The Plot (34 page)

"Why?"

"Because it's
important
.” She shook her head ever so slightly. “The future of this country-of the world-might depend on getting this book to the public."

He frowned. “Right, Jen. Right. You make it sound like you've just discovered the missing Dead Sea Scrolls."

"Not me, Tommy. Madison Hart,” she said, deciding not to say anything more. He wouldn't believe her anyway. No one would, unless Cassandra Hart forked over the documentation.

Ed answered the telephone on the first ring, surprised to hear Max's voice. “
Buenas noches, amigo
,” he said. “What keeps you up so late?"

"I wish it
was
a good night,” Max replied. “I thought I'd find you sound asleep and mad as a hornet for my calling at this hour."

"Well, I do have a bee in my bonnet. Will that qualify?” He smiled into the phone.

Max remained serious. “That'll do fine. Listen. I really need your help. They've got Cassandra Hart."

Ed was unhappy but not surprised as he listened to Max describe the evening's events. “Your interest in her has progressed way beyond just professional, hasn't it?"

"Yep. Way beyond,” Max confessed.

"Well, I hope you're not makin’ a mistake.” Ed paused a moment before going on. “So what is it you need?"

"Ya know how sometimes you're workin’ a case, an’ somethin’ keeps niggling at you?"

"Yeah. In fact, that's why I'm sittin’ here at my computer instead of nestling next to my sweet wife."

"Well, I've been thinkin’ about that kid, Rei Takazawa, who was found dead in Philip Sinclair's car in Virginia. I don't think the Bureau paid much attention to that."

"Go ahead. I'm listenin'."

"According to the autopsy report, he was shot
after
he drowned. It bothered me at the time, but it didn't really register until a little while ago."

Ed was quiet a moment. “You're thinkin’ about that murder in New York a few years back, aren't you.” It wasn't a question. He had been assigned to the New York office for one miserable year and had been investigating a numbers racket. Their main witness, a twenty-year-old kid who'd decided to spill his guts in return for probation, had been found drowned in his bathtub and then shot through the eye after he was dead.

"Yep. As I recall, it was the same situation."

"Yeah. I remember it only
too
well,” Ed answered. “I almost lost my job over that one, since I was in charge of protecting him."

"Can you remember-or find out-if there was a guy named Busby related in any way to..."

"Busby! Yeah. A real punk. Loyal to the gills, though. Refused to talk to us about the racket they were runnin’ even though we had him dead to rights. Or would have if Simple Simon hadn't been rubbed out."

"Simple Simon?"

"Yeah, that was the code name for our main witness."

"Oh. Cute,” Max responded. “Wasn't there a note left on the body?"

"Uh huh. It had a sketch of a skull and crossbones on it. Afterward, every witness we'd lined up either disappeared or lost his voice, and the investigation withered on the vine. As dead as Simple Simon.” Ed paused, remembering. “How come you're askin’ about Busby?"

"Because we found his name on a note in Takazawa's apartment. I'm tryin’ to find out if there's a link between the murder of your, uh, Simple Simon, and the murder of Rei Takazawa."

"How's that gonna help your Miss Hart?” Ed changed the floppy disks in his computer.

There was a pause. “I'd rather not say just yet. First, I need to make sure I'm on solid ground."

"Hold on a second.” He pulled up the information from the New York investigation. He always kept a copy of his files to work on at home, even though the Bureau frowned upon agents working at unsecured computers. “Takazawa. Yeah. Here it is. Naoyuki Takazawa, twenty-two years old, bag man for the numbers ring,” he read aloud.

"You've got the information in front of you?” Max sounded surprised.

"Of course. You know
me
,” he said, reading the file for the first time in a long while. “He was one of the first we tried to flip. Let's see ... Okay. Here we go. He was involved in a gang, um, they called themselves Poison and their insignia was a skull-and-crossbones. Bad bunch. According to this, he moved to New York City from D.C. about a year before Simple Simon ‘bought the farm.’ His father was dead, mother worked as a domestic in Bethesda, had a younger brother and an older sister. Let's see. Yep. Rei. That's the brother's name, all right."

"Can you associate him with a Busby? Try the D.C. files, narcotics."

