The Plot (4 page)

"Penseur?” Sims looked puzzled.

"Yeah. ‘Thinker.’ The group was apparently into philosophy. Held debates on campus and stuff like that."

"Where did Welinksy go to school?” Max asked, sitting up straight.

Sheila picked up the third pile of papers. “Columbia. Majored in journalism, of course."

"Hmm. No connection there, then."

"Wrong. He got his master's at Yale. Graduated about a year after Bates and Hart,” Sheila interrupted.

"Were either Welinsky or Hart members of this ‘Penseur’ group?"

"I don't think Welinksy was. As for Hart, I'll have to dig further."

"Good job, Sheil. As always. I'd sure like to get whatever information we can about the relationship between Hart, Welinsky, and Bates. You might also check on-what was that other editor's name? The one Welinsky replaced."

"Samuelson,” Sims interjected.

"Yeah, him,” Max said.

"No problem.” She picked up the stacks of paper and stood to leave. “I'll get it to you as soon as I can."

The telephone on Max's desk rang. He gave her a thumbs-up sign, then checked the caller ID screen before picking up the receiver. Whoever was calling had blocked their name and number-something that invariably irritated him.

"Investigations. Henshaw.” He sounded gruff even to himself.

The caller hesitated before speaking. “Yes, Detective Henshaw. Hamilton Bates here.” The man's voice was soft, though not quite a whisper, and his words carried a distinct Boston accent.

"Yes, Mr. Bates.” Max looked over at Sims and raised his eyebrows.

"You may recall that we met the day you interviewed Cassandra Hart."

"Yes. How are you today, sir?"

"I'm well, thank you. I am calling to find out what you have learned about the accident that took Madison Hart's life."

"Well, we rarely discuss on-going investigations, Mr. Bates. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. However, as a close friend of the family and Cassandra's only real ally in this whole affair, I feel it is important that I remain abreast of whatever action is being taken in her behalf.” There was a certain muscle in Bates’ tone, although his voice remained even.

Max looked meaningfully across at Sims, who was chewing on a Snickers bar and listening intently to Henshaw's side of the conversation. “I see. Well, what exactly is it you wish to know? I'll be as helpful as I can."

"Have you located the automobile that was involved in the hit and run?"

"No, sir. Not yet, but we're working on it."

"In that case, do you have any leads as to who was responsible for the accident?"

Max raised his eyebrows at Sims again. “As I said, we're working on it. However, we're no longer convinced that it was an accident.” He paused for effect and heard Bates catch his breath.

"Not an accident? Why?” His voice had lost some of its muscle.

Max was taking notes and didn't answer immediately. “I take it your ‘good friend'-Miss Hart-has not contacted you about events at her father's home today.” It was not a question.

"Ah, no. I haven't spoken with her since the memorial service. Perhaps, you should be more specific.” He was back on the offensive.

Max spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially. “Well, Mr. Bates. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this. I mean, since Miss Hart has not confided-but, then, since you're such a ‘close friend’ of the family and her ‘ally,’ I guess it's okay."

Bates said nothing, apparently content to wait for the information he expected.

Max cleared his throat, then continued, “Mr. Hart's home was burglarized during the memorial service."

Bates responded so quickly, it bordered on interruption. “But, surely, that's not uncommon when a prominent person like Madison Hart dies.” The words spilled out like they'd been rehearsed. “Everyone in and around Washington knew about his death, the memorial arrangements, all the specifics...” His voice trailed off.

"Well, yes, that's true. But, it wasn't a normal burglary, you see, and frankly, this entire case is startin’ to look less and less ordinary.” Max deliberately reverted to his north Florida accent. Bates obviously thought he was just an ignorant cop, and he didn't want to disillusion him-yet. “Of course, it could turn out to be what it appears to be, but like the politicians say, ‘The devil is in the details.’ And, naturally, it's our job to check out as many details as we can before we draw any conclusions."

