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“Or at least it appears that way to the detectives. His housekeeper found him,” the admiral continued, his expression pensive. “Wes was a pleasant guy. You wouldn’t know from interacting with him that he was troubled. Or that he would resort to taking his life.”
“Are we sure it was suicide?” Griffin asked. “Did he leave a note?”
The admiral studied Griffin for a long moment and then shook his head. “I’m not sure if part of me wishes it was or it wasn’t.” He scrubbed a hand down his face in frustration. “So now we’ve got a dead curator and three paintings stolen directly from their frames in this house.”
“Three that we know of,” Griffin added.
The admiral groaned. “Pretty ballsy of someone to take them from right under our noses.”
“‘Ballsy’ is this group’s middle name,” Griffin said as the director ended his call. “They’re also not afraid to leave a few bodies lying around.”
“So, do we assume that Wes was in on it?” the admiral asked. “That would explain how the paintings got switched without anyone noticing.”
“It all sounds too neat and easy,” Director Worcester said. “I’d like to go over every piece of art in this house and figure out if anything else is missing. Obviously, the curator would have been a big help in that area, but now I don’t want to involve anyone in that office.”
“Agreed. I’ve called in a team from the Smithsonian who specializes in this type of thing. I’ll put the word out that we’re conducting an audit of all White House property beginning with the artwork,” the admiral explained. “They’ll let me know privately whether we have any more forgeries in our midst. There will be questions from the media about the curator’s death, but I want to keep the thefts quiet for as long as we can. I’ll brief the president this afternoon.”
“That’s a sound plan,” Director Worcester acknowledged. “We don’t want to tip anyone off.”
“That still leaves us with the kitchen staff,” Griffin said.
“Agent Keller, do you know how many towels, napkins, and placeholders are stolen from the House each month?” the admiral asked. “Stolen by supposedly respectable guests? Hell, an Academy Award-winning actress posted a picture on social media of the hand towels—plural—she took from the women’s lavatory outside the Oval Office. Do you think one dish towel holds the clue to our thief?”
“With all due respect, Admiral, I don’t think it can be ignored,” Griffin argued.
“None of this makes sense,” the admiral said. “Why would a bunch of counterfeiters suddenly branch out to stealing artwork? Especially artwork that is so visible?”
“We’ll never know if you don’t let me follow this lead.” Griffin sat stoically, refusing to give up. There was a connection somewhere. Griffin was sure of it. He just needed the opportunity to find it.
Director Worcester let out a beleaguered sigh. “The results of the autopsy won’t be back before Easter Monday. That gives you five days. I won’t be able to justify keeping you here in DC much longer than that. And I don’t have any extra agents to assign to help you with the questioning of the chefs. There are at least half a dozen, right Admiral?”
“Five full-time and three part-time,” he replied.
“Then I’d better work fast,” Griffin said.
The admiral pushed a pile of personal folders across the table. “Most of the kitchen staff has been here for more than five years. Some as long as twenty. But the two at the top are our most recent additions. Both of them work in the pastry kitchen. The sous chef transferred over from the Navy Mess about seven months ago. The executive pastry chef, Marin Chevalier, arrived last summer. They were both fully vetted via extensive background checks.”
Griffin opened the first folder and nearly flinched at the wide, effervescent smile staring back at him. The image of the nubile pastry chef was about as sweet as the confections she was employed to create for White House guests. Cheerful, cornflower-blue eyes and full, rosy cheeks rounded out her wholesome look. But, as Griffin knew firsthand, wholesome didn’t always mean innocent. He perused the pages of her file more deeply.
“She’s Max Chevalier’s granddaughter?” Griffin didn’t bother hiding his astonishment.
The admiral leaned back in his chair. “One of his granddaughters, yes. The Chevaliers are good friends of the president and his wife. But that doesn’t mean that Marin isn’t extremely qualified for the position. Mrs. Manning is a big fan of the chef’s inspired desserts.”
Director Worcester studied Griffin. “Is there some sort of connection between the counterfeiters and the Chevalier hotel chain, Agent Keller?”
“Not that we’ve been able to prove. Yet.” He gathered up the personnel folders and stood. Griffin needed to access his case files. Several of the Chevalier family’s five-star hotels had been used as designated pick-up points for the counterfeit money, both in the United States and overseas. This was one of those coincidences that Griffin didn’t believe in. “Admiral, do you mind if I take these down to the Secret Service lounge to study further?”
“As long as you keep them secure, I don’t see any problem. But Agent Keller—” The admiral’s voice had become steely. “Be very sure before you act on anything. As I said, the two families are close. And Marin is well liked around here. Upstairs and down.”
Griffin gave him a brusque nod. He didn’t care how adored the pastry chef was. It was his job to bust up a ring of counterfeiters. If the cherub in charge of the White House confections was somehow connected, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring her down.
“I take it you plan to keep out of sight while you’re here in the House?” Director Worcester asked after the two men left the chief usher’s office and were taking the stairs back down to the ground floor.
“I think it’s best, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Just don’t leave me another mess to clean up after our unsuspecting pastry chef comes in contact with your irresistible good looks,” the director mumbled. “Although, if your dimples get the pastry chef to open up, by all means, use ’em.”
Griffin shook his head. He’d been teased about his looks his entire life. It wasn’t his fault women tended to throw themselves at him, though. Sure, he’d taken advantage of the situation on more than one occasion, but never in the workplace. Unfortunately, the president’s daughter-in-law wasn’t used to taking “no” for an answer from any man. Her unwanted advances had been what forced him to leave the president’s protective detail. Not that life in New York City was bad. He was closer to his family in Boston, and Griffin got a thrill out of tracking down counterfeiters. Still, he resented having to uproot his life just because a woman was attracted to him.
