The Plot (9 page)

Max sat back and took a deep breath. “Okay, Chief. Okay. But don't be surprised if things don't turn out quite the way the AG expects."

"I won't, Henshaw. I won't be surprised at all. But keep me posted."

Max stood and walked to the door, then looked back over his shoulder. “Ten-four. You'll be as up-to-date as my shadow."

Andrea was talking on the telephone and blew Max a kiss as he passed her desk. He grinned and blew one back in her direction as he stepped into the hall and closed the door.

"What's up?” Sims asked when Max returned to their office. “You in trouble?"

"Not if I'm careful, Ricky. Not if
we're
careful,” he answered and, in a few sentences, filled him in.

"Well, better a slice of the pie than no pie at all.” Sims sighed. “Tell me. How much are we going to turn over to the Feds?"

"Not as much as they'd like. We have to turn over the crime scene information, video of the hit-run, fingerprints, and stuff. But as far as I'm concerned, Sheila's research stays right here. If they want that, they can damn sure have their own folks dig it out."

"Right on, Pardner,” Sims said. “Right on."

Max turned his attention to the pile of papers on his desk. More information from Sheila. She's been busy, he thought. Hope she doesn't expect anything more than a pat on the back. “It'll be a while before the dunderheads at the FBI dig out as much as our Sheila has,” he said aloud. “But we'd better not let any grass grow under our feet. See if you can get that Sheriff down in Virginia on the phone. I'd like to get with him tomorrow and see what they've got."

Sims picked up the telephone. “Hope he's not a redneck."

Max looked up from the report on his desk. “No sweat, buddy.
I'm
a redneck. We'll get along great."

Cassie was tearing lettuce into a big wooden bowl when the doorbell rang.
Who the hell is it now?
She wiped her hands on the flowered apron tied around her waist and walked to the door, wishing the world would back off for just a little while. She looked through the peephole and sighed.
Him again. Oh, well. Support your local police
.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Hart,” Max said when she opened the door. “I know it's kind of late, but..."

She took a deep breath. “Please. Come in,” she said, not too warmly. “I know you have your job to do."

He stepped from the dark porch into the foyer and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. He motioned toward her apron and apologized again. “I guess you were just getting dinner."

"Yes. But that's okay. I can cook while we talk."

He hesitated a moment, looking down at the photos on the narrow foyer table. “Uh, Miss Hart?” He picked them up.

Damn.
Why hadn't she put those away? “Yes?"

"Where did you get these?"

"Why?”
Can't I have a picture of my own father without being questioned about it?

His sudden grin was disarming. “Oh, it's just that I know this place,” he explained, handing the photos to her.

She took the pictures and pretended to study them. “How interesting,” she finally said. “Well, anyway...” She placed them in her apron pocket. “I'm starved. Have you eaten? I have plenty-if you like leftover Peking duck and salad."

He smiled. “No. And yes, I do."

She nodded and led the way to the kitchen.

Max set his brown, imitation leather briefcase on the floor and sat down at the table, while Cassie resumed making the salad. “The kitchen used to be my favorite place in the house,” he said.

"Used to be?” She didn't look at him, concentrating on the lettuce.

He paused a moment before answering. “Yeah. When I was growing up, the kitchen was more than just a place to cook. It was where the whole family gathered to eat and talk and, well, you know. It was the same way for my wife and me.” He stopped, blushing when she suddenly looked in his direction.

"
Was?
"

He shifted in the chair and looked toward the window above the sink. “Sorry. It's just that this is kind of a rare situation for me-you know, sittin’ in the kitchen, watchin’ a woman cook."

"Are you divorced or something?” She took an onion from the refrigerator.

"No. I lost my wife-and my daughter-in a car accident several years ago.” He cleared his throat.

"Oh, my. Both at once? How awful. How old was your little girl?"

"Two."

"Two years old. I can't imagine. It was bad enough losing Daddy the way I did, but losing your wife and a
child.
That must have been nearly impossible for you.” She didn't mention Alan. No point in telling him
everything
.

