The Plot (17 page)

"Will do,” she replied, placing the phone in its cradle and sitting on the edge of the double bed. What Max had learned about Selena sounded incriminating enough to raise anyone's suspicions. Anyone who didn't
know
her. She shook her head against the dark thoughts gathering in her mind and glanced at the display on the clock radio. “5:00.” She stood, picked up the satchel, and slid it under the bed. She had all night to discover the secrets it held, but right now, she longed to wash away the grime of her journey and get something,
anything
, to eat.

Max stood up from the not-very-comfortable chair, adjusting the pistol in his holster before putting his coat on, and walked out the door of the small office toward the lobby. The light from the lowering sun filtered sickly through the smog-smeared glass doors and windows facing the street. He envied Cassie who, for the moment at least, was surrounded by the fresh air and green forests he'd known as a boy.

"Detective Henshaw? Detective Henshaw!"

He stopped to look over his shoulder. Mildred Marshall, the rookie assigned to work the front desk, was motioning for him to come back. Reluctantly, he turned and went to see what she wanted.

"I'm sorry, Detective,” she said when he drew closer, glancing from him to the curious stares she'd aroused from others in the room. “Detective Sims is on the phone for you."

Max nodded. “I'll take it over there,” he said and strode toward the telephone on the wall, ignoring the handful of people waiting to file a complaint against their neighbors, their bosses, or just life in general.

"What d'ya have?” he asked, picking up the receiver.

"Glad I caught you,” said his partner. “I'm at the courthouse and overheard a couple of Federal Agents talking about the Hart case. They've picked up Philip Sinclair."

"Shit. How'd they find ‘im?"

"Don't know. Anything you want me to do?"

"No. I'll take care of it. Thanks.” When Max hung up, Officer Marshall motioned to him again. Another phone call. He waited a moment for her to transfer it, then picked up the receiver. “Henshaw."

"Oh, Detective. It's me. May Lee."

He took a deep breath against the almost palpable emotion in her voice. “Yes. I've heard. I'm on my way."

May Lee was standing on the front steps when Max drove up the long driveway. She ran to greet him as he climbed from the car.

"Detective. Thank you so much for coming,” she said, grabbing his arms. “I-I didn't know where to turn, what to do when..."

Max nodded. “It's okay. Let's go inside.” He took her hands gently from his arms and led her into the house that reminded him so much of the plantation “big houses” that dotted the rolling hills around Tallahassee.

He sat down beside her on the couch and took out his ever-present pocket notebook. “May Lee, I know you're upset, but I need you to get control of yourself. Start from the beginning and tell me everything."

"Well,” she began, kneading her hands in her skirt. “Philip was nervous after you and Miss Cassie left. He was either pacing or pouting or trying to pick a fight with me all morning. He acted like a caged animal, and when I asked him what was wrong, he just kept saying he had ‘things to do,’ that he couldn't ‘just hang around here for the rest of his life.’ When I told him it was for his own safety and would only last until things settled down, he got mad and stormed outside. A little later, he came in, acting a little calmer, and said he was going for a walk. When I asked him where to, he just got mad and told me to quit treating him like a little boy, that he knew how to take care of himself. Then he left."

"What time was that?"

"About noon."

"And then what happened?"

"Well, I was upset, but I didn't know what to do, so I just went about my work-trying to stay busy, hoping everything would be all right. But when I went to polish the silver-I do that once a week-I found four place settings missing. And I knew everything was
not
all right.” Her voice broke.

"You think Philip took the silverware?"

May Lee looked down at her hands, still kneading themselves into her skirt. When she turned her face back to him, her dark eyes were filled with pain. “Yes. I'm afraid so. He was acting so odd."

Max reached over and patted her arm. “It's not your fault, May Lee,” he said. “Then what?"

"Well, nothing really. Not until Philip telephoned. He said he'd been with some friends-just minding his own business-when these two FBI guys came up, read him his rights, and took him away.” The creases around her eyes and mouth deepened. Tears traced down her cheeks. “I didn't know what to do, so I called you."

