The Plot (23 page)

"What if he had already given the manuscript to a publisher?” asked Simmons, his jowls flapping. “Or arranged to post it to the Internet?"

"No. Madison Hart was a traditionalist and wouldn't trust the Internet. He relied on the prestige of established publishers to lend credibility to his work,” Bates said, growing weary of this conversation-and these people.

Logan nodded. “He was on his way to New York when he was, uh, prevented from completing his mission. We believe that the manuscript was what the Hart woman went to the bank in Tallahassee to get. We learned that he had a safe deposit box there. Obviously, she retrieved it, and because of Madison Hart's paranoia, we feel certain it was the only copy in existence. So, once we have his daughter and his girlfriend, it's over. End of story."

"But what about that D.C. cop? I still don't like his involvement,” Clark said, frowning.

"Not a problem. We're keeping close tabs on him. And if he
should
get in the way, well, we've got contingency plans to deal with him,” Logan replied.

"Nonetheless, I'd like to have my people do some checking,” Clark stated. “I mean, why would
he
know where Cassandra Hart was and how to reach her?"

Bates suppressed a smile at everyone's sudden silence. His man Clark was the only one, except himself, who'd caught the flaw in the FBI's report.

"No, Clark,” Georgeanne said, ending any argument. “I don't want the CIA involved domestically yet. And how that cop knew is insignificant at this point. The Bureau is handling everything quite effectively. But don't worry. We'll call on you when the time comes. Meanwhile, just keep your muskets ready and your powder dry."

Clark leaned back and was silent.

"Just one thing,” Bates said as he stood to leave. “I want your word,” he looked hard at the Attorney General, “that
no
harm will come to Cassandra Hart. If some overzealous agent ... or marshal ... touches one hair on her head, I will take it
very
personally."

Georgeanne looked at him stone faced, and he turned away. Things were not going exactly according to plan, he thought. The Henshaw connection could pose a problem, and, if they caught up with Selena Cordon while Cassandra was with her, his godchild could be in real danger. Jack-booted thugs were fine when it came to controlling the masses, but they had no business with her. He had taken an oath to protect her, and that was one promise he intended to keep-if he could. For now, he needed these people. But he didn't-and wouldn't-trust any one of them when it came to Cassandra.

The limo was waiting by the curb when Bates strode briskly down the broad steps of the Justice Building. His chauffeur jumped out to open the car door for him, telling him that his office had called about fifteen minutes ago.

"What did they want?” he asked, but Busby just shrugged his huge shoulders. Annoyed, Bates picked up the cell phone, checked the security light to be sure his call wasn't being scanned, and dialed his secretary's direct line.

"Bates Enterprises,” came the familiar voice.

"Martha. I understand you've been trying to reach me.” He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Yes, sir. There's a Jonathon Sinclair waiting to see you. He says it's urgent."

"Tell him I don't have time to see him today. Tell him to make an appointment."

She lowered her voice a notch. “He seems a little agitated, Mr. Bates. And he smells of whiskey. I don't think he'll leave until he sees you."

"Call security. They'll...” He paused, reconsidering. Cassandra thought of Jonathon as part of her family. It was important to keep her confidence. “Ah, never mind, Martha. Tell him I'll be there shortly,” he said, then hung up.

"Where to, boss?” Busby asked, starting the engine.

"The office."

As Busby maneuvered the car out onto the busy street, Bates’ thoughts turned to Jonathon Sinclair
. He was as loyal as an old dog. And just about as territorial. He'd be desperate about Philip. Wants me to help. Wonder if he ever found out that May Lee is Philip's natural mother? Doubt it. May Lee would never divulge the truth. And she and I are the only ones who know. I'll promise him that I'll look into the matter and arrange for an attorney. That should satisfy him-and help keep Cassandra's trust. Cassandra. Logan was getting too close to her-too close to everything.

He picked up the phone. “Martha, I want you to arrange a conference call with the major publishers in New York."

"Yes, sir. When?"

"As soon as possible.” He hung up and dialed another number.

"Walter. It's Hamilton Bates."

