The Plot (7 page)

"Maybe he had it in one of his files,” May Lee offered.

Cassie walked back across the room that was still littered with torn photos and papers. “Where did you find it?"

"Right there,” she answered, pointing to the floor just in front of her.

Stooping, Cassie picked up another photo that had been torn in half. It had been taken during Mother and Daddy's anniversary trip to Europe. They were standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding hands. She went back to the desk and lay the photo of her parents on top of the other photograph. The tears were a perfect match.
Daddy had hidden the Firethorne photo behind the other one
. Apparently, the burglars had torn them up as one, not realizing two different pictures were in the same frame.

"Do you recognize either of these Asian men?"

May Lee crossed to the desk and looked closely. She still had ties to Hong Kong and kept abreast of the news from there. “This one here,” she pointed to the one on the left, “looks like the Chinese Minister of Defense. I can't remember his name, but I saw his picture the other day in the Hong Kong newspaper. He was on a tour of Naval bases."

Don't trust anyone
, Daddy had said in his note. Cassie wished she knew if that meant May Lee. “Well, I guess Daddy must have had his reasons for keeping the photo. It doesn't really matter anymore, though.” She made a show of tossing the torn pictures into the waste basket.

"You're right, of course,” May Lee replied, her eyes on the photos that fell from Cassie's hand. “I made some iced tea if you want some."

"I'll have some later. Right now, I need to get these things out to my car.” She picked up the boxes and left the maid in the study, sweeping up the shards of glass.

By the time Cassie returned, May Lee had filled the trash can with the debris left by the burglars and was already busy scrubbing the sticky black fingerprint dust away.

"Why don't you just use paper towels?” she asked.

"Because it is wasteful,” May Lee replied, not turning from her work. “In Hong Kong, we value our trees above almost all else, because they help fight the smog that covers the island. These old rags can be washed and used again."

Cassie nodded. She had forgotten the choking smog that often blanketed the mountainous island. “Well, I guess I'll take the trash out and empty it,” she said. “Then, I need to get busy sorting through Daddy's other stuff."

The maid grunted her acknowledgment as she vigorously wiped at a particularly resistant smudge on the bottom file drawer.

As soon as Cassie was out of May Lee's sight, she set the trash can on the table and riffled through its contents. The Firethorne photo was still there. Satisfied that the housekeeper was trustworthy or, at least, disinterested in the photograph, Cassie breathed a little easier. The discovery of the torn picture had piqued her curiosity, and she was eager to sift more carefully through the debris. Emptying the trash into a brown paper bag, Cassie carried it upstairs. May Lee might be trustworthy, disinterested or both, but Cassie didn't want to arouse her curiosity by revealing her own intense interest.

She passed the door of her parents’ bedroom and felt tempted to pursue her task amid the comforting memories that room offered. But, no, she would need privacy. May Lee would be less likely to disturb her if she were in her own bedroom with the door closed. She'd probably think she had just decided to take a nap-or have a good cry beyond the prying eyes of others.

Cassie closed the door and set the bag onto the floor at the foot of her bed. The room smelled of disuse, but it was otherwise the same as when she'd moved to her own apartment. Her doll collection still waited patiently in the mahogany curio cabinet. The double bed, covered with the hand-made quilt Mother won in a church raffle, was rumpled from her tossing and turning during the night. As a teenager, she had decided it was dumb to make the bed when in a few hours it would get messed up again. She frowned a little at herself and took a moment to straighten the coverlet.

There was an old oil cloth in the closet, and Cassie pulled it from the shelf. Laying it on the floor, she dumped the contents of the bag onto it. She didn't want to leave any trace of her activity on the blue-green carpet. Neither did she want to accidentally leave any of the broken glass on the floor where she might step on it in her bare feet.

With the debris in a heap before her, Cassie sat down cross-legged and began her search. Until a few minutes ago, she had forgotten that, when they were forced to leave Hong Kong, Mother and Daddy hid important documents behind innocent looking photographs. Even the suspicious Communist authorities hadn't bothered to check the framed pictures that filled the big, black steamer trunk.