"Did he say why they picked him up? Had they charged him with anything?"

"No.” She paused, apparently trying to remember. “He did say that he refused to talk to them unless they let him call me first. He sounded so
scared
, Detective. What can I do?"

Max put his notebook and pen back into his breast pocket. “Do you have an attorney?"

"No, I've never needed one. My husband and I have always obeyed..."

"Well, I have a friend who's a lawyer. I'll call him. But, first, let me see what I can find out about Philip. I'll get back in touch with you. And, meanwhile, May Lee, try not to worry. I'll do everything I can."

As he walked to the car, Max took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Ed's number. He answered on the first ring.
Good. He hadn't gone home yet
.

"Hi. It's Max."

"Hey, ol’ buddy.” Ed sounded tired. “Don't tell me you want to buy me a drink?"

Max forced a chuckle. “Sorry, pal. Not tonight. I'm still workin'."

"Oh, well. So I guess this is a business call, huh?"

"Yeah, ‘fraid so. Listen, Ed. I've been workin’ on somethin', and I just found out that your guys have picked up one of my suspects. Philip Sinclair. Know anything about it?"

"Aw, man. I thought you were off the Hart case.” Ed didn't sound very happy.

"I am.” Max assured him. “This has nothin’ to do with that. So anyhow, what's the poop?"

"First, you tell me why you want to know."

Friends is friends, but business is business, Ed always said.
This time he didn't say it, but his tone did. “Drugs, man. He's a lead I've been following."

"And here I thought you were callin’ to find out why you were taken off the Hart case. Guess you don't care ‘bout that anymore?"

"Of course I do. Have you found out anything?"

"Well, I've been nosin’ around a little, and so far it all seems linked to that Cordon woman. They figure Hart was killed by someone associated with her who was tryin’ to shut him up. According to what I've learned, she's involved in some sort of anti-government group. They figure Hart found out about them and was gonna blow the whistle."

"Yeah. That makes sense. I can see why they wouldn't want some yokel from D.C.P.D. monkeyin’ around in that.” He paused a moment, wondering just how much danger Cassie might be in. “Anyhow, what's the deal on the Sinclair kid?"

"Well, he's part of the whole Hart investigation, Max. It was his car used in the hit-run, ya know. He's a material witness at the very least."

"How'd they catch up with ‘im?” Max figured he already knew the answer, but he needed to know for sure.

"Tried to pawn some expensive silverware. Pawn shop owner recognized him from the ‘Stop/Detain List’ on his computer and punched in our Catch Code, then kept bickering with the kid over prices until our guys got there."

"You say he's just a material witness?"

"Max, I don't know how far this thing is going to go yet. They're interrogating him now. You want in on it? I can call over there."

He thought a moment. Having been with the Bureau, he knew how they worked, how they
thought
. If he came charging down there, they'd get plenty curious. They might think he was just a little
too
interested in Philip-especially since he was only “investigating a drug case"-and that could lead them to start checking up on
him.
“Nah, it's not that big a deal, I guess. If my other leads turn sour, I'll come in and talk to him. Your investigation is a hell of a lot more important. But I appreciate it, Ed."

"Sure. Always glad to help an old friend."

"Thanks. And, we'll get together for a beer real soon, okay?"

"Sure. Just give me a call. Anytime."

Max hung up and climbed into his car. Bernie Schligerman's phone number was in the address book he kept in the glove box. He was a good attorney but not as expensive as the big boys with the fancy law offices in and around Washington. With any luck, he'd agree to represent Philip. With any
real
luck, he'd get there before Philip spilled his guts. God, Max thought. The last thing I need is for them to find out that I arranged for him to hide out at Cassie's.
Damn.
Bernie had better get down there-and
quick
.

The pizza had arrived hot and aromatic at the motel room door even before the steam from Cassie's shower disappeared from the bathroom. Now, curled up in her white terrycloth robe on the coarse, quilted bedspread with the pizza beside her, Cassie explored the contents of the envelopes her father had secreted away in the safe deposit box. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about the pocket diary or worn address book; the black leather, thong-bound book, the news clippings, the computer disk or Digital Video Disk. But Cassie knew better. With trembling fingers, she opened the pocket calendar, and, biting her lip, looked into what should have been her father's future.