"What was so extraordinary about the break-in?” Bates was pushing again.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bates. But I can't give you any more information. Maybe you should give Miss Hart a call. She's free to share whatever she chooses at this point, but I've already stretched the limit. I mean, what with you bein’ such a good friend an’ all, I don't mind keepin’ you up to date as much as I can, but, well, you understand."

Bates didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was expressionless. “Yes, I see how it is, Detective Henshaw. But, may I ask whether Cassandra knows of your suspicions?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Yes, well, thank you for your help. Please keep me informed of your progress. It's better for, ah, for Cassandra to learn what's going on from me than from, ah, outsiders. She's had a lot to cope with already, and she trusts me. May I count on your cooperation?” Prodding again.

"Of course, Mr. Bates. You'll receive as much cooperation as I am free to give,” Max replied, looking across the room at Sims as Bates hung up.

"What a prick. He didn't even wish me ‘good day',” Max said, grinning at the other investigator.

"Prick,” Sims echoed.

Hamilton Bates put the receiver back in its cradle and punched the intercom button.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Martha, get Chief of Security Spano on the phone for me."

"Yes, Mr. Bates. Right away."

Bates stopped drumming his fingers on the shiny teak desk top at the sound of Martha's voice over the intercom.

"Mr. Bates, Mr. Spano is on the line."

He picked up the phone without acknowledging her. “Walter, what's going on?"

"What do you mean, Hamilton?” Spano yawned around his words. “Sorry, I was up late last night on that-other detail."

"I just talked to that investigator, ah, Henshaw, who's working the Hart case. He seems to think there's something suspicious about Madison's death."

"Why would he think that?"

"That's what I'm asking
you
."

"Well, I don't have any idea. My agents contacted his office earlier, but the guy they talked to didn't say anything like that. What
exactly
did Henshaw say?"

"Only that things were shaping up in an, ah, unusual way. He wouldn't tell me much, other than that Madison's house was burglarized today."

"Burglars break into houses during funerals all the time. I think they consider obituaries a personal invitation."

"I mentioned that fact, but he said it was not a ‘normal’ burglary."

"Have you talked to Hart's daughter?"

"Not yet. I wanted to check with you first."

"Look, Hamilton. Hart's dead. Killed in a hit-and-run accident. His house is burglarized during a memorial service. There's nothing, absolutely
nothing
suspicious about it. You sure that investigator wasn't just tweaking you?"

Bates pursed his lips. “I guess it's possible. But I need to know for certain. How about checking with your informant at the Police Department again? Meanwhile, I'll talk to Cassandra. Perhaps she will shed some light on what's happening."

"Roger. I'll get back to you,” Spano said, hanging up.

Roger?
God. The man must watch too many old John Wayne war movies, Bates thought, grimacing as he sat back in his chair and looked out the window at nothing in particular. It was strange that Cassandra hadn't called him about the burglary. It was even stranger that the investigator sounded so suspicious. Especially since Walter was convinced there was nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, it was essential to know
everything
. More than essential. Critical. He picked up the telephone and began dialing, but stopped midway. Perhaps it would be better to wait for Cassandra to call him. It would seem far more ...
natural
. He nodded to himself and hung up. Yes. But if she hadn't called by the time he was ready to leave the office, he'd call her.
Just to make sure she is okay
. He smiled a little and turned his attention to the speech he was drafting for the President.

Cassie sat down on the big bed and emptied the contents of the manila envelope onto the quilt. Her father's suitcases had yielded nothing but clothes and a sense of invading his privacy. At first glance, the small pile of gum wrappers, paper scraps, and
Bic
pens didn't hold much more promise. She took the airline ticket from the bottom of the stack and opened it.
Tallahassee to Atlanta to D.C. and then to New York.
She frowned. “Why did he stop in D.C.?” She wondered aloud. “To see
you,
Dummy. He said he needed to talk to you right away, remember?”
And I hesitated, argued even. If I hadn't wasted time, if I'd just gotten there a few minutes earlier. If, if, if. Damn. Damn. Damn
."

