The Plot (24 page)

Max was silent, thinking of Madison Hart, Philip, May Lee-and Cassie.

"Tell me, Max, if you can,” Bernie said, an intensity in his baritone voice. “Is your mystery man Hamilton Bates?"

Max nearly choked on his third piece of candy, but he composed himself quickly. “What makes you ask?"

"A few minutes before you walked in here, he telephoned me. Said he has a ‘personal interest’ in Philip Sinclair's case and would like to meet with me. When I put him off because I have court the next three days, he was not happy."

Max took a deep breath. If you can see the spider, you can find the web-and destroy it. Bernie was a good friend. Never had any reason to question either his honesty or his integrity. But all he had were suspicions and the hope that Cassie would come through with the information he needed to put this puzzle together. “Can't say, Bernie,” he answered at last.

Bernie emitted a long sigh and leaned back. “Okay, have it your way, Max. Now, what's the deal on Philip's mother?"

As he drove back to headquarters, Max thought about spiders and webs and the way every strand depended upon the others. More convinced than ever that there was far more to Hamilton Bates’ interest in the Madison Hart situation than mere affection for Cassie, he reached into the glove compartment, took out his address book, and looked up Cassie's cell phone number. Everything hinged on what she was learning-if anything.

The clicking on the line seemed interminable as the system tried to locate her telephone. Finally, the familiar message informing him that the cell phone was out of the area met his ears. Disappointed, he started to put the phone away, changed his mind, and dialed Ed's office at the FBI.

"Hi, amigo. It's Max."

"Is it time for a beer?” Ed asked, a light tone in his voice.

"As a matter of fact, it's way
past
time. Can you shake loose for awhile this evening?"

Ed paused. Probably checking his calendar, Max thought. “Well, my boy. It just so happens this is your lucky day. I'm free after six."

"Great. How about meeting me at Tony's around seven?” When they had worked together, Tony's Place was their favorite watering hole.

"Tony's is closed. Didn't ya know?"

"No. When?"

"Oh, a couple of months now. Tony had a stroke and had to quit working. Sold the place to a Mexican, who turned it into a taco-to-go place."

"No kidding. Well, I can't say I'm in the mood for traveling tacos,” Max replied.

Ed chuckled. “Tell you what. I've got some errands to run on your side of the tracks. How ‘bout if I just come by your place? You supply the beer. I'll bring the pretzels."

As usual, Ed was early. He'd get to his funeral before he was even dead, Max thought, opening the door. True to his word, he carried a big bag of sourdough pretzels.

Ed looked at his watch. “Sorry. Guess I'm a little early.” It was six-thirty. “But I was afraid you'd drink all the beer before I got here.” He pumped Max's hand as he spoke.

"It's okay. I expected nothing less,” Max replied, heading toward the small kitchen, where he had a cooler filled with ice and a six-pack of Coors. “Make yourself comfortable. I ordered us a pizza, too."

"Wow. Royal treatment. I oughta come over here more often."

"Why not? We used to have some pretty good times..."

Ed took the icy beer can from his friend, popped it open, and took a long swig. “Yeah, but whose got time for anything anymore? You just happened to get lucky today."

Max sat at the other end of the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Yeah. They don't call me ‘lucky Max’ for nothin'. Come to think of it, they don't call me ‘lucky Max’ at all."

Ed grinned at the familiar old line. “I don't know. Maybe you're luckier than you know. You did manage to get out of the Bureau before the rats took over the ship.” He leaned his head back against the soft couch. “Man, it feels good to just sit ‘n’ sip. Ya know, I've been puttin’ in twelve and fourteen hour days for the past two weeks."

"That so? How come? I thought the government had forbidden any overtime as a cost-cutting measure."

"Oh, you know how it is. We got these damn political conventions comin’ up-woolly mammoths on the fourteenth, jackasses a couple of weeks later. My whole unit has been assigned background investigations on the delegates-on top of all our other work."

"You oughta have most of that on computer...” Max said, draining his beer can and going to the kitchen for a couple of fresh ones.

"Oughta, but don't. ‘Member that cute little virus the hacker from Canada unleashed on the world last month? Wiped out half of our files, believe it or not,” he replied as Max walked back into the living room.