Piece by piece, Cassie sorted meticulously, careful not to cut herself on the sharp glass that peppered the pile of torn faces and bodies. She found nothing but broken bits of memory. Discouraged, she poured the trash back into the paper bag, stashed the old oil cloth back onto the closet shelf, and looked around the room for a safe place to store the grainy Firethorne photograph.
Under the mattress? Nope. Mother always used to find what I'd hidden there, and May Lee will be changing the sheets.

The row of books on the shelf across the room caught her eye, and she went to it, scanning the titles.
Roget's Thesaurus. Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights. The Compleat Patriot.
Where did that come from? She pulled it from the shelf and caught her breath as she read the back cover. It was a kind of handbook for revolutionaries. An inscription written in her father's hand was on the front flyleaf-"
Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice. Moderation in pursuit of justice is no virtue."
How often her father had quoted those words Senator Barry Goldwater had uttered so many years ago. But what need did Daddy have for a book like this? He was no radical. And why was it on
her
shelf? She shook her head. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she said, replacing the book. That was definitely not the place to hide the torn picture, but where
would
it be safe? She grinned at the sight of the large, illustrated
Alice in Wonderland
at the end of the shelf. Perfect. Opening it, she lay the photo over the smiling picture of the Mad Hatter.
Perfect.

As Cassie put the oft-read book back into its place, May Lee knocked softly on the door. “Miss Cassie? Are you awake?"

Panicking, Cassie looked around. The brown bag was still by the bed.
Damn!
She rushed over to hide it, but May Lee had already opened the door. “Uh, no, I was just, uh, putting a few of my clothes away,” she said quickly, noticing the woman's dark eyes focusing on the bag. “I had a few things that didn't fit into my suitcase.”
God, I sound lame.

May Lee shifted her gaze toward her. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but an Investigator Henshaw is here. He says he needs to speak with you."

Cassie turned her back to avoid the housekeeper's eyes and nonchalantly picked up the brown bag, folding the top to hide the contents. “Tell him I'll be down in a minute.” Now she sounded curt.
Brother. I can't seem to get it right
.

May Lee closed the door, saying nothing, and Cassie cursed herself softly. Asians could be very sensitive to insult, and she had just spoken to her like some ... some
peasant
. She shook her head and frowned as she placed the bag into the corner of her closet. As soon as the policeman left, she'd sneak it outside to the garbage can. Even though there was nothing important in it, she didn't want May Lee to know that she'd been going through the trash from the study-and lied about it.

Cassie stood in front of the mirror and forced herself to smile. Provoking May Lee's curiosity was one thing; provoking the investigator's was another. Taking a deep breath, she tried to relax as she opened the door and went downstairs.

"Good morning, Detective,” she said, entering the living room. He was studying the portrait of her mother and father.

"Good morning,” he replied, only half turning in her direction. “Handsome couple, your parents.” He motioned toward the portrait.

"Yes, they were beautiful people,” Cassie answered, walking over to stand beside him. “Inside, as well as out,” she added, looking into the almost perfectly rendered image of the faces that had been so dear to her.

He turned and looked at her. “You look very much like your father."

"People often say so, although I think I have my mother's mouth."

He looked at the portrait again and smiled as he turned back to Cassie. “But you have your father's eyes."

Cassie nodded, uncomfortable at the personal nature of his remarks. “Yes, I've been told that.” She hoped her matter-of-fact tone would curtail any more comparisons. Her father and mother were who they were. She was who she was and, because of her father's prominence, crawling out from under his shadow was a never-ending battle. Even in death, he hovered over her, challenging her to fulfill his ambitions. True, she had chosen to follow in his footsteps, loved reporting-and writing-as much as he did, but she was more than just a reflection of him. She was herself.
Cassandra
Hart.

"May I sit down?” he asked, all formal and professional again.

She motioned him to the loveseat and sat across from him on the couch, saying nothing.

He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry to have to bother you again,” he began, “but I have some more questions I need to ask you."

