Free Oak and Dagger by Dorothy St. James

witnesses involved in a case didn’t mean he wasn’t capable . . . or dangerous.
    At the first whiff of guilt, he’d clamp down with the same intensity with which my aunt Alba’s old bulldog Beauregard would chomp on a butcher bone. And he sure as hell wouldn’t let go until he got to the meat of the crime.
    His tenacity was generally a good thing.
    â€œSo the head gardener and the curator had been arguing,” Manny said as a prompt to redirect the conversation. He seemed determined to keep circling back to Gordon and Frida’s disagreement and the blood on Gordon’s sleeves.
    â€œAs I’ve already said, Frida had changed her mind,” I told Manny. “She told me herself she was wrong to accuse Gordon of stealing her research.”
    â€œBut Gordon didn’t know that. And he was angry.”
    I don’t know what he expected me to say to that. “I don’t like the direction of your inquiry.” I turned away from Manny and watched as a rivulet of rain rushed down the glass of a nearby window to form a small ocean on the windowsill. “I’ve told you what I saw. Now shouldn’t you be asking me why someone might attack
both
Frida and Gordon?”
    â€œOkay, Casey. Why would someone want to hurt both the gardener and the curator?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I didn’t know anything. I didn’t even know if Gordon had survived the trip to the hospital. No one would tell me. The not-knowing clawed at my throat.
    Manny’s pencil scratched noisily against the paper in his small notebook as he made more notes.
    â€œAre we done?” I asked.
    He waved his hand toward the door. “For now.”
    Outside the small office, the hallways in the East Wing were crowded with uniformed police officers and Secret Service agents of every rank and uniform. Their voices were subdued as they spoke with one another.
    I’d just started to descend the stairs to the first floor when I heard one voice boom out over the others. “Bryce!”
    At the base of the stairs, a tall, broad-shouldered man with shimmering silver hair and dressed in a suit that looked as if it had been made especially for his larger-than-life frame paused and turned. I’d dealt with Special Agent in Charge of Protective Operations Bryce Williams a few times. He always treated the grounds staff with respect, even when he didn’t agree with us.
    â€œBryce,” Mike Thatch called again as he jogged to catch up with his supervisor.
    The older man leaned against the stairway’s railing. “What is it?”
    Thatch had a cell phone pressed to his ear. “A representative for Lev Aziz contacted our switchboard.”
    â€œAziz? Our switchboard? Or the White House’s?”
    â€œOurs, sir,” Thatch said.
    â€œTell me they transferred him over to the Oval Office. Bradley needs to meet with Aziz. Immediately.”
    â€œI know, sir. But Aziz’s man wasn’t calling to talk about the meeting. He was calling about the curator’s murder. I’m listening to the taped conversation now.” Thatch paused. “That can’t be right. Can you play back that last part again?” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone call. “
What?
” After listening for a minute, he pocketed his phone. “Aziz’s man said he would only talk with Calhoun.”
    â€œ
Who?
” Bryce barked.
    Thatch started to answer, but as his gaze lifted, he spotted me standing near the top of the stairs listening. He held up his hand. “We shouldn’t talk about it here. We’re not alone.”
    Bryce Williams stepped aside. “Forgive us. We didn’t mean to hold you up,” he said to me. His ice blue gaze chilled my bones as he watched me descend the steps. Thatch held the stairwell’s door open for me.
    â€œAziz wanted to talk with
me?
” I asked them. That couldn’t be