The Plot (31 page)

"Can't it wait, Georgeanne?” he asked, spying the CEO of Omega standing alone across the room.

"No, Hamilton. It cannot."

Grimacing, he followed her to the sunroom at the left and closed the door behind them. “What is it?” he asked, irritated by her demand. Irritated by her very existence.

"Two Federal marshals were killed at a small farmhouse in Florida three days ago."

"So? Surely you didn't drag me in here in front of all those people just to tell me a couple of your goons died."

She narrowed her already small eyes behind her Coke bottle glasses and frowned. “They didn't ‘die,’ Hamilton. They were
killed
by someone who knew what they were doing. And they found Cassandra Hart's fingerprints at the scene."

He looked at her for a long moment, then walked to the nearest chair, composing his thoughts as he sat down. The Attorney General followed, sitting on the green cushioned chair across from him. She reminded him of a pink frog on a lily pad.

"Just exactly where is this farmhouse and what else did they find?"

"It's about thirty miles from Firethorne.” She looked like she was trying not to smirk. “It's owned by the handyman who has worked for J. Harold Otis for some years. He goes by the name of Junior."

Hamilton thought back over his many visits to the plantation near Chattahoochee but couldn't recall having ever seen-or even heard of-a handyman working there. But then, handymen were not high on his list of priorities. “Why would Cassandra have been there?” he wondered aloud.

Georgeanne smirked openly now. “They've also found evidence that Madison Hart and Selena Cordon frequented the place. It seems your little Cassandra has been consorting with the enemy."

He didn't tell her that he had already located Cassandra nor that he was in the process of loading the dice against Madison Hart's book. “What ‘evidence,’ Georgeanne?” He made himself sound bored.

"As I said,
fingerprints
. And soon enough, DNA. Oh, they did a good job of trying to wipe them all away, but like so many amateurs, they always forget something. Did you ever notice how revealing garbage can be?"

He wasn't surprised to learn that her people were garbage experts. Nor that she was proud of it. “Yes. I'm sure it is. So, what's the bottom line, Georgeanne? There are some people in the other room I need to see."

She sat back against the green cushion and smiled in a way that she probably thought was sweet. It came across as more of a grimace. “Well, knowing your interest in Cassandra Hart's welfare, I felt I should let you know that a warrant has been issued for her arrest."

That did it. He stood abruptly and walked across to her. “You are not, I repeat
not
to proceed with this,” he said, his voice low, menacing. “Cassandra Hart is
my
affair. I will see to it that she can do no harm. You get that warrant canceled and call your people off. Do you understand?” He jabbed his finger at her with each word.

Georgeanne stood up to look him straight in the eye. In high heels, she was as tall as he. “Of course I understand, Hamilton,” she said in an even voice, “and you can count on me to do what I must.” With that, she turned and walked out.

He stared at the door she had closed between them. Arresting Cassandra could jeopardize everything. If she resisted, they'd have an excuse to kill her, and the media would be on it like a band of jackals. If she went to court, she'd have a very public forum and, again, the media would be all over the story. He looked at his watch. The Vice President should be arriving soon. He'd have a talk with her. Maybe he couldn't stop Georgeanne from playing the fool, but with the Vice President's help, he could limit the damage.

Cassie looked out from the Empire State Building at the New York skyline and swept her arm in a wide arc. “Max,
this
is what it's all about. You know, I've been almost everywhere in the world, traveling with my parents when Daddy went from one assignment to another, and there's
no
place like the United States."

He followed her gaze across the lighted streets and buildings, brightly colored marquees, the lights high atop skyscrapers. “I've never seen you so happy,” he murmured, turning toward her. “In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you happy."

"You came along at a bad time in my life, that's all,” she answered, looking up at him. “There have been happy times for me. Lots of them. It's just that, lately, they've been few and far between. With any luck, maybe this will just be the first of many more."

