Eggsecutive Orders Read Free Page A

other agents flanked him.
    I was hoping to see Tom there. No Tom. Not a single other Secret Service agent I could call a friend.
    My escorts left me there, and the large man behind the desk gestured me forward. He glanced at his notes. “Ms. Paras?” He didn’t smile. “Sit,” he said, pointing. “Please.”
    I sat.
    Jack Brewster kept his gaze on the papers before him, as he massaged his wide-set nose. “You know who I am?”
    “Yes.” I had met the assistant deputy of the Secret Service a long time ago, but he probably didn’t remember.
    He frowned. “Your name comes up in my files with increasing regularity.” Still without looking up, his scowl deepened and he shook his head, as though he’d just smelled fish left out overnight. “You know why you’re here?”
    “Is Carl Minkus . . .” I stumbled over the words, “really dead?”
    Bulging eyes finally met mine. His were bloodshot and yellowed—from lack of sleep, or lack of happiness, I couldn’t tell. Maybe a combination of both. Brewster cleared his throat, but it came out like a growl.
    “That is correct. Agent Minkus is dead. His body was taken from the White House last night.”
    “But I was here last night. Why didn’t anyone tell—”
    “Why should anyone tell you?”
    I blinked. “Because . . . I mean . . .”
    “Ms. Paras, contrary to your apparent belief, you are not the hub of information here in Washington.”
    That stung. I bit my lip as he continued.
    “You obviously came to that conclusion due to the press’s interest in your antics here at the White House.” Under his breath he murmured, “If it were my decision you’d be out on your—”
    “Mr. Brewster,” I said sharply.
    He looked up.
    “I don’t think of myself as a ‘hub of information’ as you put it,” I began, anger bubbling up. “I’m only suggesting that if I’d been notified last night that Mr. Minkus had collapsed, maybe I could have started looking into things last night .” I emphasized the words. “And by now we would have determined the kitchen’s role—or lack thereof—in Mr. Minkus’s demise.”
    He leaned toward me, thumping meaty forearms on the desk. “They told me you were a handful.”
    I bit the insides of my mouth. “I prefer to think of myself as proactive.”
    “Call it what you like.” He massaged his nose again. No wonder it was so wide. “I’ve assigned a group of agents to determine your staff’s culpability in this situation. You are to cooperate with them. Fully. Do you understand?”
    “Of course,” I said, bristling. “But I can guarantee that Mr. Minkus did not die as a result of anything that came out of my kitchen.”
    “That remains to be seen.”
    Brewster asked me a few questions about my employment at the White House—information he could have easily gleaned from my personnel file. Then he asked me about the meal we had prepared for Agent Minkus at last night’s dinner. Whenever I tried to add commentary, he held up a hand and reminded me to “just answer the question.”
    When he finally finished, I wiped fingers along my hairline, and grimaced at the perspiration there. Brewster had that effect on me—he probably had that effect on everyone he met.
    As though silently summoned, one of the matching-bookend agents came in.
    “Agent Guzy,” Brewster said. “Ms. Paras is ready for her interrogation with the Metropolitan Police. Take her downstairs.”
    My interrogation? What had this been?
    I had turned when Agent Guzy arrived. Now I twisted back to face Brewster. “I don’t have time to be questioned right now,” I said, pointing to my watch. “I have to get breakfast ready for the president and the First Lady.”
    Brewster blinked. Like a bored cow.
    “And my staff,” I continued. “They won’t realize why I’m not there. I need to talk with them.” I was perched at the edge of my chair, leaning in toward the desk, as though the proximity of my speech would make my words more meaningful to