The Plot (3 page)

"There's no point. The policemen said nothing was disturbed up here, and there's nothing of value in either my old bedroom or the guest room. If they didn't take the jewelry, it's obvious they weren't even up here. Let's go on back downstairs.” She turned to face the young officer standing in the doorway.

"Are you sure? What about the attic?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What do I have to do to get him out of here?
“Yes. I'm sure,” she answered, emphasizing each word.

"Well, uh, you really ought—” Williams said, glancing down the hallway over his shoulder.

Cassie pushed past him and was descending the stairs before he could finish his sentence.

She had almost finished a third cup of coffee by the time Investigator Henshaw returned and led her into the study. The room was covered in sticky black dust from the fingerprint technicians. Cassie grimaced and shook her head. It would take May Lee forever to clean up the mess.

"It looks almost more like vandalism than burglary,” she murmured as she surveyed the chaos.

"Nope. Not vandalism. Desperation. With a little meanness thrown in.” He took a pen and small notebook from the inside pocket of his dark blue suit coat. “Tell me, does your father employ any household help?"

"Yes. May Lee Chang is the housekeeper and cook. Jonathon Sinclair is Daddy's handyman, kind of a general all-around fixer-upper. Keeps up the grounds, repairs things,” she replied, frowning at the pieces of her father's life that lay desecrated about the room.

"Where were, uh...” He checked his notes, “Jonathon and May Lee when you got here?"

"They've been on leave. When he was-killed, I told them there was no need to return until after the memorial service. Both of them were there today, although I saw only May Lee at the reception afterward. In fact, when I smelled the cigarette smoke, I thought Jonathon had come back here to check on things."

"What kind of cigarettes does he smoke?"

"Whatever is cheapest, I think. But you're wrong if you believe Jonathon-or May Lee-had anything to do with this. In the first place, they'd have no reason. In the second place, if they wanted to take anything, they could have done it anytime. They come and go freely."

Henshaw turned away, studying the room. “Have you been using your father's computer?” It was still waiting for someone to turn it off.

She shook her head. “No. I don't live here, you know. I have my own place. Besides, I've been a
little
busy these past few days.” She couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"I just thought you might have been curious to know what he was writing about before he was killed."

She looked down at her hands. “I didn't even think about it.”
Why the hell didn't I?
She shook her head.
Because I've been sleepwalking the past couple of days
."

"It looks like whoever did this walked off with all of your father's computer disks."

Cassie went over to the desk, where the empty disk storage box lay upside down amid a clutter of everything except the disks that should have been there. The heart-shaped clay paperweight she'd made in third grade lay off to the side, its “Happy Father's Day” message still as clear as when she gave it to him. She picked it up and turned it over. “From Cassie with love” was etched on the back. Frowning, she set it down and looked across at the detective.

He leaned against the wall and seemed to stare at something only he could see. “Would your father have made copies of his computer files?"

"Sure. He was meticulous about backing up his work. He lived in fear of losing even one word he had written."

"Do you think he might have stored them somewhere else?"

"I doubt it. I suggested to him once that he shouldn't keep everything in one place in case of fire or something, but he liked having his backups where he could get to them easily."

"I noticed that your father has an alarm system."

Cassie hesitated a moment, looked down and then back up at Henshaw.
Damn
. “I guess I forgot to turn it on. Uncle Hamilton was rushing me to get out of here, the limo was waiting, and..."

"It happens,” he said, frowning a little. “When was that?"

"This morning, right before the memorial service. I came over here to get Daddy's photograph. It was in the study."

"And at that time, the study was still undisturbed.” It was a statement, but it sounded like a question.

"Yes."

"Was the computer turned on then?"

"No."

"What time did you leave here?” he asked, his pen hovering above the notebook.

"About eleven-thirty. I was at the church by noon for the service, then we went to Hamilton Bates’ to receive well wishers."

"Hamilton Bates? The publisher? Wasn't he the guy who was with you when I interviewed you at the hospital after your father's accident?” He stopped scribbling to look at her.

