The President's Daughter (24 page)

The smile froze on Norton’s face. “Holy Mother . . .”

“Philip Norton, meet Dina McDermott,” Simon said brusquely. “Dina, this is Dr. Philip Norton. He’s an old friend of the family.”

Norton simply stared at the young woman who stood on his front steps.

“My dear, you’ll have to forgive me. You look so much like . . .” He stopped, glanced questioningly at Simon.

“Yes, she knows.” Simon nodded.

“You look so much like your mother,” Norton told Dina.

“I’ve been hearing a lot of that lately.”

“I want the tape, Philip,” Simon said angrily.

“The tape?”

“Please don’t insult me. Just give it back to me, and we’ll be on our way—”

“Are you referring to the tape you made of Miles—”

“You know exactly what tape I’m referring to. I want it back. The secret is out, Philip. She’s standing right in front of you.”

“I didn’t steal your tape, Simon.”

“No one else knew about it.”

“Simon . . . Dina, come in. Please, don’t let’s stand in an open doorway discussing this; you never know who is walking by. . . .” Norton stepped back to permit them entrance, then closed the door behind him. “Now, come in and sit down and we’ll—”

“This isn’t a social call. All I want is the tape.”

“Simon, I don’t have your tape,” Norton said calmly. “Which I’m assuming has been stolen—”

“You know that it has.”

“You’ve told me what’s on it. Why would I steal it?”

“So that I wouldn’t have proof of the affair between Blythe and Hayward. So that no one could prove it . . .”

“To what end?” Norton looked mildly amused.

“Maybe so that the story won’t come out and overshadow Graham Junior’s candidacy.”

“These days, a story about a presidential affair might be considered little more than a sex scandal, tabloid fodder. Besides, the proof of the affair is standing right next to you.” Norton gestured in Dina’s direction. “If in fact hard proof were needed, DNA is quite conclusive.”

“Then why take the tape if not to cover up the fact of Dina’s existence?”

“Simon, lately you’ve accused me of a lot of things. Now you’re accusing me of breaking and entering. I would think your energy would best be spent trying to figure out who has your tape.”

“Who did you tell about it?”

“No one. I swear, I’ve spoken to no one about it.”

“Then why would someone break into my house?”

“What else was stolen?”

“My laptop.”

“Were there disks in it?”

Simon nodded slowly. “Disks with notes . . .”

“Notes about . . . ?”

“Blythe. Dina. Hayward’s desire to walk away from his family as well as his office . . .”

“And was the tape marked?”

“Oh, couldn’t have been more clearly marked.” Simon slumped back against the doorjamb. “ ‘Interview with Miles Kendall.’ Think that was clear enough?”

“I swear to you that I have told no one about the tape, so that means that outside of this room, no one knew about it.”

“You think someone broke into my house looking for something but not knowing what they would find?”

“I think it’s quite reasonable to think that someone would believe that a reporter would keep notes if he was tracking an important story. I don’t think someone
knew
. I think someone may have
suspected.
I’d bet my life that no one could have guessed that you’d have taped Miles Kendall’s conversations, or what was on that tape.” Norton grimaced. “And depending on who hears the tape, someone is going to get quite a surprise, I suspect, when they play it through.”

Simon jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and stared at Norton. “Philip, several nights ago, someone tried to run Dina down. Someone driving a dark van that jumped the curb and literally chased her up onto a neighbor’s lawn. Any thoughts on who that might have been?”

“Dear God . . .” Norton sat on the arm of the love seat just inside the door. Simon and Dina remained in the hall. “And you’re all right?”

Dina nodded.

“I don’t suppose you could describe the vehicle or the driver?”

“No.”

“Who else knew about the affair between Blythe and Graham Hayward? Who else knew about me?” Dina asked.