Ed clicked over to the Bureau's computer network, which had access to all law enforcement records worldwide. “Okay,” he finally said, scrolling down the index to the
B
's. He could almost hear Max holding his breath. “Bingo, ol’ buddy.
Bing-
go. You ain't gonna believe this, ol’ pal. You just ain't gon—"

"Try me,” Max interrupted. “If it's in the D.C. files, I'll believe it."

"Ernest Busby. Arrested for felony possession of cocaine a month ago, fined $5000 and let go. Now ain't
this
interestin'?"

"What?” Max sounded like he was about to climb the walls.

"His fine was paid by none other than Hamilton Bates. Man, he's got friends in high places."

"See what else you can find out about him.” His voice grew softer, like he was turning something over in his mind.

"Ernest Busby. Six feet, seven inches tall, two hundred and forty pounds, black hair, brown eyes, tattoo of, ho-o-o
boy
, get this! Tattoo of skull and crossbones on left biceps. According to this, he was born in Wichita, moved to Brooklyn with his father and mother when he was four. Mother and father both deceased. No record of any siblings."

Max whistled long and low. “That's him, Ed. One and the same."

"You've met him?” It was Ed's turn to be surprised.

"Yep. Might say I kinda ran into him the other day. Outside of Madison Hart's home. He's Hamilton Bates’ chauffeur. And Philip told me that it was a guy named Ernie who borrowed his car the day Hart was killed. Said he has a tattoo just like that.” He paused. “Just like Rei Takazawa's brother."

"Wait a
minute.
I've got somethin’ else you might be interested in knowin'. Remember me tellin’ you that I've been workin’ background investigations for the political conventions?"

"Yeah."

"Hamilton Bates is a delegate, and I just started workin’ on him today. I've been checking up on his bodyguard, since he'll be in and out of the Convention Hall. A guy named Spano. Walter Spano. Former cop in New York. Worked the same numbers investigation I was workin’ on. Was in charge of finding Simple Simon's killer. Never did. He was hired by Bates to take charge of security for Bates Enterprises right after that investigation fizzled. Took ‘early retirement,’ or so the record shows. That's what I was workin’ on when you called. Something about this Spano stunk then, and something about him stinks now."

"Anything in particular?"

"Nothing I've been able to wrap my hands around yet, but I've been sittin’ here for the past two hours tryin’ to find out more about him. Hang on a second. Let me switch back over to the records I was searchin'.” Ed clicked over to the New York Police records. “Okay. I'm in,” he murmured, just to let Max know he hadn't forgotten him. “Spano. Born in Brooklyn, son of James D. Spano and Marie ...
hel
-lo. Spano's mother's maiden name was..."

"Don't tell me. Busby?"

"You got it. Marie Elaine Busby Spano."

"Can you check on her?"

"Sure. It might take a minute, though."

"I've got nothin’
but
time right now,
amigo
,” Max responded.

It took several minutes to locate Spano's mother in the master records file, then another few to bring up her individual portfolio. “Born in Wichita,” Ed read aloud into the phone. “Oldest of two children, younger brother named William. Let's see what we can find out about William.” He clicked over to the Kansas public records. “Here it is. William Busby, married Corrine Adams, one child, a son, Ernest James Busby."

"That's it, then.” Max let out a long breath.

Ed lost himself in thought, then finally broke the silence. “I've given you a boatload of poop, Max,” he said, his voice somber. “How about letting me in on what
you
know."

"There's evil afoot in the land, Ed,” he replied, then paused. “And time is running out.” He paused again.

"What do you mean?” Ed felt the hair on his arms stand up.

"I'll have to show you. If I just tell you, you'd never believe me."

Ed ran his tongue over his teeth-a habit his wife hated. “Well, how about now? I can't sleep anyway."

"Okay. Meet me at Madison Hart's house in an hour."

"I'll be there,” he said, frowning deeply.

The Attorney General smiled as she hung up the telephone, imagining Hamilton Bates’ reaction when she told him the news. Maybe, she thought, looking at her wristwatch, I won't tell him. I'll just let him read about it in the morning papers. I could always say it was so late when the call came in that I didn't want to disturb him. After all, eleven-thirty at night is pretty late for an old geezer like him.