"Yes. But he's not really a publisher. He just serves on the board of a publishing house. He's on the boards of a
lot
of businesses. He's been a close friend of my family for years and has been helping me through this-ordeal."

"What time did you leave Mr. Bates'?” He started scribbling again.

"Oh, I don't know. The service ended about twelve-thirty, and we went straight to his house. I probably stayed forty-five minutes to an hour, but I just couldn't stand to hang around there very long. You know, everybody telling me how wonderful my father was-having to say ‘thank you’ over and over like some kind of robot, so Uncle Hamilton, uh, Mr. Bates had his chauffeur drive me here. What time did I call the police? About two o'clock?"

He checked his notes. “Yeah. That would have given the burglars plenty of time, especially if they watched you leave...” he paused, “and knew when you'd be back. Who knew what your father was working on?"

"As far as I know, no one."

"And
you
have no idea.” He had a talent for making a statement sound like a question.

She hesitated. The police could be helpful in finding out what-and who-Daddy had planned to expose. She thought of the key on her mother's bracelet, Daddy's fear of saying anything over the phone, the urgency in his voice.
He hasn't acted so secretive since that time in Hong Kong just before he was transferred back to the States.
She looked down at her hands again.
If this is anything like Hong Kong
... She looked back at the tall man waiting for her answer. The police had to tell her what they knew, but she didn't have to tell them anything.

"Miss Hart?” Henshaw's expression changed to one of concern. “You're shaking. Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that, well, I'm afraid I'm exhausted.”
And it's time for you to leave.

The investigator studied her face a few moments then, finally, with a brief nod, put the pen and notepad back into his breast pocket. “Yeah. Sure. A funeral and a burglary all in one day would be too much for anyone. But if you think of anything,
anything at all
, call me."

She offered him a strained smile and walked him to the door. When he stepped onto the front porch, he turned toward her, his eyes serious. “Miss Hart. There could be a lot more to this than you may think.” He paused as if searching for the right words, then shrugged. “I urge you to be careful."

"I always am,” Cassie replied in a flat voice and, closing the door, wondered whether he was concerned about her safety or warning her against meddling.

Henshaw eased the unmarked car down the long driveway and dialed the office. His partner, Ricky Sims, answered on the second ring.

"Ricky? It's Max. I'm just leaving the Hart residence and am on my way in. Anything going on I need to know about?"

"We had a call from the National Security Agency asking for information about Madison Hart's death. Other than that, it's been pretty much routine."

"Did they say why?"

"Nah. I asked, but they didn't answer. Said just to keep them informed about anything we turn up.” Sims was talking around a mouthful of something. Probably a Snickers bar, Henshaw guessed. Sims seemed addicted to them.

"Well, listen. I'd like you to contact Sheila in Intelligence and ask her to do a background on May Lee Chang and Jonathon Sinclair. And let's arrange an interview with both of them as soon as we can.” He paused, thinking. “I'd like a deep background on Madison Hart, while she's at it."

"The dead guy? What for?” Sims sounded surprised.

"I'm not sure. I just have a hunch that—” He stopped in mid-sentence as something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Max? You there?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. I just had a thought. Ask her to find as much as she can on Hamilton Bates, too. Especially anything that links Bates and Hart."

"Hamilton Bates? What's he got to do with this?"

"I'm not sure. It might be nothin', but I just have this, uh, this,
idea
, ya know? Hey, just get Sheila to find out what she can, and we'll see where it takes us. I'll be there as soon as I can,” he replied and hung up. As he pulled onto the street, he glanced in his rear view mirror. The large brick house stood as silent as Miss Hart had suddenly become when he pushed to know what her father was working on. What was it about that question that had so upset her?
And why can't I shake the feeling that I'm getting into something I might someday wish I hadn't?

Sheila was sitting beside Sims’ desk going over some documents when Henshaw entered the office. “Hi, Max,” she said, smiling.

"Have you already got what I need?” he asked, sitting down and going through the messages that formed a small pink pile on his cluttered desktop.

"Depends on what you need,” she replied with a wink.

He grinned and shook his head. “You never give up, do you, Sheil?"