"You could—” He stopped suddenly and leaned forward. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up unhappy things. I mean, you've got..."

She looked across at him and, realizing what he thought, smiled. “It's the onion,” she said, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. “I love them, but they always make my eyes tear."

Max sat back in the chair, his cheeks reddening again. “Sorry, I thought..."

She nodded and handed him the knife. “Maybe you could finish it for me? I'll cut the tomatoes and carrots."

Apparently grateful for the distraction, he stood and walked around the table while she went to the refrigerator. “I haven't fixed a salad in years,” he said. “Hope I remember how.” He cut the onion into thin slices.

"It's like riding a bike. You never forget how.” She brought the tomatoes and carrots over and placed them in the bowl. “Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"Tea sounds great,” he answered, carrying the knife and cutting board to the sink. “Can I help with anything else?” The microwave sounded as he spoke.

"Sure, you can get the duck out of the oven while I get the dishes.” She took two dishes, two large bowls, and some glasses from the cupboard, thinking that she probably should put the tablecloth on. Oh, well. It wasn't exactly a formal dinner.

Max set the steaming duck on the table and carved it expertly while she poured May Lee's homemade dressing over the salad, tossed it with a wooden spoon and fork, then placed a generous helping into each bowl.

"Lemon?” Cassie asked, pouring tea in their glasses.

"No thanks.” He sat down and took a sip. “Tea's great. I didn't know northern girls knew how to make sweet tea.” He smirked a little.

"You'd be surprised what us ‘northern girls’ can do,” she teased back, squeezing the lemon into her glass.

He didn't reply, seemingly focused on the meal, chewing slowly.

Cassie barely tasted hers, wondering why he had shown up here tonight. She knew it wasn't because he was hungry.

"Did you make the duck?” he asked around a mouthful, breaking the long silence at last.

She swallowed and wiped her mouth with her napkin before answering. “Nope. May Lee fixed it. She's a wonderful cook. Especially Chinese dishes."

He nodded. “It's a far cry from Lucy's Oriental Take Out. If I had the money, I'd hire her away from you."

"Not a chance. May Lee's as loyal as they come.” She paused a moment. “Funny how she reacted today. I mean, I always thought she had absolutely no use for Philip."

Max acted almost as if he hadn't heard. “How long have you known her?” he finally asked, watching her over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of tea.

"Oh, she's been with us for years. She worked for us in Hong Kong, and when we returned to D.C., she came along."

He stirred his salad, pierced a tomato with his fork, and held it in the air a moment. “So she's from Hong Kong?” He looked at the tomato as if seeing it for the first time before placing it in his mouth.

"Not originally. She had emigrated from the mainland during the confusion of Tienenmen Square."

"Wow, that must have been some feat. All hell was breaking loose over there in those days. How did she manage it?” He finished the last of his meal, washing it down with the tea, and leaned back in his chair, watching Cassie eat.

"I don't know. But it couldn't have happened without a lot of money and influence."

"Can I have some more of that amazing northern-girl tea?” He reached for the pitcher without waiting for her response.

She took the last bite of her salad and sat back. “Where are you from? Originally, I mean."

"Florida. I was born in a small town in north Florida. Place called Chattahoochee. The same area that's in those photos I saw on your foyer table."

She nodded. “How long have you been in D.C.?"

"Since Alice ... my wife ... died.” He stood to carry his dishes to the sink.

"What brought you here?” She watched him rinse his dishes and stack them neatly in the sink-bowl on top of plate, knife and fork to one side.

He turned, leaning against the counter, and folded his muscular arms across his chest. “It's a long story, Miss Hart. Too long."

"Why don't you call me Cassie? After all, you've become almost a permanent fixture around here in the past few days.” She grinned as she spoke.

"In that case, I mean, since I'm ‘permanent,’ you'd better call me Max.” He smiled back.

It was the first real smile he'd given her, and she noticed the evenness of his teeth, his unbelievably
white
teeth. The creases around his dark brown eyes deepened. He had a nice face. Not handsome, but nice. “Mm, you want some dessert? I think there's still some of that pound cake May Lee never quite had a chance to serve this morning.” She knew he was here on business, but it was nice not to be eating alone.