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to get me as much information on Detective Max Henshaw as you can. He's that guy with the D.C. police who was working the Madison Hart investigation."

"No problem. They do background checks before they hire these guys, so there oughta be plenty of info available."

Info?
Walter Spano was a good man, but he had an irritating habit of sounding like he'd just stepped out of a B-movie. “Good. I'll be in my office in a few minutes."

"Roger,” Walter said, hanging up.

He gritted his teeth. Maybe he should start delegating these conversations to Martha.

Busby swerved around a bus loaded with teenaged tourists and pulled up to the curb. Bates climbed out quickly, not waiting for the chauffeur to open the door for him, and strode into the building. Martha was talking on the telephone when he walked through the door to his outer office, and Jonathon was leaning against the wall, staring out the window.

"Hello, Jonathon,” he said, reaching out to shake the old man's hand. He recoiled mentally at the feel of the hard calluses and the sight of liver spots on the handyman's skin. “Please. Come into my office.” He held the door open and motioned for his visitor to take a seat on the leather couch beside the far wall, then sat across from him on the matching easy chair. “Sorry I had to keep you waiting.”
Being polite but cool should help prevent any outlandish requests.
“What brings you all the way up here?"

Jonathon fidgeted like a school boy in the principal's office and looked around at the plush furniture, the impressionist paintings on the wall, and the brass lamps that gleamed in the soft overhead light. “Nice office,” he finally managed to say.

Bates smirked inwardly at the man's discomfiture. “Thank you. But I'm sure you didn't come to discuss my
décor
,” he said, forcing a smile.

"No, no ... uh, I'm sorry to intrude like this, but...” He clasped his old baseball cap in his hands, wringing it shapeless. “My boy, uh, Philip, has been arrested for murdering Mr. Hart. And, Mr. Bates, he didn't do it! I been thinkin’ and thinkin', and you're the only one I know who can help."

The pleading in his voice and his eyes was revolting, and Bates sat quietly for a moment, pretending to think. “Jonathon, as I understand it, Philip signed a full confession. As much as I'd like to help, I don't see how I can.” He paused, assuming a pensive look. “Well, I suppose I could see about an attorney for him—"

"Already has one,” Jonathon interrupted.

The news caught Bates off guard. Where would Jonathon get the money to hire an attorney? “You mean a public defender?"

"Nope.” He pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of his plaid shirt and looked at it. “His name is Bernard Schligerman."

"Schligerman,” echoed Bates. Schligerman was well respected-won most of his cases. “He's a good man. How'd you happen to find him?"

"May Lee says Max, uh, Detective Henshaw lined him up."

Henshaw again. The man's like a bad penny
. “I see. Well, that's quite fortunate. But, Jonathon, if you already have a lawyer for Philip, I don't know why you feel you need
my
help."

Jonathon suddenly stopped wringing his baseball cap and sat up straight, looking Hamilton Bates directly in the eyes. “I know how powerful you are,” he almost whispered. “I know that you can make things happen when nobody else can. And Mr. Bates, I know things about you. Madison Hart
told
me. Told me
everything.
And I've never told a soul. Not yet, anyway. To me, a promise made is a promise kept. But, Mr. Bates, I want my son released. Get the charges dropped. Philip could no more have killed Mr. Hart than
you
—” Jonathon stopped mid-sentence, an odd expression coming over his face.

Bates looked at him for a long moment, then stood and went to his desk, speaking over his shoulder as he pressed the button on the intercom. “Jonathon, I know that you're overwrought, and I understand. But, there is nothing, absolutely
nothing
I can do to help. I'm sorry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to catch up on."

Martha was in the office before he had let go of the button. “Yes, sir?"

"Please show Mr. Sinclair out."

Jonathon's eyes narrowed as he looked at the woman, then back at Hamilton Bates. “Don't need nobody to show me nothin',” he snarled. “I
know
what I need, and I know how to get there.” Turning, he brushed past Martha, but stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “If you're as smart as everyone thinks you are, you'll get those charges dropped, Bates, ‘cause you ain't heard the last from me. No sir, not by a
long
damn shot,” he said through clenched teeth, then strode out, slamming the door.

