The President's Daughter

by Mariah Stewart

  "As of the first of the month, I've been living in Arlington and working on a book." Simon leaned back as the waiter set a frosted mug of beer in front of him.

  "Based on that infamous case of yours, no doubt."

  "Actually, I've had to put that one aside for a time. Right now I'm working on a biography of Graham Hayward."

  "The congressman?"

  "The late president."

  "Why?"

  "Because I need to pay the bills."

  "Who's behind that?"

  "Philip Norton."

  "Norton's back?" She appeared surprised. "I thought he moved across the pond after his wife died."

  "He traveled around for a while. I think he's only recently back in the States within the past six months or so."

  "Tough about his wife." Madeline sipped at her iced tea. "Did they ever find out why ... ?"

  Simon shook his head. "I haven't heard any explanation."

  "Like I said, tough. Tough on everyone involved." Shaw tapped her fingers on the tabletop. "Her daughter has popped up on a few cases we've had come through."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She's a compositor, did you know? Freelances for .various law enforcement agencies."

  "She any good?"

  "A lot of people think she's one of the best. The Feds use her, too. We used her to draw the composite sketch of the kid who took a shotgun to a commuter train last summer."

  She paused while the waiter served their sandwiches.

  "I heard the congressman may be making a run for the White House in two years."

  "So they tell me." With his fork Simon moved a pile of French fries to the side of his plate to make room for a small mountain of catsup.

  "Guess now's a good time to remind everyone just how fine a President his daddy was."

  "You always were too smart for your own good, you know that?"

  "Been hearing that all my life." She grinned. "But you have to admit that it's pretty interesting."

  "What is?"

  "Well, as I recall, you preferred the stories you had to dig for. I wouldn't have thought a book like this would interest you."

  "Under ordinary circumstances, it wouldn't," Simon said frankly. "But I'll make enough money on this book to keep my head above water for a good long time. Certainly long enough for me to finish that book you brought up earlier."

  "So how can the DCPD help you?"

  "I need a copy of an accident report. A hit-and-run."

  "Simon, you didn't have to buy me lunch to get a copy of an accident report." The detective looked puzzled.

  "I'm happy to see you again." He grinned. "And besides, it's a pretty old report."

  "How old?"

  "Thirty years give or take."

  "Thirty years?" She laughed. "You are kidding, right?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Why would you want a thirty-year-old accident report?"

  "I'm just curious about something, that's all."

  "Curious," she repeated skeptically.

  "Yes."

  Madeline sighed and took a small notebook from her shoulder bag. "What's the name of the victim and the date of the accident?"

  "The name is Blythe Pierce. And the date ... damn, I don't know the date." He frowned. "Sometime in November or December of 1971." He tried to recall the story Miles Kendall had told him. Hadn't there been something about a Christmas Ball? "Probably December of 71."

  "Probably, he says," she muttered. "Are you going to tell me why you're looking into this?"

  Simon hesitated. Before he could respond, she said, "Never mind. If you have to take that long to think about it, it's clearly something you don't want to talk about, so forget that I asked. And of course I'll look for the report as soon as I get back this afternoon. Give me a number where I can reach you, and I'll give you a call as soon as I can get my hands on it. It may take a few days, though. Is that okay?"

  "That's fine. A few days would be fine."

  It had taken Madeline Shaw less than twenty-four hours to find the report that Simon had been seeking.

  "Do you have a fax?" the detective asked when Simon answered the phone.

  "Yes, yes, let me give it to you." Simon gave her the number. "I take it your search was successful."

  "Well, I came up with a report. Such as it is. . . ."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that I have a report, but it doesn't appear to be complete."

  "Why not?"

  "There's an indication that the report was six pages long."

  Simon could hear the pages rustling in the background.

  "But..." he urged her to go on.

  "But there are only two in the file. Now that I look a little closer"—she paused as she shuffled through the file—"it looks like ... well, like some things that should be in the file aren't."