She didn't look just happy. She looked radiant. He reached out and caressed her cheek tentatively, fearful she would turn away. She didn't. “You're beautiful, Cassandra Hart,” he whispered. “Seeing you like this makes me want to take you in my arms and keep you safe forever-so you'll never stop smiling the way you are now."

Cassie took hold of his hand and pressed it more firmly to her cheek. “I wish you could, Max. I don't want to be sad-or lonely-anymore, but I've seen too much to ever believe in
forever
again."

"Maybe forever is what you make of it,” he replied, putting his arm around her narrow waist, his hand resting along the curve of her hip. “When I lost my wife and daughter...” He paused a moment, remembering. “I ached so bad. I saw myself feeling that way for the rest of my life, and forever seemed an awful long time. But, being with you here, tonight, well, forever doesn't seem long enough."

"Maybe,” she sighed, leaning closer to him. “And maybe, once Daddy's book is really underway and I've fulfilled my promise, forever won't seem so frightening to me, either. Especially if you're there along the way."

She turned her face upward, and he brushed his lips against hers. “I'll be there, Cassie. Count on it."

It was midnight when Max returned to his room, but he wasn't tired. They'd had coffee at Starbucks-strong coffee-and, unlike Cassie, who seemed immune to the caffeine, it had left him wide awake. He took off his shoes and lay back across the bed, thinking. The last thing he wanted was to mess up Cassie's publishing deal, but questions about it nagged at him. He had told her he wanted to protect her, and he'd meant it. It wouldn't hurt just to do a little checking, he decided, and standing, he walked to the small desk, picked up the telephone, and dialed Sheila.

She answered on the fifth ring. Her voice sounded husky. He'd awakened her. “Hi, Sheil. It's Max,” he said. “Sorry to wake you."

She cleared her throat. “That's okay. You know you can call me
anytime
. I've been waiting for you to finally come to your senses.” Her implication was clear, but he wasn't even tempted.

"Sorry, Sheil. It's not that. I need your help, and I can't call you at the office until the investigation is finished."

"Oh, darn. And here I thought...” She paused, giggled, then grew serious. “Okay,
Detective
. What d'ya need? You name it, I can get it."

"Remember that information you got me about Hamilton Bates?"

"Mm hmm. That was quite a file."

"I need you to go back and check to see if he has any connection to Halcyon Publishing House."

"Okay. But can I finish my beauty sleep first? I wouldn't want to disillusion any of my admirers."

He smiled. Sheila was terrific. She just wasn't the woman for
him
. “Sure. Look. I'm in New York, and I'll probably be in and out of my hotel room tomorrow. Call me as soon as you have the information. If I'm not here, leave a message. Got something to write with?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

He gave her his number, thanked her, and hung up. Feeling better now that he was taking some action, he called room service and ordered a Coors draft and a roast beef sub, then turned on the television. The National League game in San Francisco appeared on the screen, and the Braves were winning five to nothing at the bottom of the seventh. “What a perfect ending to an almost perfect day,” he said aloud, smiling to himself as he sat down on the almost-comfortable chair to wait for room service.

Jennifer Miles pushed her auburn hair away from her forehead, picked up the telephone and dialed. She didn't know why this bothered her so much. Power players were always asking for special favors, and Hamilton Bates was no different. She wished her boss were here to run interference. He wasn't, so she was in command of Halcyon. Maybe it was just that she didn't like being
told
what to do. After all, Halcyon had hired her away from Gemstone at a substantial salary increase, because in just three years, she had helped bring that house out of near-bankruptcy to being one of the most successful small publishers in America. Well, I don't have to
like
it. I just have to
do
it, she told herself.

"Jennifer Miles at Halcyon to speak to Mr. Bates,” she said to the woman who answered. She sighed when she was put on hold.

"Good morning, Jennifer. Have you seen Miss Hart?” His voice was almost too smooth.

"Yes, sir. She left just about ten minutes ago."

"And?"

"She signed the contract and gave me the disk script."

"What about the documentation?"

