Affairs of Steak Read Online Free PDF Page A

us?”
    Within moments, Sargeant and I gave them the basic information they needed to proceed. Jorjanna told them she’d done her best to secure every exit.
    Grudgingly, she remained down by the front door as Sargeant and I took the police and paramedics upstairs. The lights were still not working and the officers pulled out flashlights to illuminate the creepy corridors. Two officers led our group, two brought up the rear. Sargeant was too close, yet again. At the porthole doors, I said, “In there.”
    The two lead cops peered in before turning around to silently gesture that we and the paramedics should wait. The two cops at the rear jostled forward, holding up when the leader held up three fingers, then two, counting down. Just as he reached “one,” the cops burst through the swinging doors to swarm the kitchen. I watched through the window as they looked up, down, around every corner, into every nook. One by one, they shouted to let us know areas were clear. The young man who had been the leader removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. He stared.
    For half a second I panicked that the body was gone, that it had disappeared while we ran for help, like bodies sooften do in movies and on TV. But then he shouted, “Bring the paramedics in here.”
    They rushed past us, banging through the swinging doors into the room. Sargeant and I followed, tentatively. When the lead cop pointed at Patty’s body, I surreptitiously checked out his name badge. Kooch. “You knew her?” he asked.
    Knew. Already using the past tense. Even from here, even before the paramedics turned to us and shook their heads, everyone could tell she was dead.
    Sargeant crawled close. I could smell the fear radiating from him. “Her name is Patty Woodruff,” I answered. “We were supposed to meet her here. She’s an assistant to the First Lady at the White House.”
    Kooch rubbed his face. “Was.”
    I glanced over. What a terrible place to die. “Yeah.”
    “Sir,” one of the other team members raised his voice, “over here.”
    Kooch gripped his gun and shifted to where the other cop pointed. The second tilt-skillet. After finding Patty,
I hadn’t thought to check the other one. Maybe because
I hadn’t wanted to. Muffled noises came from inside the stainless steel box. A voice. Female. We hadn’t heard any noises before. We certainly would have noticed. I exchanged a look with Sargeant, who was as pale and still as a frozen turkey. Though we couldn’t make out the words, the voice moved with an odd cadence, as though we were listening to a television program through the skillet’s metal lid. Three officers surrounded the piece of equipment and gestured for us to back off. We didn’t need to be told twice.
    “Police,” Kooch shouted. “Come out if you’re able to. Or knock to let us know you’re trapped.”
    The blathering continued for a moment, then music, then nothing.
    “Come out,” he repeated, “or knock.”
    Complete silence except for Sargeant’s shallow panting next to me. I took another look at his terrified face. “Maybe you should step outside for some air,” I whispered to him.
    He shook his head.
    “At least breathe slower, then,” I said. “You’ll hyperventilate.”
    “I’m fine.”
    Kooch gestured toward the door with his chin, the message in his eyes unmistakable. “Get out of here.”
    I couldn’t move. My legs were lead weights, immobile. At least until I knew what—or who—was in that other tilt-skillet, I wasn’t going anywhere. I inched backward a few feet to appease him, nearly toppling over Sargeant as I did so.
    With their guns trained on the giant skillet, the police locked eyes and nodded another countdown. At “one” Kooch stepped forward and threw open the lid.
    “Oh my God,” Sargeant said, gripping both my arms from behind. A second later he let go as he slid to the floor. “Oh God.”
    Jammed inside the second tilt-skillet was Mark Cawley, the White House chief of