Free Buffalo West Wing by Julie Hyzy Page A

couple seconds to answer. “Sure, I’d love to.”
    “Thanks, Ollie,” she said with such a look of relief that I got the impression an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. I felt almost guilty for having obviously missed signals and not suggesting the idea myself.
    Changing the subject, I asked, “Any updates on the hostage situation?”
    Cyan had her back to the computer monitor and now turned and clicked the mouse to bring up a news website we used to keep tabs on what was happening at Lyman Hall Hospital. “I checked a few minutes ago and Congresswoman Sechrest had just arrived on the scene.” She spoke over her shoulder. “I’m so worried, I want to sit here and watch this all day, but that won’t help anybody.”
    I came to stand next to her. “We’ve got a few minutes now.”
    She relinquished the mouse and I used it to turn up the volume. The most recent news upload was of Sandy Sechrest, flanked by SWAT team escorts, being led into a trailer that had been positioned just across the street from the hospital’s main entrance. The legislator was a petite woman, no taller than five foot three. Surrounded as she was by tall, muscular men, she looked even tinier by comparison. The camera following her showed us only her back. Sechrest wore a dark coat and gloves but no hat, even though the weather was frigid. Her short, white hair fluttered in the January wind.
    News crews chased the congresswoman as she and her bodyguards navigated the police-established perimeter. One of the reporters shouted, “Congresswoman! Congresswoman! What do you hope to accomplish here?”
    She turned to face the pack of paparazzi and microphones. I couldn’t see them, but I could picture them falling over one another in an effort to get to her first.
    Her bright blue eyes flashed with anger, but she spoke kindly. “To end this siege with the safe release of all the hostages, of course,” she said. “Why are you here?”
    She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned away again and made it into the beige trailer without another comment.
    “I like her,” I said.
    “Do you think she’ll do any good?”
    I thought about the laundry ladies—my friends—SueJean, Lisa, and the others who probably had no idea of what was going on outside the hospital. Those people were probably doing their best just to stay alive right now. “Let’s hope so.”

CHAPTER 8

    THAT EVENING, CYAN AND I RELAXED AT THE upscale bar, Fizz, just across Lafayette Park. Set in the basement of one of D.C.’s premier hotels, it was the perfect place to have a private conversation without fear of distraction. With expensive drinks and a hard-to-find location, this particular bar eschewed easy popularity, preferring to lure patrons in with its traditional décor and old-fashioned class. With heavy furnishings, an ornately carved ceiling, and soft instrumental background music, Fizz hadn’t changed much from its original design. Except for Wi-Fi capabilities and the flat-screen TV above the bar, patrons might have felt magically transported back to the 1920s.
    Billy, the bartender, waved hello and indicated for us to take any open table. I chose one near the center of the room and across from the bar, because the tables immediately flanking it were empty. I sensed Cyan wanted as much privacy as possible. I scooched into the booth side with my back to the red-cushioned wall. Cyan took the matching wing chair facing me. A moment later, Billy appeared at our table. Bald, tall, and quick with a smile, he placed cocktail napkins on the table before us. “I haven’t seen you two for a while. Busy with the new boss, I’ll bet. You heard anything else about your people being held hostage?”
    “Nothing but what they’re showing on TV,” I said.
    He knew we couldn’t share any privileged information, but I appreciated his attempts to make conversation nonetheless. “How’s business?” I asked.
    Billy grinned. “Hopping,” he said. And indeed