  More paper crinkled. Then Madeline said softly, as if to herself, "Odd that this file was closed so soon after the accident. ..."

  "Any reason why?"

  "You'd have to speak with the investigating officer."

  "I'd love to. Got a name?"

  "Looks like ... something ... Hughes."

  "Any idea of who that is?"

  "Well, I knew several Hugheses over the years. If you hold on, I'll run the badge number through the computer."

  Simon had started to wonder if the detective had forgotten that she'd placed him on hold by the time she came back on the line.

  "Your Hughes was Kevin," she told Simon. Before he could ask, she added, "He retired about six or seven years ago. He was a good man. We worked together for a while."

  "Any idea of where I could find him?"

  "You want a lot for that lunch, buddy," Madeline said good-naturedly. "I may have to call you back with that."

  "I'd really appreciate it, Madeline. Thanks."

  "Don't mention it. I hope you find what you're looking for. Must be something hot. Maybe someday you'll even tell me what this was all about."

  "Maybe," he said as the first page began to come through the fax. "Maybe someday ..."

  Simon found Kevin Hughes alive and well and living in Trenton, New Jersey, where he offered his services as an expert witness in the area of police procedures to insurance companies obligated to defend officers who had been sued for civil rights violations of one sort or another.

  At the time Simon called, Hughes was on his way to a trial in Connecticut but offered to look at the report that bore his name. All Simon had to do was fax it to him. Simon did, blessing the marvels of modern technology.

  Hughes called him back right away.

  "I remember this accident. I can't believe you have this report. I remember this accident," Hughes repeated somewhat excitedly. "It was actually one of the first accidents I investigated after joining the force. Damn. I can't believe you're calling about this accident. Madeline didn't tell me it was this accident... ."

  "Was there something special about this accident?" There was something in the former police officer's voice that set Simon's nerves humming. "Other than the fact that it was one of the first you investigated?"

  "How 'bout the fact that she was hit twice?"

  "Hit twice?" Simon sat up straight in his chair. "You mean she was hit by two different cars?"

  "Nah, I mean she was run over twice by the same car."

  "But that would mean that the car ..." Simon said slowly.

  "Yeah. Backed up and ran over her a second time."

  Simon sucked in a sharp breath. "I'm looking at the police report. It doesn't say anything like that."

  "No shit."

  "Did you write it up that way? To reflect that she'd been run over twice?"

  "Yes. It was all in my report. Two sets of tire marks on the woman. And it was on the coroner's report as well."

  "Your report now consists of two pages. And the coroner's report is missing from the file."

  "Surprise, surprise," Hughes murmured.

  "Any idea of who would have
removed those reports?"

  "Honestly, no. I haven't a clue. I was a rookie. I knew better than to ask."

  "And you never told anyone?"

  "Some of the other guys knew about it. And right after the accident there was a private detective asking some questions, but I wasn't allowed to speak with him. Seems the victim's father was some big shot in D.C. But I don't think even he ever got the full report. So if you mean did I speak with anyone outside the force, no. The only reason I'm talking to you now is because Detective Shaw asked me to give you whatever you wanted. She and I go back. If she trusts you, that's enough for me."

  "Didn't it bother you? That your report was changed?"

  "Hell, yes, it bothered me. But the order to purge that file would have come from someone way over my head."

  "Did you ask who?"

  "No. Like I said, I was a rookie. But it must have been someone really high up." Hughes coughed away from the phone, then said, "I mean, you have to be way up there toward the top of the food chain to cover up a murder."

  "Murder ..." Simon repeated as the full implication of what Hughes had told him sank in.

  "What would you call it?" Hughes coughed again. "Whoever hit her sure enough wanted that woman dead."

  Chapter Seven

  The phone seemed to ring and ring forever before it was answered with a curt, "Yes?"

  "Your friend, ah, he had company. I thought you might want to know."

  "Of course I want to know." A brief pause, then, "Who?"