Bernie Schligerman took the folder from his desk drawer and handed it across to Max, who opened it and skimmed past the usual arrest forms and mug shots to the carefully typed “confession."

"I, Philip Sinclair, do hereby freely admit that I am solely responsible for the death of Madison Hart. On the afternoon of July 30, I was parked at the Reagan National Airport awaiting the arrival of Madison Hart. I was aware of his schedule through my father, Jonathon Sinclair, caretaker of the Hart home, who had spoken to Mr. Hart earlier in the day.

"I never liked Madison Hart. He was always acting like he was better than me and my family. He ordered my father around like a slave and wouldn't let me associate with his daughter, because he thought she was too good for me.

"When I saw Mr. Hart come out of the building and step into the crosswalk, I sped forward and deliberately ran him over, then I drove away.

"Afterward, I gave my friend the car and asked him to drive it to Virginia for me, where, I now know, my friend was killed in an automobile accident."

"What a bunch of B.S.,” Max muttered.

"My opinion exactly,” Bernie said, rocking his considerable girth backward in his chair. “But it's going to be difficult to disprove the confession if the young man who really was responsible is dead."

Max shook his head and frowned at the black-and-white mug shot of Philip. “This whole thing stinks to high heaven, Bernie. The only thing I can figure is that the Feds needed a scapegoat to get the press off their backs. Reporters are like police-they lose their objectivity when one of their own is the victim of a crime. And, from what I've learned so far, there's one whale of a story behind Hart's death just waiting for the right person to uncover.” He stopped and thought about Cassie, wishing he would hear from her, wondering what she had learned.

"Want to share what you know?” Bernie leaned forward, his rotund belly pressing against the edge of his desk.

"I don't actually
know
that much. There's just a lot of things that don't add up. What seems like a series of random events have too much in common to simply be coincidence. First, Hart is killed by a hit-run driver. The day of the memorial service, his home is burglarized. Well, not really his home. Just the study where he did much of his work. The room was trashed but nothing was stolen except computer disks. Old photos were torn up, files were scattered around like someone was looking for something in particular-and maybe trying to destroy specific items. The Feds suddenly step in and kick me off the case. Since when do they get involved in hit-run homicides? Or any homicide that doesn't involve a federal official?"

"Madison Hart
was
a very prominent man,” Bernie said.

"True, but I used to work for the Bureau, ya know, and there's a strict hands-off policy when it comes to routine police work, unless it somehow involves the Federal government or national security. And what's really odd is that one name keeps popping up."

"Whose?"

Max hesitated. “I can't tell you that. Not yet. He's an extremely powerful man. But he was there during my interrogation of Hart's daughter, and until I was taken off the case, he kept calling my office for information. During our investigation, we found the name and phone number of this man's chauffeur on a piece of paper in Rei Takazawa's apartment.” He thought a moment, remembering his encounter with Bates this morning. “Now Philip is arrested, coerced into making a confession, his natural mother is deported, and who delivers the deportation notice? The same person.

"I'm tellin’ ya, Bernie. There's gotta be a reason that this guy keeps popping into the picture. The trouble is, I don't know what it is. The only real motive I have is that someone didn't want Madison Hart's story to reach the public. He'd been working on it secretly for quite awhile, and just as he's about to meet with some publishers,
wham!
He's mincemeat."

Bernie took a Hershey's kiss from the candy dish on his desk, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, looking out the window while he chewed. Max took one, too. It had been a long day, and he'd skipped lunch.

"See that spider out there?” Bernie asked, nodding toward the window.

Max followed his gaze to a large, black spider weaving a web in the corner of the windowsill outside.

"He weaves his web so carefully. Back and forth, round and round. Right now, it's almost invisible. We wouldn't even know it was there except that we can see the spider. After awhile, though, the web will become littered with insects and covered with offal, robbing it of its invisibility as well as its ability to trap its prey.” He spun around and leaned forward, looking at Max. “This town is full of spiders, Max. Unfortunately, I've known a great many of them. But they almost always end up trapped in their own tangled webs."