Free State of the Onion by Julie Hyzy

dangerous place for heroes.
    And then, another thought began to grow and take hold.
    Maybe Naveen really did have an important message for President Campbell.
    Blood rushed from my feet to my face and back down again, heralding a moment of absolute clarity. The look in the man’s eyes when he’d stared up at me hadn’t been the unfocused, crazed look of a lost soul. He wanted to tell me something. He’d said that the president was in danger.
    But Tom hadn’t taken Naveen’s warning seriously. No one had, apparently. The man had been sent to the D.C. Jail.
    My arm reclined against the train’s window frame. Not particularly comfortable, but it gave me the chance to tap my fingers against the glass as I pondered all this.
    Naveen had been willing to talk with me. He’d been about to tell me of the danger when I’d whacked him in the head.
    I grimaced.
    The train pulled into my station just as I pulled myself out of my musings.
    By the time I made it to my apartment, I knew exactly what I had to do.

CHAPTER 7
    â€œI’M TRYING TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ONE OF your inmates,” I said, wondering if that was the politically correct way to phrase it. I held my cell phone in a grip so tight I thought the plastic casing might crack. “I’d like to talk with him.”
    The woman’s flat, capable tone—uncannily similar to that of the dispatcher who’d warned me to stay out of the way yesterday morning—made me wonder if there was some moonlighting going on here. “I’ll need his name,” she said.
    â€œHe was caught running across the White House lawn. Yesterday.”
    â€œI need a name,” she repeated.
    â€œNaveen.”
    â€œFirst or last?”
    I guessed. “First.”
    â€œI need the inmate’s last name.” This time the tone wasn’t so flat. I caught a hint of her impatience.
    â€œIt’s…” Shoot. I had no clue. “Well, you see,” I said, “I—he—” My heart raced, making clackety pounds against my ribcage. I knew I was overstepping my boundaries here, knew I had no right to make this phone call. When I first picked up the phone, I’d been nervous. Now I was near panic. I’d foolishly expected my description of “White House Intruder” to be enough to identify him. After all, how many fence-leaping Naveens could there be?
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œI’m his girlfriend,” I said in a rush.
    Where did that come from?
    â€œAnd you don’t know his last name?”
    Thinking fast, I decided to go for ditsy bimbo. “Well—” I began, trying to buy time as I came up with a logical explanation that would still provide the information I needed, “—we haven’t been together very long, and he has a hard name to pronounce. I’d never be able to spell it.”
    The woman’s irritated sigh whoosh ed over the phone line. It gave me hope. “Naveen,” she repeated, then spelled it.
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, hoping it was.
    With the memory of Craig’s anger crawling along my insides, I paced. I crossed my fingers as I listened, hearing the woman tap computer keys. I sure hoped repercussions of this phone call didn’t blow up on me like yesterday’s call to the dispatcher had. That’s why I’d taken the precaution of the cell phone. The jail’s caller ID, if they had it, would just show up as numbers, and wouldn’t include my name. I was sure the D.C. Jail got hundreds of phone calls for inmates each day. No one would bother to find out who was looking for Naveen. At least I hoped they wouldn’t.
    Another sigh. More clicks.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the woman finally said. “We have no one in our system by that name.”
    â€œBut, they told me…”
    â€œI’m sorry. Whoever gave you that information was incorrect. We have no one incarcerated for trespassing on