“There were several Secret Service men who knew. They’re gone now, however. I checked after Simon and I spoke the first time. The party chairman, Peter Stinson, knew about Blythe but not, I believe, about you. Frankly, I don’t think anyone knew about you. Graham kept that secret very closely guarded. I don’t think anyone knew other than Miles and myself.”

“You must have been very close to him, for him to have trusted you with that,” Dina said.

“We were close.” Norton smiled gently. “It broke his heart when Blythe died. It absolutely broke him. He was never the same. He loved her very, very much.”

“Who had known that he had been thinking about leaving office other than you and Miles?”

“Stinson knew. He wouldn’t hear of it, of course. Out-and-out dismissed it. Said no one in their right mind would even consider something so stupid and refused to believe that Graham would do such a thing. Conrad Fritz, who was Graham’s campaign manager both times, might have gotten wind of it. And the vice president might have known. Who knows who one of them might have told?”

“And you?” Simon asked. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No. I don’t recall ever discussing it with anyone, other than Graham and Miles.”

“Where would I find Stinson and Fritz?”

“Stinson’s living in Green Lake, New Jersey. Just off the Delaware Bay. I have his number somewhere, but I’d have to look for it. I saw both of them recently at a party fund-raiser at Gray’s place in Rhode Island. I didn’t ask where Fritz was living, but I can try to find out for you.”

Simon handed the pen to Dina. “Do you have anything to write your cell phone number on?”

Dina opened her purse and pulled out a small notebook and proceeded to write down the number. When she finished, she handed it to Norton, who placed it on the table without looking at it.

“Call when you find out where Fritz is. I’m going to pay a visit to each of them. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give them advance warning.” Simon moved slightly toward the door.

For a moment, Norton appeared to be deep in thought.

“Philip?” Simon asked, to bring the man back.

“Oh, sorry. I was thinking how interesting it was that the same method was used to go after you as was used to kill your mother.” Norton smiled apologetically. “Sorry. This must be a terrible trial for you.”

Dina nodded.

“We’re assuming that the same person was driving both vehicles, of course,” Simon said. “The one that killed Blythe and the one that attempted to run down Dina. Maybe he—or she—feels comfortable with using the car as their weapon.”

“Because they got away with it once before.” Norton nodded his agreement as he took his pipe from his pocket and tapped it lightly against the palm of his hand.

“That and maybe because the car removes them from the victim a little. They don’t have to see or touch the body; they don’t have to be eye to eye with their victim.”

“Who’s watching out for Mrs. McDermott?” Norton asked.

“I am,” Simon told him.

“Why not bring her here, and I can help you—”

“Not on your life.” Simon shook his head.

“Why not?” Norton asked.

“Because I don’t know if I trust you.”

Simon stared at his old mentor for a very long minute.

“I’m sorry, Philip,” Simon said as he closed the door behind them.

“You don’t really think that Dr. Norton was driving the van, do you?” Dina asked Simon as they made their way through rush-hour traffic in search of the Beltway.

“No.” Simon shook his head. “He’s not a murderer. And I can’t see him covering up for one, either.”

“Then why don’t you trust him?”

Simon paused, reflecting. “I don’t know that I don’t. Maybe I just have a bad taste in my mouth because I still think he tried to manipulate me.”

“Do you think that one of these men, Stinson or Fritz, might have killed Blythe?”

“I don’t know. If they thought that Graham was even remotely serious about leaving office because of Blythe, they might have had a motive to remove her from the picture. Think of what a big blow such an action would be to the party. It would be a big setback for a lot of people’s agendas and would have a huge effect on elections for the next few years.”

“I’m afraid I’m not politically astute enough to understand why.”

“Because it would turn the tide, so to speak. Give the opposition the momentum going into not only the next presidential election but the House and the Senate contests as well. It would have been seen almost as a treasonous gesture by some, a selfish one at the very least. To throw away the power and prestige not only for himself but for his party and candidates for lesser offices as well. It’s the type of thing that simply isn’t done.”

“And you really think Graham would have done this?”