"Man, I didn't know they could get
into
your files. What happened to all those backup security systems?” Max opened the beer for Ed and handed it to him.

"Thanks. Can't tell you how good this tastes after being out in that hot sun,” he said, taking a long drink. “Be glad when the cooler weather gets here."

"What about all those backup systems?” Max prodded.

"Bottom line? They don't work. The experts are all back at the drawing board trying to think up more effective ones. But what about you? You still hung up on that Hart case? Bet you were surprised when they arrested that Sinclair kid for killin’ him."

Max thought a minute before replying. “Yeah, guess you could say that. Still don't believe he did it, though."

"Aw, man. He confessed."

"Yeah. I know. But I kinda got to know him, uh, through my narcotics investigation? And, frankly, he's just not the type."

"I thought we learned in Criminology 101 that there
is
no ‘type.'” Ed shoved a big pretzel into his mouth.

Max let that one pass, relishing the taste of the icy beer as he let his thoughts wander. “Anyhow, to answer your question,” he said at last, “I'm still
interested
in the Hart case, but, no, I'm not really
working
on it. How ‘bout you? You got any more information about that Selena Cordon woman?"

"Nope. As a matter of fact, when I got to the office this morning, they took me off that. Damndest thing. One minute, they tell me it's top priority, next they tell me just to concentrate on these friggin’ background checks. Can't say I was sorry. That damn thing was more trouble than it was worth. You know me. I don't like workin’ on
anything
that brings me into close proximity with the Director or the AG. I just want to keep my head down and stay out of their sights. Especially the ones in charge now. I'll be glad when this Administration goes back to the boonies. ‘Course, there's no guarantee the next one'll be any better. One thing is certain, though, it can't be any worse."

"Hope you're right,” Max answered as the doorbell rang.

"Pizza!” Ed exclaimed. “All this and heaven, too,” he added, looking at the beer he held in his hand.

Max laughed and opened the door. But it wasn't the pizza. It was his partner, Ricky Sims.

"Ricky? What's up?” Max asked.

Sims nodded from the doorway at Ed, then looked back at Max. “Sorry to interrupt, Max, but I thought I'd better let you know right away."

"Know what?” Max didn't like the look on Ricky's face.

"It's the Sinclair kid. They found him about half-an-hour ago. Dead. Looks like suicide. He had his shirt tied around his neck and was hanging from the shower head."

Ed jumped to his feet. “Damnation. Who found ‘im?"

Sims raised his eyebrows in Max's direction.

"It's okay, Ricky. He's a friend of mine from the Bureau."

Sims nodded. “One of the other inmates-a trusty-found ‘im. Called the guard right away, but it was too late."

"Has the family been notified?” Max asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Not yet. They're trying to locate his father now."

Max turned to Ed. “Sorry. Gonna have to postpone our pizza party until another time..."

"No problem,” he answered, walking to the door. “Give me a call."

Max nodded and watched Ed follow Ricky to the end of the hall and disappear around the corner.

Hamilton Bates hung up the telephone and turned toward the man on the striped couch across the living room. “It's done,” he said, pouring himself a scotch from the etched glass decanter on the coffee table.

"Good.” His companion sipped the martini the butler had prepared perfectly with just a touch of vermouth. “One less tongue to wag."

Bates swished the scotch around in his glass, listening to the ice bumping into its sides, and thought a long time. “Is it really, Mr. President?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at the man whose red hair accented his ruddy complexion. “Good, I mean? With every ... ‘accident’ ... comes more risk. Or hadn't you thought of that?"

The President shook his head. “Risk is something we have to live with, Hamilton,” he replied. “The life of one person-even a hundred persons-is nothing compared to what we are bringing to billions of others. Besides, you said your contact could be trusted completely."

Hamilton Bates took a sip of scotch and thought about Busby. He'd been a small time hoodlum running numbers in Brooklyn when they met. One of those odd coincidences that unexpectedly fit perfectly into the overall scheme. Leonard, the chauffeur he'd employed for years, had passed away just a few days before. Walter Spano had been a cop in New York once upon a time and had met Busby during a racketeering investigation. Busby had been loyal to his boss, refusing to testify against him, and had even succeeded in preventing anyone else from testifying. To Spano, loyalty was everything. When Leonard died, Spano contacted Busby and the rest was history. “My man
can
be trusted. What worries me is whether
his
man can be."