She stood and walked across the room, taking her large leather purse from the coat rack beside the door, then paused, realizing that she
wanted
to be the one to tell him. Going back, she set the purse on the edge of the desk and punched in the number from memory. As usual, the butler answered.

"Ask Mr. Bates to come to the phone. Tell him the Attorney General is calling."

As she waited to hear the familiar haughty voice on the other end of the line, she hummed some half-remembered tune, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the dark wooden desktop.

"Yes, Georgeanne.” He sounded irritated. “What is so urgent that you felt the need to call at this hour?"

"Sorry, Hamilton. I just thought you'd want to know that Operation Rapunzel has been successful. The princess is in the tower.” His sharp intake of breath pleased her even more than she had expected. She savored the feeling.

"Excellent. And I trust everything went smoothly?"

The enthusiasm in his voice erased her smirk. “Uh, yes. Apparently it went off without a hitch."

"Good. Very good. In that case, we can proceed. Keep me informed of any developments."

She grimaced as he broke the connection. The man had given every indication that he was opposed to this action. Now he sounded like he'd both endorsed the arrest of Cassandra Hart and personally planned the whole thing. “Oh, well,” she sighed.
Let it go. It's been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be even longer
-
if all goes according to plan.
She stood, picked up her purse, and turned off the lights behind her as she walked out the door.

Cassie opened her eyes and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as Thompkins entered the bedroom for the umpteenth time since they'd arrived here. This time she carried a package and a breakfast tray and set them on the small table near the window.

"Time to get up, Sweet Thing,” Thompkins said, her eyes betraying her antagonism. “Gotta see the judge in a little while."

"Like this?” Cassie asked, looking at the rumpled clothes she'd slept in. Or, rather,
not
slept in, since they'd awakened her every fifteen or twenty minutes throughout the night-purportedly “to make sure she was okay."

Thompkins turned to leave. “There's clean clothes in the package. But you'd better hurry it up."

"I'm not going
anywhere
until I speak to my attorney,” she said firmly, but Thompkins just walked out of the room and locked the door.

"Well, that was effective,” Cassie muttered, crossing the room to the meager breakfast awaiting her. A basket of assorted small muffins rested on the tray between a mug of coffee and a small glass of orange juice. “A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine,” she said aloud as she stirred cream and sugar into the coffee. “Something tells me this may be the first of many days without sunshine, orange juice or no."

She sipped the hot coffee gratefully and stared out the large plate glass window at the yellow and gray streaked sky that announced the imminent arrival of the sun and her first day as a prisoner of the state. She grimaced, remembering being hustled through the service entrance of the posh hotel by her three captors and locked in the bedroom of the suite on the tenth floor. They hadn't even given her anything to eat. So much for being treated like a queen.

She looked down at the streets below, which were nearly devoid of traffic except for some garbage trucks. A couple of police cars were parked across the street, the officers who drove them, looking like tiny GI Joe figures from this height, leaned against the hoods. Cassie tried to think of some way to get their attention, to try to get them to help her, but the windows were sealed shut.

She shook her head. “Quit dreaming,” she said aloud. “You're in a mighty deep hole and had better start figuring a
real
way out.”
They have to let me have an attorney, but they haven't even let me make a phone call. Do they think that I'll accept just any public defender they choose for me? Maybe Max will be in court. Maybe he has lined up a lawyer. Maybe.
She looked around the large, well decorated bedroom. There was no television. No telephone.
And no one who even knows where I am.

She drank the coffee, took a couple of swallows of the juice and a bite of a blueberry muffin then went into the bathroom to get cleaned up. She needed to look as much like the famous Madison Hart's daughter as possible if she was to gain the judge's sympathy. And the press's. That's where the power lies, she thought, brushing her teeth with the bland baking soda toothpaste her captors had provided. They
always
have a reporter in court. Even for First Appearances. She rinsed her mouth and turned on the shower, testing the temperature of the water before climbing in. Of course, it's usually just a cub reporter, but a reporter is a reporter. The hot water felt good against her skin, and she scrubbed herself almost raw with the pungent soap-as if trying to wash away the corruption that seemed to be accumulating around her.