July 30:

1 p.m.—D.C., get with Cassie

7 p.m.—New York, Bodyguards, Inc. Robert

July 31:

1 p.m .—New York, Sherman and Solomon, Anne—"likely"—strong marketing

4 p.m. Bennigan Press, Patrick J.—"excellent"—good marketing

August 2: Call Hank, report if “go"

August 7: Tallahassee, Call Selena

August 14: Conservative Party Convention—Sacramento

August 28: Progressive Party Convention—Boston

September 9: Cassie's birthday. Buy something special.

Cassie paused. He'd never missed her birthday. Not even once. She caressed his rounded handwriting.
So many plans left unfinished. So many words left unsaid. So many ... so much ...
She laid the book on the bedspread, blinking away the tears that threatened to blur her vision. There would be time for that later. There would
always
be time for that. But now, right now, she had to concentrate on finding out who. And what. And what next.

She leafed through the address book, which contained some names that were familiar, some unfamiliar. Publisher's names, addresses, and phone numbers, mostly in New York, a few in London, and one, surprisingly, in Idaho. She saw names of her mother's friends, both in the States and abroad. Mother was so gregarious. She'd even made friends with the janitor at the Excelsior and sent him and his family a card every Christmas.

Under the letter “P,” there were no names, just initials and phone numbers. She recognized only one-H.B.” Hamilton Bates. It was his phone number, all right. But why was he under “P” instead of “B?” “P” for Penseur? Maybe this was a list of its members. She looked at the other initials listed, wishing she knew the names. Judging from the area codes, they were scattered not only across the United States but in other countries, as well. When she got home, she'd get Max to find out who the phone numbers belonged to.

A number of addresses and phone numbers were listed for Selena, all of them crossed out, nothing current. There were other names, too, all with quotation marks around them. How odd. These had phone numbers beside them, but Daddy had omitted the area codes.

Disappointed, she didn't find a “Joshua” listed anywhere. She had hoped she could track him down. Frowning, she closed the book and slid it under the mattress. In the right hands, this could be very valuable-or damning-information.

She picked up a now-cold piece of veggie pizza from the broad, flat box and took a bite, hardly tasting it as she picked left-handed through the pile of news articles, pondering the headlines. “UN declares national sovereignty dead.”
Daddy had been outraged.
“US ratifies International Criminal Court Treaty,” the subhead read, “US citizens, soldiers subject to international law, loss of Constitutional protection.”
Daddy had testified before the Senate Committee about that, arguing vehemently against ratification. His voice fell on deaf ears.

She shook her head and leafed deeper into the pile. A yellowing magazine article caught her eye. She unfolded it and read the headline. “J. Harold Otis: Man with a mission."

She read on. “Millionaire philanthropist, J. Harold Otis, has long been known for his unwavering support of the United Nations, and now, at the outset of the new President's term in office, he has been appointed United States Ambassador to that august body. ‘I am very grateful to the President for giving me this opportunity,’ he said in an interview with
Time
yesterday. ‘The UN is the world's greatest hope for establishing and maintaining universal peace. It is my firm intention to use my influence to help the United Nations realize its full potential.’”

Cassie looked at the dates of the other two articles and realized they'd been written several years ago while Otis was still UN Ambassador. Clearly, he'd used his influence to bring Americans under the jurisdiction of the International Court and try to eliminate national sovereignty. She shook her head and set them aside for later, turning her attention to the remaining items lying on the bedspread. The thick black journal-buckled shut against prying eyes-frightened her as much as it beckoned to her. In it, she was sure, would be her father's innermost thoughts, memories, even fears maybe-all written in his familiar hand, all with the power to reach through the wall she had erected around her emotions. Next to it lay the computer disk and DVD. So small, so impersonal, and yet, she suspected, so revealing. Which would hurt most? More importantly, which would reveal the most?