  "I wrote down the name.... It was in the book." He held the mouthpiece closer to his face. "Simon Keller."

  "Simon Keller." The name was repeated softly.

  "Yeah, Simon Keller."

  "When was he there?"

  "Um, let's see; I wrote that down, too." He turned over the piece of paper. "He was here last Tuesday, then again on Wednesday...."

  A sharp intake of breath, then, "He's been there twice?"

  "Ah, well, yes...."

  "Why am I just hearing about this?"

  "Well, you see—"

  "What do you think I'm paying you for?"

  "I didn't know—"

  "You're supposed to know. I pay you to know!"

  "I'm sorry. But—"

  "No buts," the voice hissed, a snake shimmying through the phone line.

  "Look, see, I was off on—"

  "Be quiet. Let me think."

  Silence.

  Finally, "How long did he stay?"

  "1 don't know." He scratched his head.

  "Then go back, look at the log, and call me back." Forced patience, as one might speak to a child. "Write down dates and times. Times in, times out. Do you think you can handle that?"

  "Okay. My break is over now, but I'll check when I— hello? Hello?"

  The order having been issued, the line had gone dead.

  Sighing, the orderly hung up the pay phone and waited a second or two, routinely checking the coin return to see if there was spare change to be found. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and went through the locker-room door and back to work, determined to get the information exactly as it was requested. After all, side gigs like this didn't come along every day, and he figured out that if he could just keep it going for another five months, he'd be able to buy that hot Camaro he saw in the used car lot his bus took him past every day on his way to work.

  There were so many old men in this place, he was thinking as he walked down the deserted hallway, why that one old man should matter so much was beyond him. There were other old guys in here who were much more interesting. Like old Mr. DiGiorgio, whose sons and grandsons dressed in black and who all came down once a month from New York in a limousine carrying a hamper filled with pasta and wine. Now Mr. DiGiorgio, he had been somebody. He had some stories to tell. But old Mr. Kendall, he just sat there, staring out the window.

  The orderly paused in front of Kendall's doorway, then pushed it open only far enough for his head to poke through. The old man wheezed in his sleep but, other than that, slept like a baby.

  "Just in case I'm asked if the old SOB talked in his sleep, I can honestly answer no," the orderly muttered, still not understanding the importance of his mission but knowing that carrying it out would mean the difference between wheels and no wheels. He closed the door quietly, then headed toward the lobby, where the visitors' sign-in logs were kept.

  This time, when he called back he'd have the information. There'd be no reason to ask him again—in that mean, snotty tone of voice—if he knew what he was being paid to do. He knew. And he'd deliver.

  Chapter Eight

  The home of Foster Worthington Pierce had been ridiculously easy to find once Simon knew where to look. All he'd needed was a computer and a quick stop or two on the Internet to find it. Wild Springs, Malvern, Pennsylvania.

  Simon packed a bag and headed north. His interview with Celeste Hayward was scheduled for the following day, and he figured he could as easily make the flight to Rhode Island from Philadelphia as he could from D.C. or Baltimore. The Philadelphia suburbs were little more than two hours away. He wasn't quite sure what he hoped to find, but he knew he wouldn't be content until he stood on the steps of the Pierce home and rang the doorbell. What questions he would ask once someone opened that door, well, he'd think about that on the drive up. All he knew was that he had to go.

  Wild Springs would have been described by the tony magazines as a gentleman's farm. There were vast fenced fields where beautiful horses stood in the chill of the afternoon and watched Simon's old car pass on its way to the rambling fieldstone farmhouse at the end of the meandering lane.

  Definitely horse country. Simon nodded to himself as he got out of the car and looked around at the fields where jumps had been placed. A large barn stood off to the right, and several smaller barns and a carriage house were built around an outside riding ring. There were several other outbuildings, and what appeared to be a walled garden directly behind the house. A woods formed a natural border to Simon's left, and all in all, the property was pristinely manicured. Even the pastures appeared beautifully maintained.

