take before she recognized him. “Agent Keller. This is... unexpected.”
So was the sound her voice, raspy with exertion. Griffin’s mind wandered to the bedroom, wondering if she sounded that erotic after sex and suddenly his shorts were tight around his junk. He needed a distraction, or he’d be forced to abandon his casual questioning of her for a cold shower.
Griffin looked to her other side expecting to see the other guy, but he was long gone. Weird. It was almost as if the man had vanished into thin air. A surge of macho pride raced through him at having chased a competitor off before remembering he wasn’t pursuing Marin Chevalier for anything other than information. The sooner he figured out this piece of the puzzle, the sooner he could go back to New York and his pursuit of The Artist.
“Are you coming, Agent Keller?”
The light had turned green. The chef stood in the center of E Street looking a little like a warrior princess with her long legs and determined chin. How had he thought this woman was a dough-faced cherub? There was more to Marin Chevalier than his initial impression. He was going to make it his mission to find out what that was.
Two of the K-9 dogs stood like sentries at the southeast gate. Despite the warm afternoon temperatures, their feet were kept cool by an air-conditioned pad they stood on. The Uniformed Division officer checked their IDs before waving them through the metal detectors.
“I heard you were back, Agent Keller,” the officer said.
“Just for a few days, Shorty,” Griffin replied.
“That’s long enough.”
Marin looked at the officer, clearly appalled at his jibe.
The officer shrugged. “I’m only saying what every single guy in DC is thinking. None of us stand a chance with the ladies when Prince Charming here is around.”
“Right,” she said with a dismissive shake of her head before strolling onto the path leading through President’s Park. Griffin wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or not when he fell into step beside her.
“So, you worked at the White House once upon a time?” she asked with a cheeky grin, probably amused with her own fairy tale reference.
“Yeah. I was on President Manning’s detail when he was running for office and then when he first came to the White House.”
“But you’re not anymore.”
“Nope.”
They turned onto the path parallel to the White House and continued toward the West Wing. The chef stopped in the middle of the pavement and crossed her arms over her alluring chest while she simply stood and stared at the White House.
“I don’t know if I could ever leave this place,” she said, her tone reverent. “It’s magical. The grounds look so impressive with the spring flowers and trees in full bloom. When I think of all the famous people who have lived here, I feel privileged to come to work every day. Working here is like working in a museum surrounded by treasured artifacts and so much history.” She looked at him expectantly, apparently waiting for him to wax poetic about the White House. Griffin was more interested in her fondness for the “treasured artifacts.”
“It’s a place to work.”
With another shake of her head, she ambled on past the tennis court and the children’s garden and up toward the putting green on the South Lawn. “So where do you work now?”
Griffin pondered how much to tell her. If she were part of the counterfeiting ring, she’d likely know the investigation was being spearheaded out of the New York office. He decided to keep things vague so as not to spook her. “I work out of a number of field offices.” Technically, not a lie. “Wherever they need someone to troubleshoot a situation.”
“Like Wes’s death?”