Julie Hyzy

Eggsecutive Orders

The third book in the White House Chef Mystery series, 2010

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Sincere thanks to the great people at The Berkley Publishing Group, especially Natalee Rosenstein and Michelle Vega. And to copyeditor Erica Rose. And to the folks at Tekno, especially Marty Greenberg, John Helfers, and Denise Little.

A big and special thank-you to my daughter Sara, who always reads first.

It’s great to have experts to turn to-and my sincere gratitude to Diane Springer who-between VJA marching band competitions-helped me come up with an efficient way to kill a character. Any and all errors with regard to this method, and its subsequent discovery, are mine.

Thanks to reader Barbara Czachowski for her catch in State of the Onion. Ollie greatly appreciated Barbara’s kind correction and made note of it in this adventure while she and her family toured the National Mall.

Thanks to Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Thriller Writers of America for camaraderie and support, and thanks especially to wonderful readers who take the time to let me know what they think of Ollie’s adventures.

CHAPTER 1

THE PHONE RANG WHILE I WAS BRUSHING MY teeth. Phone calls at four in the morning usually mean one thing: bad news.

I quickly swished water in my mouth to clear away residual foam, and hurried to my bedroom to stop the unnerving jangle.

As executive chef at the White House, I make it a point to get to work every morning before the sun comes up, so I reasoned that this might be one of my staff catching me at home to call in sick. Either that, or my mom and nana were having trouble getting to the airport. Despite the fact that our kitchen had a lot to do before the Easter Egg Roll next week, I sorely hoped this was, indeed, a staffer calling in. I didn’t want to think that my mother and nana might cancel their plans to visit me.

I reached for the handset. A split second before I answered, I glanced at the Caller ID.

Not my mom. Not a staffer.

The display read simply: “ 202.”

The White House was calling me.

“Olivia Paras here,” I said as I picked it up.

“Ollie, it’s Paul.” Paul Vasquez, the White House chief usher, wouldn’t call me at home unless it was a dire emergency.

“What happened?” I asked.

“There’s a car waiting for you downstairs.”

“Downstairs, here?” I asked. Although I’d been awake for nearly an hour, my brain was slow to comprehend. “Downstairs where I live?”

“That’s right,” he said slowly. “Two agents will escort you to the residence today.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You’ll be briefed when you get here. Just hurry. They’re waiting for you now. Follow their lead.”

“But-”

“Ollie.” His tone forced me to focus.

“Yes?”

“For God’s sake, don’t say anything to anybody.”

He hung up before I could ask what he meant.

Two Secret Service agents were waiting for me in the lobby when I came out of the elevator. Both male, both large, they were clad in nearly identical outfits of navy pants and gray sport coats, and wore similar buzz-cut hair. In a more chipper situation, I may have asked them if they were Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but I didn’t recognize either of these guys, and neither wore an expression that encouraged levity.

The one closest to me nodded solemnly. “Ms. Paras?”

I nodded back.

“This way,” he said. He started for the front doors, gesturing for me to walk directly behind him. I couldn’t see around his broad back, and was about to step aside when his twin came in close behind, effectively making an Ollie sandwich.

I started to ask, “Why all the-”

But shouts from outside drowned out my question. “There she is!”

I still couldn’t see much, but just as the damp morning air hit my skin, the sound of agitated scuffles reached my ears. A crowd rushed up, encircling us. Stark bright lights silhouetted the agent in front of me. I winced at the intensity and at the sharp shouts: “Ms. Paras, Ms. Paras!”

In an effort to see better, I started to move around Agent Number One, but Number Two placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Keep moving.”

Half-turning, I started to ask what was going on, but the agent gripped harder, urging me forward.

Someone thrust a microphone into my face-and kept up with our brisk pace until the agent behind me strong-armed him away.

A woman’s voice, shrill and plaintive: “Ms. Paras! What went wrong at dinner last night?”

Instinctively I turned. The agent tightened his grip on my shoulder, but that didn’t stop me from hearing another voice boom: “What was in Carl Minkus’s food?”

My right foot bumped the agent in front of me and I stumbled. Tweedledum’s hold prevented me from falling on my face.

“She fainted!” someone yelled.

“No I didn’t!” I shot back.

“You didn’t?” someone shouted. “You’re saying this wasn’t your fault?”

A female voice this time: “Then what killed Carl Minkus?”

That stopped me. “What?” Carl Minkus was dead?

The two agents trundled me forward into the waiting car. A third agent held open the big black car’s rear door as Tweedledee stepped to one side. The enormous men formed a wall on either side of me, with only one path open for me to go. I scrambled to safety.

Media mongrels clambered around the open door until the agents bulldozed them back. Amid all the shouting, I heard one high voice ring out: “What was in his food? And who prepared it?”

One of the Tweedles lowered himself next to me. I scooched to the other side, where reporters peered in the side windows. Armed with microphones and manic inquisitiveness, they banged on the glass, straining to be heard.

The agent next to me pulled his door closed, effectively hitting the mute button on the craziness outside. I was bewildered by the sudden realization that we were in one of the agency’s bulletproof vehicles. We pulled away slowly, then picked up speed as the gaping pack of news guerillas fell away.

I resisted the temptation to sink into the vehicle’s soft leather seats and make myself small. Instead, I perched forward, facing the agent next to me. “Carl Minkus is dead?”

His twin was driving, the third agent next to him in the passenger seat.

Agent Number Three was a little younger than his counterparts-smaller, too. And while the Tweedles remained stone-faced, Number Three blinked at my question.

I focused on him. “What is going on?”

With his defined jawline and classic profile, Number Three reminded me a little of Tom. Younger though. He had the look of a newbie Secret Service agent.

When he blinked again, and started to turn, the agent next to me spoke up. “You will be briefed when we arrive,” he said.

The agent in the passenger seat licked his lips and shifted his eyes front.

I sat back, trying to piece things together. Carl Minkus was a big shot with the National Security Agency. I didn’t remember his exact title with the NSA, but I knew he was as much admired as he was feared. He’d been a bulldog fighting terrorism. Alone, he’d been responsible for the prosecution of more than a thousand suspected terrorists. Lately he’d turned his sights inward, accusing American citizens of terrible deeds. He’d gone after several high-profile celebrities, and had ruined more than one career. Some people called him the Joseph McCarthy of terrorism. Last night he’d been among the president’s guests at dinner, but I didn’t know whether the president had invited him to chastise or to congratulate.