"Well, you're gonna have to start living again someday,” she answered. “Alice was a great gal, I'm sure, but she's been gone a long time."

He scowled a little. Alice was a great
woman.
The best. Five years wasn't long enough to get over her ... and little Lisa. Maybe fifty years wouldn't be enough. Time heals all wounds? Not all of them. Some never heal. “Did you find the
information
I asked for? Doesn't seem like thirty minutes would be enough time to find out anything."

"Are you kidding? Sheila's a whiz,” Sims said.

Sheila smiled. Everyone knew she was the best Criminal Information Analyst in D.C. She knew it, too. “Well, haven't got much on Sinclair and Chang yet. I did find a lot of stuff on Bates, some on Hart, and even some on Hart's editor, Sid Welinsky. But, so far, it's mostly surface stuff. It'll take a little longer to get into any real deep background. Might even have to do a little hacking for that. Especially on Bates. Everything I've found on him is like something you'd find in
Who's Who
. You know, ‘graduated from Yale in 1972, was a Rhodes scholar, attended Oxford,’ stuff like that. Is there anything specific you're looking for?"

"I'm not sure. Just keep an open mind and see if anything jumps out at you. What'd you get on Hart and, what's his name-Welinsky?"

"Pretty much the same sort of stuff. Except there was a curious editorial by Madison Hart in the
Times
.” She paused to leaf through a pile of papers on Sims's desk. “Yeah, here it is. Shortly before China took control of Hong Kong, he was involved in some kind of dispute with the authorities and wrote a scathing article about the British selling out an entire nation to oppression.

"'Britain,'” she read aloud, “'the motherland of democracy, has faltered in her principles, sacrificing generations of Hong Kong citizens on the altar of the New World Order. Ownership of this mecca of industry and commerce, gateway to Asia, last remaining jewel in the British crown will be transferred amid pomp and ceremony, but the carefully orchestrated festivities cannot mask the dread that fills the streets and homes of this majestic island. Long before the fireworks have cooled and Prince Charles’ yacht has reached the horizon, the heavy hand of the Chinese will be closing around the neck of this freedom-loving people. This betrayal is but the first act by those who seek to weave their silken web around the world. Mischief is afoot, and the transfer of Hong Kong to China bodes ill for all free nations.'” She set the paper down.

"He was right about China, anyway,” Sims commented, leaning his elbows on the desk.

Sheila looked at him, then at Max. “A few weeks after the editorial was published, Madison Hart was sent home to America and assigned to D.C. A number of Congressmen denounced his article-as did the President and Secretary of State."

"Who did he work for?” Max asked.

"Hamilton Bates, d.b.a. Bates News Service."

"How involved was Bates in ordering Hart back to the States?” Max slouched against the back of his chair and tapped his pen on the gray steel desktop.

"According to this article in the
Post
, Bates was supportive of Hart but disagreed with his editorial.” She pulled another sheet of paper from the pile and read from it. “'Because the relationship of the press with the Chinese is tenuous, Bates concurred with his Board of Directors that Madison Hart should be replaced as head of their Asian office.’”

"When did Welinsky become Hart's editor?"

"Let me see,” she murmured, shuffling through a second sheaf of papers. “Okay. Welinsky replaced Don Samuelson about a month after Hart returned to America."

"Tell me more about Hamilton Bates,” said Max.

"Well, he and Hart graduated from Yale in the same year. Both were members of the same fraternity. Bates got a B.A. in history and a Master's in business. Shortly after he graduated, he took over Bates Enterprises from his father, Will Bates, who had dabbled in politics and bought himself an ambassadorship to Europe. His mother, Ramona Hamilton, was a blue-blood from Boston, heiress to Hamilton Publications, a worldwide conglomerate of magazines, newspapers, and radio and television interests. Hamilton Bates was, um...” She shuffled through the papers again. “Hamilton Bates was active in the anti-Vietnam War movement during his time at Yale and Oxford and traveled throughout Europe with a group of protesters.” She paused, skimming down the page. “He formed a think-tank at Yale that called itself ‘Penseur.’”