continuing.
Jake stood up, peeled off his navy sportscoat and walked over to the window. He peered down at the traffic heading toward the Bishop Ford Freeway — rush-hour traffic heading north to the Loop or east toward the Indiana steel mills and office buildings.
He was having a hard time concentrating. He kept seeing satin sheets and royal blue teddies. His instincts were in overdrive and something told him Sam was unstoppable.
“If I had it in my power to change things,” Carl continued, “I would. I call every day to try to convince President Whittier that releasing this information is his only option. But you’re detectives. Let’s face it. What have we got? Lincoln’s word against a highly powerful senior state representative whose distinguished war record has been documented in history books. Do you know what the press would do with this? They’ll question whether Preston’s opponent put Lincoln up to it. They can write it to sound like Lincoln is the one who aided and abetted the deserters. We need a signed confession. And I doubt we’re going to get it from Preston.”
“Well, maybe someone will have to force him to do the right thing.” Frank began naming black congressmen and church leaders. “Don’t fuckin’ sweep this under the rug.”
“The President is worried about race riots,” Carl explained.
“Race riots, hell. He’s worried about the election.”
“Jake, give me a hand here,” Carl pleaded.
Jake turned back from the window, studied the worry lines creasing Carl’s forehead. Carl was intelligent, fair. Hated the bureaucracy of the job. Jake had no doubt that Carl was tormented by a choice of following orders and doing what was morally and ethically right.
Jake pointed to a copy of Samuel Casey’s report saying, “Did you notice the reference to Samuel giving a copy of all of this to a trusted friend just in case something happened?”
“Wait, now.” Frank touched the corner of Samuel’s report. “If the original went to Whittier, a copy was in the safety deposit box, where’s the copy that went to the trusted friend?”
“Better question is — who is the trusted friend?” Jake asked. They pondered that question for several minutes. “While we’re here trying to strategize about keeping the lid on this,” Jake warned, “Sam is up to no good. I can feel it. When she and Tim have their heads together, god only knows what havoc they can wreak.” He clamped a hand on Frank’s shoulder and patted it reassuringly. He looked across the table at Carl and said, “I believe the President should spend less time trying to stifle this issue and more time planning damage control. Because the truth IS going to come out. It’s just a matter of when.”
Chapter 70
Sam whipped her Jeep around a corner and down Lake Drive to the hotel. She had entertained the thought of stopping by Preston’s house but decided it was best to let him sweat for a while. The fact that he hadn’t placed a call to her this morning told her he was already sweating profusely.
The dark sedan Tim had allegedly seen in the past had been replaced by a white van. After convincing herself that Tim’s imagination was on overdrive, she finally had seen the suspiciously parked floral van for a floral shop that didn’t exist.
She lost the van on the last turn down an alley on Wentworth. She was going to put a stop to this. Against her better judgment, she let Tim use his computer to access the guest list at the Suisse Hotel. The FBI had spent so little time with Benny, Sam had never suspected they would still be in town.
The elevator doors opened and deposited Sam on the fourteenth floor. She looked around for agents, body guards. No one. The hallway was deserted. Matter of fact, Director Underer had the entire top floor. Suite 1411 was the only room.
She pressed the doorbell twice. The door was pulled open by a tall, distinguished-looking man in horn-rimmed glasses. Carl Underer wore his navy suit like a uniform. She could envision his closet filled with twenty identical suits.
“Director Underer?” She stretched out a hand to him. “Sergeant Sam Casey.”
He clasped her hand and after a faltering moment said, “Of course.” Carl closed the door slowly. “To what do I owe this visit, Sergeant?”
“Please, call me Sam.” She walked around the conference table eyeing the serving tray of coffee and hot water, the laptop computer, telephone, file folders, a black briefcase. She made herself a cup of hot tea. “Why are there two goons following my every move? Watching my driveway?”
She assessed his living quarters with its dark mahogany wood, floral wallpaper, Queen Anne furniture, and wet bar. Hallways branched out like expressway intersections.
“I wasn’t aware you were being watched but I’ll definitely check into it.” Carl motioned toward the conference table. “Please, sit.” Carl stole a brief glance toward Sam’s lightning bolt pendant.
“If you are still in town because of the Hap Wilson case, I might be able to help.” Sam watched for his reaction. He was as stone-faced as the statues at the entrance to the hotel.
A door at the far end of the room by the fireplace opened and an Asian man of medium height and slight build emerged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” the man said. The air was thick with tension. Carl made no attempt at introductions.
“You aren’t interrupting,” Sam said.
“I’m just going to leave these here for the cleaning lady.” The man placed a stack of newspapers on the couch.
Sam saw the heading Korean Today. She moved to the couch and glanced at the address label.
“Wait.” She looked up at the retreating man. “You’re Lincoln Thomas?”
“Yes.”
Carl swiveled in his seat. “There’s no need to…”
“Sam Casey.” Sam reached for his hand.
“Yes.” Lincoln’s face brightened. “I stopped by to see you the other day.” His eyes dropped down to her necklace. “Where did you get this?”
Suddenly, Hap’s written words popped into Sam’s head, the report her father had written, the account of Mushima valley. All the names, places, events.
She took a step back, assessed his age. Could it be?
“My, god,” she gasped. “You’re Ling Toy!”
Chapter 71
Carl leaned back in his chair, his elbow propped up on the arm rest, a fist pressed wearily under his chin. Sam was reading Lincoln’s signed affidavit as she paced the floor.
Carl said, “A copy of everything will be given to the Pentagon, Sam. So, we have just about wrapped up everything here.”
“Wrapped up?” Sam pivoted on her heel. “Did I miss something here? Or did you? What about Hap’s killer? My father’s killer? You can’t just let Preston walk. What are you going to do? File a report that those three men died in Mushima Valley of friendly fire and leave it at that?” She glanced at Lincoln who had remained silent. “Did you threaten Lincoln with deportation if he goes to the press?”
Carl held out his hand to retrieve the affidavit. “No one is threatening anyone here, Sam.” Carl’s phone rang. He walked over to the far end of the table and picked it up.
While he spoke, Sam opened a file folder by his briefcase. Her eyes scanned the handwriting, the paper yellowed with age. It was Hap’s writing. He told of the men in his unit, how he believed they were buried in Mushima Valley.
“Things are getting out of control,” Carl said into the phone. He took four long strides over to where Sam was sitting and pulled the folder out of her hands.