She set the ticket on the night table and picked up the passport. Her father's picture stared at her as she studied the countries he had visited. Britain, France, Switzerland. She'd known he was going there, but why would he have gone to Russia? He hated the place. Depressing, he had called it. She squinted at the dimly stamped date-last November. Wasn't that when the G-8 held their summit in Moscow? She set the passport beside the airline ticket and, frowning, sifted through the rest of the pile.
Well, now I know he was chewing
Freedent
gum the day he died. And that he ate at Wendy's. And McDonald's.
She shook her head at the receipts for hamburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes.

Daddy's accountant had told her not to throw any receipts away. She would need every deduction she could get to reduce the income taxes.
Uncle Sam was determined to get his pound of flesh-even the dead weren't exempt.
She put them in a small stack beside her, along with the
Hertz
rental car receipt and the gasoline receipts. Daddy was nothing if not frugal, she thought, studying the receipt from Welcome Inn. Funny how much we can learn about someone from these insignificant pieces of paper. Thirty-five nights. Eight pay-per-view movies. Sixty-two telephone calls. Double occupancy.
Double?

The jangle of the telephone on the night table startled her. She answered on the second ring and caught her breath at the familiar throaty voice.

"Hello,
Querida
. It's Selena."

"Selena. Oh, God, it's good to hear from you.” Her father's long-time secretary and friend was the closest thing to a mother Cassie had since Mother died.

"Darling, I only just found out about Madison's-your father's death. I'm so sorry I wasn't there. As you know, he was very special to me. If only I'd known, I'd have been there with you ... and with him."

Cassie had been surprised and disappointed that Selena had not come to the memorial service. She hadn't even telephoned. “You mean you hadn't heard? I thought surely you'd read it in the papers."

"No, darling. I've been out of the country. I only found out about it today when I ran into, eh, a mutual friend."

"Where are you?"

"I'd rather not say, Cassie. I do not trust phones.” The slight lilt in her voice betrayed her emotion. Selena had lost all trace of her native Spanish accent except when she was tense or upset. “But, tell me, Cassie. How are
you
?"

"As well as can be expected, I guess. Oh, Selena. It was so awful. I went to meet him at the airport. The sight of him lying there all broken and bloody.” Her voice cracked.

"How terrible this has been for you,
Querida
. If only I could have been there to help you. So much for such a young woman to handle all alone.” Her voice fell on Cassie's ears like a caress.

"It's okay, Selena. Really. I know you would have been here if you could've. And Uncle Hamilton was here to help me. He handled practically everything."

"Hamilton Bates?” She sounded surprised. “But he was the one your father-oh, well. Never mind. It is good that you had someone there for you. And, actually, it's far better that I did not know about it in time to be there. Your father would have wished me to stay away."

"Why? He thought the world of you."

"Well, let's just say that it is better for me to be where I am. Did you speak with him before his death?"

"Briefly. He called me from the airport. Said it was important that he see me right away.” She paused. “Selena? That was the last time I ever spoke to him, and I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye."

Selena was silent for a long moment. “Did he explain to you why it was so important? Please. You must tell me."

"Sort of. He just said he was working on a story that had something to do with the election and would win the Pulitzer."

"But, Cassie, did he tell you anything else? Anything at all?"

"No, nothing. Only that he needed to talk to me before he went on to New York. But, of course, he never had the chance.” She heard the other woman take a deep breath.

"Tell me, Cassie, is everything else okay?"

"The truth is that
nothing's
okay,” Cassie answered, hating the whine that entered her voice. “Someone burglarized the house during the memorial service."

"It is as I feared,” Selena murmured. “What did they take?"

"Daddy's computer disks. They went through his files and trashed the study but didn't touch anything else in the house."

"What about your mother's jewelry box? Is it safe?” There was an edge in her voice.

"Yes. I checked it earlier. Everything is there."

"That, at least, is good news. Listen, Darling. I wonder if you would do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"You remember when I visited D.C. at Easter? Well, when I left, I forgot to pack my address book, and I desperately need it. I believe it is in the desk drawer in the guest room. It would be a great help if you could find it for me. I know you have much on your hands right now, but you know I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."