The piercing look in his eyes reminded her of a hawk about to swoop down upon a rabbit, but she wouldn't look away. “Fine. I'll tell you what I can,” she answered, sounding altogether too nervous. She had to relax, to get control of herself. After all, he wasn't the enemy. Of course, she wasn't sure who-or what-the enemy really was.

"Miss Hart, do you know a Philip Sinclair?"

"Why, yes. That's Jonathon's son. Or rather, his adopted son. He and his wife adopted Philip when he was two years old. I believe Philip's mother had died. When Jonathon and Sarah, his wife, learned he was available, they were so excited. They'd given up hope of having children of their own, and there were hardly any healthy babies available for adoption in America. It was difficult, because the Chinese don't like placing orphans with anyone who is not Chinese. But somehow-Jonathon used to say ‘as if by magic'-the adoption went through."

"How well do you know him?"

She thought a moment. He was three years younger than she was, but as youngsters, they had played together on those days when he accompanied his father to work. It had been a long time since she'd seen him, though. Daddy had forbidden Jonathon to bring him around after Philip took Mother's car without permission and nearly wrecked it. “Pretty well, I guess, but it's been awhile since I've seen him. Why?"

"Is Jonathon here today?"

"No, in fact, I haven't seen him since the memorial service. What's going on?” Cassie didn't like the feel of this.

"Miss Hart, do you have any alternate telephone numbers or addresses for Jonathon?"

"Only the ones I already gave to you."

Max stared through the window behind Cassie for what seemed a long time. At last, he cleared his throat again and spoke. “We have reason to believe that Philip may have been involved in your father's death."

The image of her father lying on the pavement like a bloody rag doll leaped into Cassie's mind. Philip had been her friend. Her playmate. Her Tarzan to his Jane. Her hide to his seek. Her Hyde to his Jekyll? “Philip killed Daddy? He was the hit-and-run driver?” The words felt sticky on her lips.

May Lee entered the room before Max could respond. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Bates is on the telephone."

Max looked at Cassie a long moment, then turned to May Lee. “Please tell Mr. Bates that Miss Hart cannot be disturbed.” His voice was firm.

"I did, but he said it was imperative that he speak with her immediately.” She raised her eyebrows and turned her hands palm up as she spoke.

"Tell him that Miss Hart
cannot
be disturbed. She will return his phone call.” He looked sternly at Cassie as he spoke.

Cassie nodded at May Lee, feeling sorry for the woman who retreated back into the kitchen. Nobody said “no” to Hamilton Bates.

Once the housekeeper had disappeared behind the door, Max's face relaxed, his voice softened. “Miss Hart, I didn't say that Philip
did
it, only that we have reason to suspect him."

Cassie focused on him with difficulty. “I don't understand. What makes you think it was Philip?"

He took a deep breath. “The airport has a security camera mounted at the entrance to the terminal. We retrieved the video, and our people in the Crime Lab were able to enhance the picture of the car enough to read the license plate. It was registered to Philip B. Sinclair."

"Maybe it was stolen."

"That's always possible, but the car was never reported as stolen. And we can't locate either Philip or his father."

Jonathon. Kindly, devoted Jonathon. So quick with a kind word, always available to help-no matter what else he might be doing. The pride on his face as he spoke of his adopted son. The shame on his face, the way his shoulders sagged the day Philip “borrowed” Mother's car. Was there any anger there? Not that she could remember. Even Daddy hadn't shown any anger. His voice had been measured, gentle as he spoke to Jonathon about it. Philip had looked angry. No, not angry. Defiant. But that's the way kids always react when they're caught red-handed.

"Do you have any idea where we might locate either Philip or his father?"

"N-o-o-o.” She paused. “Not if they're not at home. They have no relatives. Wait. Jonathon used to talk about a place they went fishing-what was it
called?
"

The ringing of Max's cell phone interrupted them. “Excuse me,” he murmured, standing and moving a few steps away. “Henshaw,” his voice was gruff as he answered. “They have? Where? Okay. Thanks. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Cassie noticed the change in his expression as he turned around. He seemed
softer
, somehow.