  Mr. Pierce obviously didn't mind spending a bit on upkeep, Simon noted as he walked to the front of the house and up the three steps to the door, which was painted red and had a knocker in the shape of a horse's head.

  "Yes?" A white-haired woman wearing slacks, a sweater, and an air of suspicion answered the door.

  "My name is Simon Keller. I was wondering if I might speak with Mr. Pierce."

  "I'm sorry, but Mr. Pierce is deceased."

  "Oh..."

  As Simon digested this news, a voice from inside called, "Who is it, Mrs. Brady?"

  "Someone asking to see your father."

  Through the open door Simon could see a figure approaching in a wheelchair.

  "Did you ask the nature of his business?"

  "I was just about to, Miss Pierce." The housekeeper turned back to Simon.

  "I'm a writer. I was hoping to speak with him about—"

  "A writer, are you?" The wheelchair drew close enough for Simon to see the middle-aged woman seated in it.

  "Yes."

  "What is it that you write?" The woman stopped the chair near the open door. At close range, she looked a bit younger than Simon had originally suspected, closer to mid-forties than fifties, the hair more blond than gray, her legs motionless but her eyes dancing with curiosity.

  "Actually, I'm writing a book about President Graham Hayward. In going through some of the old White House social records from the day, I found that the name Blythe Pierce came up several times. Enough times that I became curious about her. I started following a trail and it led here." Simon wasn't sure where he'd go from there, but it was a start.

  "Blythe." The woman in the chair seemed to smile automatically as she spoke the name aloud. "My God, no one's asked about my sister in ... well, it's certainly been some time. I'm Betsy Pierce." The woman extended a hand to Simon. "You are again .. . ?"

  "Si
mon Keller." Simon leaned forward to take the hand, which was surprisingly strong.

  "And you're writing a book about President Hayward and you want to know about Blythe." Betsy Pierce recited the information slowly, as if trying to piece it together. "Exactly what sort of records were you looking at, where Blythe's name might have appeared?"

  "I found her name on a number of old White House guest lists. She apparently attended quite a few dinners and other social gatherings there."

  "Do come in, Mr. Keller, and tell me what else you found."

  "Miss Pierce .. ." Mrs. Brady, who appeared to be the housekeeper, raised an eyebrow in what Simon interpreted as a warning.

  "Oh, it's all right, Mrs. Brady. We'll sit right here in the front parlor where you can watch his every move. And if it makes you feel better, you can even have that burly new groom come up and brandish about that shotgun he uses to scare the groundhogs with." Betsy Pierce turned her chair to the right and wheeled it through a pair of thick white columns, waving for Simon to follow.

  Simon held up his hands as he passed the housekeeper as if to show that his intentions were strictly on the up-and-up.

  "1 haven't talked about Blythe in so long," Betsy said. "She's been gone for ... well, it seems a lifetime. Could it really be thirty years? And my father's been gone for nearly twenty-five years. No one seems to remember her except for me."

  "Your father's still listed in the phone book," Simon noted.

  "I just never bothered to have it changed."

  "1 hope my visit isn't upsetting to you."

  "No, no, not at all. Now sit there on the sofa and tell me what it is you wanted to know about Blythe."

  Simon sat as directed and hesitated. How to begin?

  "Well," he chose his words carefully, "for my book, I've been gathering some personal reminiscences about Hayward. In doing so, I've been taking a look at some of the players he was close to, such as his Chief of Staff, Miles Kendall. Your sister's name came up in connection with Kendall's on a number of occasions. It appears they may have been an item, as they say."

  "I'm afraid I'd know nothing about that." Betsy folded her arms across her chest. "Blythe always seemed to play her cards close to her vest."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She was never particularly chatty about her social life. At least, not with me. Then again, she was ten years older than I. Back in the days when she lived in Washington, I was . . . let's see, she was in her mid-twenties when she first moved there, so I would still have been in high school. We weren't particularly close in the way that some sisters might be, mostly, you see, because of the age difference."