Free State of the Onion by Julie Hyzy Page B

I knew that. I took a different tactic. “What’s his last name?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’m not finding a whole lot online under the name ‘Naveen.’”
    â€œGood,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way. Listen, the Secret Service already handled this. That’s what we’re here for. We’ve got lots of experience and we know what we’re doing. It was just bad luck that you happened to be there when the intruder got past security. But…” He slowed his next words down, emphasizing each syllable. “We have taken care of this. We have handled incidents like this in the past. We don’t need help from a White House chef. Understand?”
    I wrinkled my nose at the phone.
    Perhaps sensing that he had come down too hard on me, he added, “Come on, you wouldn’t want me to tell you how to fry a chocolate mousse, would you?”
    In spite of myself, I laughed. “You don’t fry a mousse, silly.”
    â€œSee what I mean?”
    I knew I should just give it up. Heck, I’d done all the investigation I could. I’d attempted far more than I should have and I’d come up empty. Agreeing to let it go kept Tom happy and made me look good, so I had nothing to lose. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll drop it. On one condition.”
    â€œAnd what’s that?”
    â€œThat if any of this gets resolved, you let me know.” I added, quickly, “Only if it’s declassified, I mean.”
    I heard Tom yawn and stretch. “You got yourself a deal, little Miss Detective. Now, why don’t you get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow—er—later today sometime.”
    With a smile, I nodded into the phone. “Can’t wait.”

    WHEN POUNDING NOISES ROUSED ME FROM sleep at four fifteen, I jerked into that startled state of alertness that everyone dreads. It took me several seconds to realize that someone was at my door, and my bleary mind couldn’t fathom the reason for the insistent thumping even as habit sent me scurrying to answer it.
    I had a moment of awareness before throwing open the deadbolt and I remembered to check the peephole first. Tom and Craig stood in the hallway. Craig’s hands were at his side in classic alert stance, his gaze moving back and forth, taking in the length of the short corridor.
    â€œOllie, wake up. Open the door.”
    I blinked and looked out the peephole again. “Tom?”
    My voice croaked, but both of them snapped to attention at the sound.
    Tom wore an expression I’d never seen on him before. Well, at least not directed toward me. “Let us in.”
    Fairly confident they weren’t here to shoot me, I swung open the door just as Mrs. Wentworth across the hall swung open hers. Her arthritic hand clawed at the doorjamb as though to steady herself and as Tom and Craig pushed past me, she asked, “Want me to call the police, honey?”
    The two men spun to face my elderly neighbor. She didn’t flinch.
    â€œNo, thanks,” I said, trying to force a smile. “These are friends of mine.”
    They both turned to stare at me, frowning with such obvious effort that for a moment I doubted my own words. My skin sizzled. Could something have happened to Henry?
    â€œWell, if I find out in the morning that you’re dead, I’m going to give the police their full descriptions.” She brushed at her wispy white hair as she backed into her apartment, raising her voice. “You hear that, you two goons?”
    â€œGood night, Mrs. Wentworth,” I said. Then, shutting the door, I rested my butt against it. “She looks out for me.”
    The angry frowns hadn’t disappeared. If anything, they’d gotten more intense. Tom paced my small living room as Craig stood before me, hands at his sides, eyes glued to mine.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked. “What’s happened?”
    â€œHave a