Buffalo West Wing Read Free Page A

and Josh,” Cyan read aloud.
    “Where did it come from?”
    She shrugged. “No idea.”
    At that moment, Bucky returned, carrying two trays of freshly washed cooking utensils. “Who left these wings here?” I asked him.
    Dropping the utensils on the countertop, he peered into the box. “Don’t know, but they look delicious. What kind are they?”
    I told him.
    “Mmm. Good choice.”
    I stared at the note again. “Whoever left this clearly intended for the Hyden kids to have it.”
    “You use your finely honed deductive skills to figure that one out?” Bucky asked
    I shot him a glare but ignored the jab. Although Bucky was always sarcastic, I couldn’t ask for a better chef in the position of first assistant. He and I had an unspoken agreement: He would do his best to keep the sarcasm to a minimum, and I would try to overlook it when he slipped. Most of the time it worked. Bucky had even learned to apologize—occasionally—when he was really out of line.
    I tapped the box. “My point is that whoever left this here must be new.”
    Bucky raised his eyebrows. “And ...?”
    “I can’t serve these to the kids until I find out where they came from.”
    Cyan laughed. “Why not?”
    Was she kidding? “You know how it works. Nothing gets served to the First Family unless it comes through proper channels.”
    “But it must have come from someone who works here. The only people in the White House today are official personnel.” She shrugged again. “And everyone here is cleared.”
    “Yeah,” I said under my breath, “until they’re not.” I’d had enough run-ins with people who should have been trustworthy, but who’d proved to be anything but. “I’ll talk with the Secret Service. In the meantime, I’ll store this in the refrigerator until we find out who left it here.”
    Cyan grinned. “Careful. If you leave the box in there too long, those wings might start flying off. That’s their most popular flavor and my all-time favorite.”
    “I wouldn’t let you eat any of these either,” I said. “Not until we figure out what it’s doing here. This is very odd.”
    I picked up the box and headed toward the refrigeration area. Just as I reached for one of the stainless steel handles, I sensed a presence in the doorway.
    “Good afternoon, Ms. Paras.”
    Peter Everett Sargeant didn’t smile when he delivered his greeting. So I didn’t smile when I responded. “What can I do for you, Peter?”
    He stepped closer. Dressed impeccably, he wore a custom suit and perfectly coordinated tie, and, as always, the crisp, folded edges of a matching handkerchief peeked out from his breast pocket. His undisguised curiosity skimmed the box in my hands before he answered. “Today,” he said, speaking softly, “is a new day.”
    “It seems most of the world would agree with you.”
    “You don’t?”
    I did, but I wasn’t about to get pulled into a political discussion with Sargeant. White House staffers knew that it was our job to take care of the First Family. Just as important was leaving our own politics at the door—every single day. While I was as happy as the next guy to see Parker Hyden as the new leader of the free world, I wasn’t about to chitchat about it with our sensitivity director.
    Sensitivity director. Talk about a walking contradiction in terms.
    “Today is a day to celebrate,” I said, and with what I hoped was finality, placed the wings on an empty shelf and shut the refrigerator door. “Which is why I need everyone out of my kitchen except essential personnel. What was it you said you needed?”
    “Why do you have store-bought chicken wings?” he asked, avoiding my question. “Aren’t you up to preparing that level of delicacy?”
    I wanted to say that it was none of Sargeant’s business, but I took the high road instead. “I didn’t buy these. And, to be frank, I don’t know where they came from. The box was here when I got back from watching the inauguration in the