The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [87]
“That’s very mature of you.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Dina opened the bag that sat between her feet. “Are you ready for coffee?”
“Yes to the coffee, no to the sarcasm. And I think it’s very generous of you to put your own hurt aside right now, even more remarkable that you’re willing to do so in conjunction with Betsy and Jude.”
Dina passed Simon one of the travel mugs that Mrs. Brady had filled with coffee.
“Betsy’s been kept in the background long enough.” Dina leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes for a minute. “And besides, it’s time they made up.”
“You sense bad blood there?”
“Oh, you could say that.”
She rested for another mile or so, then turned to Simon and said, “Interesting, don’t you think, that they each look at the situation from the opposite side?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that all along Betsy’s been concerned mainly about Blythe’s murder and all along Jude’s been worried more about the affair becoming public and about protecting me.”
“And which are you focused on?”
“Both. I want to find out who killed Blythe. I want justice for her. And I want to keep my anonymity.” Dina sipped at her coffee, then asked, “Do you have any idea of what my life would be like if the press found out that I was Graham Hayward’s illegitimate child?”
Simon shifted uncomfortably. He was the press. At that moment, he didn’t want to think about being the one who could well bring yet even more distress into her world.
“It may not be possible to do one without the other,” he said softly.
“Why not?”
“If we find the person—or persons—responsible for Blythe’s death, how can we can seek justice without the truth being made public?”
Dina turned her head and looked out the window at the passing scenery, her silence testimony that if she hadn’t considered this win/lose possibility before, she was considering it now. In the sun’s light the circles under her eyes grew darker, more noticeable. Simon wished there was something he could do, something he could say, that would ease the pain she must be going through. He wondered when she’d had her last full night of sleep, uninterrupted by heartache.
“How did you get involved in all this?” she asked.
“I’m writing a book about Hayward.”
“I know that part.” She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. “Why Hayward?”
“Why Hayward indeed,” Simon muttered. “It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long-enough drive to Arlington, I would think.”
“I was working on a book of my own when I was offered the opportunity to work on the Hayward project by Philip. It isn’t the type of story I’m really interested in, but I needed the money and he threw in the additional incentive of a two-book contract, presumably to publish the book I’ve been working on.”
“What’s your book about?”
“It’s about laundering money coming out of South America and the involvement of several highly placed U.S. officials.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“I thought so.”
“Apparently Dr. Norton thinks so, too.”
“It was a carrot.” Simon checked the rearview mirror, then sped around the slow-moving station wagon that was straddling the white line.
“What do you mean, a carrot?”
“He offered to publish my book so that I’d agree to the Hayward biography.” Simon’s eyes never strayed from the back end of the car in front of him. “He knew I’d have problems getting a publisher to buy my book and he wanted me specifically to write his book.”
“Why, and why?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion that he wanted me to write the book because he thought he could