“I don’t think he would have been permitted to do such a thing, even if he’d really wanted to. But I do think that the fact that he even raised the possibility would have made a lot of people very, very nervous.”

“But why would someone come after me now?”

“Well, maybe someone thinks it could sour Graham’s chances at the presidency. That maybe the affair and the truth of your parentage might overshadow Graham’s nomination. Or maybe it’s personal. Maybe someone doesn’t want anyone to know that Graham had had an affair.”

“Do you think that one of these men—Stinson or Fritz or whomever—was involved in Blythe’s death?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll be looking up Mr. Stinson tomorrow and we’ll see what he has to say about the matter. If nothing else, crossing his name off only makes the list shorter. And besides, who knows what I might learn from him?”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Well, you two certainly made a day of it.” Jude stood in the open doorway, her hands on her hips, her expression peevish. “We’ve been worried about you.”

“Sorry, Mom, I really didn’t think we’d be this late. As I told you when I called, something came up that took a little more time than we’d expected, and then, on the way back, we were hungry and decided to stop for dinner—”

“And are you going to tell us just what it was that came up?” Jude frowned.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Jude, at least let them get into the house before you start grilling them!” Betsy called from somewhere behind the half-opened door. “And for the record, I wasn’t worried. I figured that Simon would take good care of you.”

“Thank you, Betsy.” Dina gave Jude a perfunctory peck on the cheek as she winked at Betsy.

“Don’t mention it.” Betsy pushed the door closed after Simon came through it. “Now, I trust you have the tape?”

“I have a tape, yes.” Simon took it from his pocket and held it up. “Unfortunately, someone else has one as well.”

“Who someone else?” Betsy turned halfway around in her chair.

“Someone broke into Simon’s house,” Dina announced, “we think last night, while he was here, and stole his laptop along with a disk that held his notes. They also took the copy that he’d made of the tape.”

The two older women fell silent, the ticking of the grandfather clock there in the hallway filling the void.

At last Jude said, “But that means that someone else . . .”

“Yes.” Simon nodded grimly. “Someone else knows what Miles told me. I’m sorry, Jude. I never expected this to happen.”

“Who knew about it?”

“The only person I told was Norton. And he swears he did not take it.” Simon told Betsy and Jude about the stop at the professor’s home. “He also claims not to have told anyone about it.”

“Do you believe him?” Betsy asked.

“I think I do.”

“What are we going to do now?” Jude looked from Simon to Dina and back again.

“First, we’re going to sit down in the study and have a brandy,” Betsy announced. “Then we’re going to see if we can develop a game plan.”

“While you pour”—Simon put a hand on the back of Betsy’s chair—“I have a call to make. Do you mind if I use your phone?”

“Go right ahead. There’s one on the desk in the hall,” she offered.

“Were you able to find that number for your old buddy Stinson?” Simon asked when the professor picked up.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” Norton chuckled. “Yes. I have it right here. I was just about to call Dina’s cell phone. Now, do you have a pen?”

“Just a minute.” Simon searched his pockets for his pen, then walked into the sitting room and helped himself to a piece of paper from a pad that sat on Betsy’s desk. “Go ahead with the number. . . .”

Simon wrote it down, then asked, “Do you have his street address?”

“No. But it’s a small town, Simon. Stinson should be easy to find.”

“And how about Fritz? Were you able to locate him?”

“Yes. He’s in Virginia.”

Simon wrote down the second number. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Simon toyed with the idea of calling Stinson, then decided against it. Better to drop in unannounced than to give him time to prepare a story.

Simon folded the paper in half once, then once again, and stuck it in his shirt pocket. It was too late to leave tonight. He’d have to ask Betsy for the use of her guest room again tonight.

“So,” he said as he walked back into the front room where the ladies sipped their brandy and waited for him to join them. “Shall we listen to the tape?”

By midnight, the tape had been played and replayed, its contents and the repercussions that might be expected from having the copy fall into the hands of some other unknown party discussed without conclusion.