She hesitated. He had indicated that he had wanted the book published, so why was he worried about the documentation? “She said she didn't have it with her, so I agreed to go ahead and begin without it. After all, Madison Hart is, uh, was well known for the thoroughness of his research."

There was a moment of silence from the other end. When he spoke again, his voice had acquired a distinct edge. “When is she going to give it to you?"

"She said she'd need a few days. Why?"

He hesitated again. “Did she happen to say where she is keeping it?"

"No. And I didn't ask. After all, one of the most important aspects of a publisher's relationship to a writer is mutual trust and respect—"

"Jennifer,” he interrupted, “You forget yourself.” He stopped, and, when he spoke again, his voice had regained its earlier smoothness. “Did she leave a number where she can be reached?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. I want you to contact her immediately, tell her you've been looking over the book, and that, ah, because of the nature of the story, you're going to need the documentation right away. Tell her you can arrange to have it picked up, then call me back."

My, my. Don't you have your shorts in a wad
. “Yes, Mr. Bates. I'll call you back as soon as I talk to her."

She hung up without saying goodbye and immediately slid the disk into the computer on her desk. Before she made any more calls to anyone, she wanted to know just exactly what had fallen into her lap.

Max and Cassie returned from Halcyon a little before noon, having stopped on the way for a late breakfast. He left her to pack for the trip home and went back to his own room. The red light on the telephone was on, and he dialed the room's voice mail. Sheila had called. “No connection found between subject and Halcyon through December of last year. I'll keep looking. You can reach me after seven tonight."

"Dammit,” he muttered as he hung up. It had been all he could do to convince Cassie that it wouldn't hurt to wait a few days to hand over the proof, and now he'd have to wait at least until tonight to find out if there were any grounds for his suspicions.

Taking the small canvas bag he'd bought when they arrived in New York, he shoved his toiletries and wrinkled clothes into it, remembering the strange look on the desk clerk's face when they'd checked in yesterday. No wonder, he thought. Most people come to the Big Apple with at least two or three suitcases. All I had was this little carry-along and a plastic bag with
Wal-Mart
emblazoned on it. He checked his image in the mirror, smoothed his hair away from his forehead, looked around to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything, then walked out into the hallway toward Cassie's room.

"All set?” he asked when she opened the door. Her suitcase and computer were lying on the rose-colored bedspread.

"Guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Shall we call a bell man?"

"Nah. If you carry the computer, I can handle the rest,” he answered, hefting her suitcase from the bed.

"You'd think I'd be happy to go home,” she said as they walked to the elevator. “But, truth be told, if it wasn't for the fact that the last place they're likely to look for me is right under their noses, I'd never go back there again."

He looked into her eyes and vowed to himself that no harm would come to her as long as he drew breath. When the elevator doors had closed behind them, he set their luggage on the floor and put his arms around her.

"Everything will be okay, Cassie,” he murmured into her soft hair, adding a silent prayer that he was right as they began their descent.

Hamilton Bates looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of his office. It had been two hours since he'd spoken to that twit, Jennifer. Why hadn't she called back? He wondered if, perhaps, he'd overplayed his hand, aroused her curiosity. It was more likely, however, that she was simply trying to flex her muscles a little. If so, he'd make sure she found out what really heavy lifting was. He picked up the phone and punched in her number, waiting impatiently to be put through.

"Jennifer. It's Hamilton Bates.” He heard her catch her breath. “I've been waiting for your call."

"Um, yes, Mr. Bates. I ... I'm sorry...” she said, sounding like her mind was elsewhere. “I, uh, didn't call you because I haven't reached Miss Hart yet."

He let her words hang in the air.

"Uh, Mr. Bates? Are you still there?"

"Yes.” He knew he sounded frosty. He intended to.

"I, um, I'll try her again and call you right back. Whether I reach her or not..."

"That won't be necessary, Jennifer. I believe I may have erred by sending Miss Hart to you. I'll have a runner pick up the disk script from you this afternoon. As for Miss Hart, I expect you to obtain that documentation as
soon
as possible and have it sent by courier directly to me."