"Sounds good,” he answered, taking his seat at the table. “My momma used to make pound cake. It'll be almost like home."

"Home. When you say that, it sounds like you really miss it. Washington can't be all that bad, can it?” Cassie asked, cutting a small slice of cake for herself, a larger one for him. “Coffee?” She felt his eyes following her as she crossed the kitchen.

"The tea's fine, thanks. As for D.C., it's not so bad. It's just that, well, you know. Every place has its own flavor."

She put some fresh coffee in the coffee maker, turned it on, and took a cup and saucer from the cupboard. While it brewed, she walked to the table and pulled the photos from her pocket. “You say you're familiar with this place?” She lay the photos on the table between them, and he picked them up.

"Yeah. It's something else.” He pointed to a black rooftop that was just visible behind the high brick wall. “See this? That's the gate house. I spent about two years in there checking people when they came and left. I was going to Chipola Community College at the time, studying law enforcement, and worked as a security guard. The pay wasn't too hot, but it gave me plenty of time to study.” He shrugged his shoulders.

"What was it like?” She had sat down and was listening intently.

"Beautiful. It's a huge game preserve. Most modern plantations are designed for hunting. Quail. Turkeys. Sometimes deer. But Mr. Otis didn't allow hunting. In fact, he had all kinds of exotic animals on the place-ostriches, antelope, zebras-things like that. He had security so tight you couldn't spit without somebody knowin’ about it. Or,” he grinned a little, “so he
thought
. Was your daddy a regular guest there? I don't recall havin’ seen him. ‘Course, it's been a long time since I was doin’ my schoolwork on J. Harold Otis’ time."

"Not that I know of. He never spoke to me about it if he was.” The smell of coffee filled the big kitchen, and Cassie stood to pour herself a cup. “Are you sure you don't want some?” she asked, carrying the steaming cup back to the table.

"Nope. Thanks anyhow.” He paused. “When I was goin’ through your father's things after the accident, I noticed he'd been to Tallahassee.” He seemed to study her expression as he spoke. “The Vice President was down in that area at about the same time. Reckon your father was part of her group?"

Cassie stirred
Coffeemate
into the dark liquid, watching it melt. She'd been a journalist long enough to know the difference between conversations and interviews. This was not just a conversation, and he wasn't going to give her anything unless she reciprocated. “I honestly don't know, Max. I seriously doubt it. Frankly, he wasn't very high up on the Vice President's list of friends.” She looked straight at him. “But,” she added, “The last time I spoke with him, he mentioned that, uh, he was writing about something to do with the election.” She was surprised to see him blink at her last words.

Max looked down at his plate and made a production of cutting the golden cake with his fork. “I see,” he finally replied. “The election. Well, that could explain a few things."

She waited, but he said nothing more. “What things? I'd like to get some answers myself."

He looked at her, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “Miss Hart, uh, Cassie, you know, as much as I've enjoyed dinner, I am here on official business."

She leaned back, watching his face closely. “I know."

Max lifted his briefcase from the floor and placed it in front of himself on the table. Opening it, he withdrew some photographs and a yellowed newspaper article, pushing them across the table to her.

"Where did you get these?” she asked, staring at the bold headline-
Famed journalist arrested for espionage, bribery
-above a photograph of her father and an elderly Chinese woman identified in the caption as secretary to the Chinese Ambassador to Hong Kong.

"We have some very efficient researchers,” he replied.

She shifted her attention to the glossy black-and-white photograph of her father being handed a large envelope by the personal assistant to the former Governor of Hong Kong; then studied the photo of Daddy in shackles and prison garb flanked by two Chinese soldiers. The final picture was a close up of her father's face-left side of his forehead bruised, a cut across his lips, his right eye swollen almost shut. She turned the photos over, unable to look at them any longer.

"Cassie, I've shown you these, because I need your help. I think there's a whole lot more to your father's death than we originally thought. And I'm running out of time to find the answers."