Finally, at ten past twelve, Betsy turned her chair around and wheeled herself toward the door.

“I’m too old to stay up this late,” she announced. “As are you, Jude. Let’s call it a night.”

“But . . .” Jude gestured to Dina and Simon.

“Exactly.” Betsy grinned. “Come on, Jude. You can help me with my chairlift. It was acting up again this afternoon.”

“Good night, Mom.” Dina blew her mother a kiss. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, honey,” Jude said in reply. She paused for a moment, then nodded to Simon. “You, too.”

“Thanks, Jude.” Simon tried not to grin. Betsy’s efforts to leave him and Dina alone had been so overt, and Jude had clearly not been partial to the idea.

“So. Here we are,” he said as the sound of Jude and Betsy’s voices—bickering over the merits of a current bestseller—faded down the hallway.

“Yup.” Dina nodded. “Here we are.” She sat next to him on the small love seat. “Thanks for taking me with you today.”

“My pleasure.”

“Any chance you’ll let me go with you tomorrow, too?”

“To see Stinson?” Simon raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t want him to see you. Chances are, he knew Blythe. I don’t want him to make a connection that he doesn’t already know about.”

“Do you think he’d remember her?”

“Dina, if she looked as much like you as everyone says she did, he’d never forget her.”

Simon reached out and touched the side of her face. Her hand found his and held it for a long moment.

“Simon, do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the minute I saw you.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I kiss you?” He smiled and leaned toward her. “Why don’t I do just that . . .”

He lowered his mouth to hers and brushed her lips with his, side to side, then tugged, ever so slightly, on her bottom lip with his. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed into him, inviting more, and he traced first her lips, then the inside of her mouth. She tasted of Betsy’s fine brandy and a ripeness not found in a bottle.

“Makes me wonder what I was waiting for,” he murmured as he kissed her again.

“I was beginning to wonder the same thing.” She held on to his collar, keeping him close, angling her face against the back of the sofa.

“Well, I thought about it. A lot. But then I’d think about everything you’ve been through and I’d think, well, the last thing she needs right now is some guy hitting on her.”

“I don’t think of you as just ‘some guy.’ ”

“How do you think of me?”

“As a very welcome addition to my life.”

“I like the way that sounds.” He nibbled on her bottom lip. “So you don’t blame me for having started all this madness?”

“This madness started thirty years ago. Sooner or later, it was bound to catch up with us. Sooner might turn out to be better than later, in the long run.” She leaned back against the sofa and looked up at him. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that you were the best thing that came out of this mess. I’m glad I met you, Simon Keller.”

“I’m glad I met you, too.” He leaned over and turned off the light on the table next to them, the only light in the room. “Just in case Betsy’s groom is prowling around outside with his shotgun,” he told her as he pulled her closer and took her mouth again with his own.

Dina’s pulse began to pound and sharp slivers of heat flooded through her.
This is what I’ve been waiting
for, what I tried to describe to Mom. I’ve waited all my life
for someone to take my breath away, for someone to kiss me
and set the world on edge.

And that was exactly how it felt. Like the world had been set on its edge and the center of gravity shifted. She was wondering how much further one could slide down this slope when Simon leaned back and traced the side of her face with his fingers.

“You look tired,” he said softly.

“I
am
tired,” Dina admitted.

“When was your last full night of sleep?”

“What day is it?”

“That’s what I thought.” His fingers kneaded at the knots in her shoulders. “Your muscles feel like poured concrete. Here, turn around. . . .”

He turned her body so that her back was facing him, worked his thumbs just above her shoulder blades.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped as he began to massage from the base of her neck to her shoulder blades.

“Just relax and let me see if we can scare away some of the tension. . . .”

“I’m beginning to feel like a rag doll,” she said a few minutes later.

“That’s good. That means it’s working.”