"Sinclair's ‘suicide’ is hardly enough of an event to warrant anything other than an internal review of jail procedure,” the President replied. He placed his empty glass on the table beside him. “Those things happen all the time. It won't even make the
Washington Times
, much less the
Post
. Besides, we have more important fish to fry. I didn't shake the Secret Service goons just to rehash the elimination of a doper."

Bates nodded and sat up a little straighter. “Okay. Here's the situation. I've arranged for you to speak at Independence Hall to leaders of the major news organization about the importance of media responsibility. Include praise for the media's recent restraint in their programming. Emphasize your need for their support of the new Presidential Media Oversight Board—"

"You mean the Presidential
M.O.B.?
” The President chortled.

Bates frowned as he continued. “You need to thank them for helping to eliminate the threat posed to America's children by pushing for the confiscation of privately owned firearms. Explain that the battle is only half-won, because as long as children see violence and immorality on television, in the movies, and read about it in newspapers and books, they will not be
freed
of the negative influences that can-and do-ruin so many lives. Be sure to mention that, although your administration is nearing its end, you will never abandon your quest to ensure the public morality and the
security
of future generations of Americans."

The President wiped the martini residue from the glass and sucked it off his finger. “I wouldn't mind having another one."

Bates pressed the button for the butler and wondered how the world survived under such flawed leaders. He waited until the butler came and left again before continuing his instructions. “Mr. President, this is one of the most important speeches you will give. With it, you lay the foundation for the final phase of our ... effort."

"What about Congress? They'll never go along with this."

"Don't be absurd. They're all desperate to keep their seats-and their power. With the press on our side...” He paused, imagining the twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week drumbeat of child and family psychologists decrying the impact of violence in the media. He could almost hear the incessant chatter of talking heads belittling opponents of the new
responsible
media. “Congress will cave in just like it always has. And once you sign the Executive Order, there's not a whole lot they can do about it other than whine into the ears of their ‘radical’ sympathizers."

The President took a long drink of the martini and grinned. “P.T. Barnum was right. A sucker
is
born every minute."

"Well, don't give nature too much credit.
Nature
didn't raise taxes so high that parents would have to work longer and harder. Nature didn't reform American education. And it wasn't nature that increased pressure on
traditional
American values or compelled people to embrace
alternative
attitudes, my friend."

The President's red-haired head bobbed up and down in agreement as he toyed with the olive in his drink. “Imagine. What we thought was next to impossible is now virtually assured. With public sympathy at an all time high after the supposed attempt by the ‘militia’ to assassinate me and the Vice President's endorsement of a third term for me, the game is all but won. Add China's threat to attack Taiwan and set off World War III into the mix, and
voila! Fait accompli
.” He sucked the olive off the end of the silver toothpick and chewed it enthusiastically.

Hamilton Bates leaned back against the soft velvet of his easy chair and raised his glass in a toast. “To P. T. Barnum,” he said, smiling.
And Penseur.

After his drunken guest had weaved his way out the door and was on his way back to his gilded cage, Bates reached for the file Spano had given him on Max Henshaw, studying it for the second time. Who could have known that some obscure guard at Firethorne would end up involved in the investigation of Madison Hart's death? One thing is certain, though-he's another fly in the ointment we can't tolerate.

He thought of Madison Hart and Hank Charles. They hadn't been able to see the inherent limitations ... and dangers ... in the Bill of Rights. Both had been ... removed. Jonathon Sinclair hinted that he knows about us, but it was probably just the ravings of a drunken father trying to put pressure on me.
Me
. What a fool. Selena would be handled soon, along with whomever she might have found to help her. May Lee would be back in China. You never can trust the household help completely. They tend to overhear things. And with Philip dead, she has no great incentive to fight deportation. Cassandra is a different problem, but if she knows-and by now, she probably does-I'll find a way to ... neutralize any threat she may pose.