The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [31]
“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