“Oh, it’s working all right.” Dina smiled to herself.
It’s working just fine. . . .

“Why don’t you go on up and try to get some sleep?” he said after he’d reduced all of her muscular structure to jelly.

“I don’t think I can move,” she murmured sleepily.

“Then I’ll carry you.” He started to rise.

“That won’t be neces—” Dina giggled as he lifted her from the sofa in one smooth motion. “Really, Simon, I can—”

“Too late.” He chuckled and made his way to the stairwell.

“No, seriously, you can just put me down now.” Dina stifled a laugh.

“Not till I have you safely to your door.”

“That would be it, on the left,” she pointed out when they reached the top of the steps. “Thank you for the lift.”

“My pleasure.” He leaned down to nuzzle the side of her face. “I’ll see you when I get back from Stinson’s.”

“Simon.”

“Ummmm?”

“I’m trying really hard to sort things out—about myself, I mean—but it may take a while.” She looked up at him with eyes that darkened with all the swirling emotions of the past weeks. “It’s hard to reach beyond yourself to someone else when your entire life is shifting right before your eyes. Hard to open up to someone—even though you may want to—when you’re not really certain who you are.”

“I understand.” He settled his arm around her neck and stroked her hair. “I’m in no hurry. I’ll be here waiting when you do.”

No matter how long it takes,
Simon silently promised as he held her for just one more moment. Some things were well worth waiting for.

For the second morning in a row, Simon crept down the steps early, taking pains to avoid those steps he’d already identified as creakers. This morning, however, there was no Dina waiting on the bottom step, no thermos of coffee or fresh muffins.

He sat with the engine running while he located Green Lake on the New Jersey map that was in his glove box. Not too far if he took the Commodore Barry Bridge and then picked up Route 322. From there, he could take one of several roads. He’d stop someplace once he crossed the bridge to ask which might be fastest. Then of course, there’d be the matter of finding Stinson.

Green Lake, New Jersey, being what it was, however, with its population of roughly one thousand souls, finding Stinson had been relatively easy. Simon had stopped at the Green Lake Country Store, part of which served as the local post office, as he discovered when several folks walked up to a large open window and walked away sifting through the bundle of mail they’d been handed.

“Excuse me,” Simon said to the gentleman behind the window. “I’m looking for Peter Stinson. I was told he had a home in the area. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

“You might ask in the store,” the man told him. “Post office can’t really give out addresses.”

Simon went inside and repeated his question to the person behind the counter.

“You a friend of his?”

“We have a mutual friend.”

“Heard he used to be something in Washington.”

“Long time ago.” Simon nodded.

“He and his wife bought the 1745 Isaac Martin House about eighteen months ago. They just finished renovating it. Sure looks good,” said a fellow who sat sipping his morning coffee at a round table along with two other gents.

“Rebuilt the garage and everything.” One of his companions nodded. “He’s been real active with the local birders.”

“I heard him tell Angus Simpson that he saw a Henslow’s sparrow down near the marsh,” a woman reading a newspaper commented without looking up from the page.

“That right?” The coffee drinker turned in his seat. “Which side of the marsh?”

“Would you happen to know the address?” Simon asked, trying not to appear impatient among the locals, who clearly were in no hurry.

“It’s the 1745 Isaac Martin House,” the first man responded.

“But what’s the address?”

“That is the address,” the man behind the counter told him. “All of the homes in Green Lake have historical designations, the whole village being on the National Register of Historic Districts. We just refer to the buildings by their names.”

“How do you know which house is which?” Simon asked. “How do you tell them apart?”

“The houses all have signs on them,” someone said.

“You want the 1745 Isaac Martin House, you want to go straight out here to the left, out toward the river. It’ll be on the left side of the road; the siding’s painted yellow and it has a big front porch,” the woman with the newspaper told Simon.

Simon thanked them for their help, then paused on his way out to purchase a cup of the fragrant coffee and a copy of the local paper.