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Opposite from the sofa where the First Lady and Terrie were hovering over Marin, the FBI agent with the abundance of red hair and perky breasts leaned forward in her chair.
“Chef, we are sending your jacket and the box it was returned in to forensics.” She tried to reassure Marin. “Your name and the White House emblem are on the jacket. In all likelihood, this was just a good Samaritan who wanted to return it to you without getting involved.”
“My address is unlisted,” Marin replied curtly. Did this woman think Marin was that gullible? “And Diego is missing.”
“We are looking for Mr. Ruiz,” the admiral said. “I promise we’ll find him.”
Marin glanced over to where Griffin paced, his cell phone glued to his ear. Her traitorous body willed him to look over at her; better yet to come sit beside her, but he kept his eyes averted.
“I’m glad for the opportunity to finally speak with you, Chef,” the FBI agent said. “I wanted to ask you about your relationship with Wes Randall, the curator.”
Griffin stopped his pacing. His face was a stone mask as he stared down the FBI agent. The First Lady sat up a little straighter beside Marin. The rest of the room’s occupants—the admiral, Director Worcester, and Adam—seemed to be on the edge of their seats.
“My relationship?” Marin asked. “What exactly do you mean?”
The FBI agent glanced down at her iPad before speaking. “When we went through Mr. Randall’s emails, we found some correspondence between you and him regarding the Cezanne in the library.”
Marin tried to recall the many conversations she’d had with Wes over art. “Oh, you mean the ‘House on a Hill.’ It’s stunning, isn’t it? My grandfather owns the companion piece. He was thinking of donating it to the White House Historical Society as a gift. Grandfather hates for art to be split up. I relayed the information from Wes to my grandfather’s assistant. I never heard whether the other piece arrived yet or not.” She looked at the First Lady expectantly.
Aunt Harriett nodded. “Max’s gift is very generous. I believe he’s sending it later this month.”
“What about the Jackson Pollack piece in the map room?” the agent persisted. “Did you ever have occasion to discuss that piece with Mr. Randall?”
Marin’s temper was fraying. “Wes and I discussed a lot of art. It’s one of my passions. I don’t understand what this has to do with my bloody jacket and Diego being missing!”
Terrie draped an arm over Marin’s shoulder while Aunt Harriett patted Marin’s leg.
“I’m putting you on notice, Agent Morgan, tread lightly here,” the admiral warned.
“Tread lightly withwhat?” Marin practically shouted. “What is everyone talking about?”
“We believe Wes’s death may be related to some art thefts here in the White House,” Director Worcester explained.
Terrie gasped beside her, but Marin was more concerned about the eyes of the agents in the room trained on her, as if waiting for a response.
“Several pieces have been taken and replaced with very authentic looking forgeries,” the director continued. “Including the Cezanne and the Jackson Pollack.”
Marin flopped back against the sofa. “Wes wouldn’t steal any art,” she argued. “He’d spent the last twenty-five years in this house. Every piece here was like one of his children. I don’t believe he could be involved.”
“Me neither,” Terrie interjected. “There’s no way.”
“We don’t have any evidence linking him to the thefts,” the FBI agent admitted. “In fact, we think he might have become suspicious that some of the pieces in the White House are forgeries. He was concerned about the Pollack in particular. Chef, are you sure he didn’t say anything to you about that painting?”
Marin wracked her brain. “He asked me to meet him in the Map Room a few days before he died. He didn’t say he wanted to discuss the Pollack, though.”
“You didn’t meet him?” the FBI agent asked, her interest clearly piqued.
“When I got there, he was talking to Ari, the intern from the curator’s office.” Marin hesitated. “It sounded like Wes was upset with Ari. I didn’t want to intrude, so I left. When I came back a few minutes later, they both were gone.”
The FBI agent was scanning her iPad. “Why is this the first I’ve heard of this Ari person?”
“He’s a graduate fellow with the White House Historical Society,” the admiral answered. “He only works on Thursday and Friday.”
“I’ll need his contact information immediately,” the FBI agent insisted.
The admiral nodded. “Of course.”
“Chef, I understand you’re very knowledgeable about art and antiquities,” the agent went on to say. “Have you noticed anything unusual about the art work here at the White House?”
