“Does three o’clock work?”
“Splendid,” Bita said with another clap of her hands. “You are so kind, Chef Marin.”
“Trust me. It will be the highlight of my day.” Given how this morning had gone so far, Marin didn’t doubt her own words.
CHAPTER3
Griffin glanced discreetly around the corner before exiting the curator’s office. The center hall of the White House basement level was empty except for two ushers setting up the folding screens that would keep the visitors from wandering where they shouldn’t once the mansion opened up to guided tours.
“Dude, she isn’t likely to come down here before noon,” Adam Lockett said from beside him. “You don’t need to be on the lookout.”
They walked the ten yards down the hall to the office of the White House Secret Service Director, Steve Worcester, and stepped into the reception area.
“I’m not looking for anyone,” Griffin told his friend. “Except a thief. And now, it seems, a White House curator who is AWOL.”
Adam shot him a speaking look, but wisely let the subject drop. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that you found those paintings two nights ago and our curator hasn’t shown up for work since?”
“You know as well as I do that in our business, there’s no such thing as a coincidence.” He acknowledged the director’s secretary with a vague smile.
A flush crept up her neck to her cheeks in response. The young woman always reacted that way at the sight of Griffin. Hell, most women did. His sister jokingly referred to women’s reactions to him as the “Dimple Phenomenon.”
Griffin sighed and continued their conversation. “With the missing curator, it looks like I’ll be in town longer than I thought. Can I bunk in my old room at the townhouse?”
Adam shook his head sheepishly. “Dawson’s been squatting there for the past three months. Much as Ben and I’d rather shoot hoops with you, the guy’s pretty low right now, and we can’t kick him out.”
“Dawson? Why isn’t he living with his wife and three kids?” Griffin asked, even though he could guess what Adam’s answer would be.
“Becausetheyare living with an orthodontist in Rockville. One with normal working hours who doesn’t miss every major holiday. Or bring home a gun.”
The two men shared an empathetic look. Both had witnessed the toll a career in the Secret Service had on family life. Griffin would never subject a woman to such an unstable relationship. Even with that mythical thing called love, it was never enough. Thankfully his career provided all the fulfillment he needed.
Griffin rapped on the director’s open door. Both men made their way into his office just as Director Worcester was slamming down the phone.
“The admiral—excuse me, chief usher—will see us in his office in five minutes,” the director said with a grimace.
An inherent power struggle between the Secret Service and the usher’s office had always existed. But tensions had ratcheted up a notch with an admiral occupying the chief usher post. Clearly, it rankled the director to have play the subordinate.
“Still no word from the curator?”
Griffin shook his head. “According to his secretary, he usually doesn’t wander in until well after nine.” All three men glanced at their watches. It was nine-twenty.
“Lockett, sit outside his office,” the director ordered as he stood up and pulled on his suit jacket. “If there’s no sign of him by nine-thirty, buddy up and go check out his residence. I want to know where this guy is.”
“Got it, boss.” Adam slapped Griffin on the shoulder. “Welcome back to the Big Show, Griff. Try not to break any more hearts than usual while you’re here.”
Griffin shot his friend a menacing look. “When you’re done with your comedy routine, maybe you can email with those sniper profiles I asked you about?”
“I still don’t think anyone else besides me could have made that shot, but I’ll humor you and send you a list anyway,” Adam joked as he headed back down the hall.
The director and Griffin went in the opposite direction, taking the stairs up two flights to the chief usher’s private office in the old clock room on the mezzanine level. The admiral was waiting for them at the top of the stairs.
“We just received a call from the Falls Church Police Department,” he said without preamble. “They’ve found our curator.”
One look at the admiral’s face told them everything.
“How did he die?” Griffin asked as they followed him into his office.
“Wes hung himself.” The admiral gestured for them to take a seat at the conference table. Director Worcester was already on his cell phone to Adam instructing him to coordinate with the police.