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them.
    “Do you think one of them saw the murderer?” I asked Turner.
    His grip on my arm tensed. “If they know something, we’ll find out. Let’s go.”
    He picked up our already quick pace and hurried through the emerging press pool. We managed to bypass the reporters with only a few questions shouted in our direction. The press appeared much more interested in investigating why a crowd of Secret Service agents had gathered on the Lafayette Square lawn than in us. I didn’t get the chance to utter “no comment” even once.
    Not that I’d wanted the press corps to hound me, but I felt a certain need to show Turner I wasn’t some half-crazed-pepper-spray-happy plant nut. I knew how to conduct myself in a professional manner without anyone’s coaching.
    “I don’t usually go around fainting,” I explained. “I’m not some clichéd Southern belle who wilts at the first sign of trouble. I can’t remember the last time I’d even come close to fainting. And you’re the first person I’ve ever doused with my pepper spray.”
    “Humph,” Turner grunted.
    A long line of White House employees had formed at the northwest gate. It didn’t seem to be moving.
    “What’s going on? Why the line?” I whispered to Turner.
    “Increased security. Slows things down to a crawl. It’s a standard precaution.”
    My heart dropped. I didn’t have time to wait it out at the end of this line, not if I still had any hope of making it to my meeting with the First Lady.
    I wasn’t the only unlucky gardener stuck in the queue. Lorenzo Parisi, Gordon’s other assistant, was standing close to the front of the line. He anxiously checked his watch, pulled a folded paper napkin from his pocket, and then checked his watch again.
    While I’d known Lorenzo for three months now, I still hadn’t figured him out. He dressed as if he belonged on the cover of GQ magazine. With his tanned, well-defined Mediterranean features, he had the looks to pull it off.
    Today, probably because he’d planned on sitting in on the meeting, he wore a dark gray suit with razor-sharp creases, a crisply pressed white shirt, and a dark purple silk tie. I’d never known a gardener to be so fashion conscious. I mean, we spent our lives digging in the ground. Just look at how I’d completely ruined my new outfit after just a few minutes pulling weeds.
    Lorenzo, on the other hand, could spend hours outside and not even have a smudge of dirt on him.
    “Casey?” Lorenzo called as Turner marched me to the front of the stalled line. He dabbed the cuff of his jacket with his paper napkin. Could that be a stain? On Lorenzo’s clothes? How odd. “What’s going on?”
    Turner tightened his grip on my arm as if he thought I’d rush over and run my mouth unfettered. I snorted. Like I needed to be reminded to keep quiet.
    “I’ll tell you later,” I called to Lorenzo.
    “What happened to ‘no comment’?” Turner asked.
    “He’s a gardener, not a reporter.”
    “Ah. I stand corrected.”
    Fredrick stood outside the guardhouse with his hands on his hips, his cheeks nearly as red as his hair. Three additional guards had joined him.
    “Where’s your security pass?” Turner asked as we bypassed the line and headed straight toward Fredrick at the gate. “I’ve noticed most of the gardening staff wear them on lanyards around their necks.”
    “I do, too.” I reached for mine. “We’re in and out of the gates so often, it’s more convenient. I keep it tucked into my shirt so it won’t get in the way.”
    Where was it? I dug around in my blouse, but I couldn’t feel the plastic lanyard anywhere.
    “It’s gone, isn’t it?” Turner asked.
    “It must have dropped off somewhere. We’ll have to go back.”
    His grip on my arm remained firm. “It’d be a waste of time.”
    “What am I going to do? I can’t—”
    “Don’t worry. I already suspected it was gone.” Turner passed through the gate Fredrick had opened.
    “Thatch is waiting for