Conspiracy

19

Lia flicked through the notebook. Most preschoolers had handwriting neater than Forester’s. Nor were his notes particularly informative or complete. An entire page would be devoted to a time—10:30, say — that appeared to be for an appointment, though neither a date nor a place was recorded.

The words “Pine Plains” were written at the top of the last page. At the bottom of the page, were numbers and one word: “84, Parkway, 44, 82.”

“Is this some sort of code?” Lia asked, passing the sheets to Dean.

John Mandarin, the Secret Service special agent in charge of both the McSweeney investigation and the inquiry into Forester’s death, frowned.

“We think those are directions. Interstate 84, Taconic Parkway, U.S. Route 44, and State Route 82. It would be how to get to Pine Plains.”

“But he didn’t go to Pine Plains,” said Dean. “He went to Danbury.”

“Nearest approved hotel,” said Mandarin. “He would’ve gone first thing the next morning. Had an appointment with the police chief there.”

“Is this the last notebook?” asked Lia.

“It’s the only notebook. Far as we know.” Mandarin was the classic Secret Service agent. He was average height, weight, and build. While his last name indicated that there were Chinese ancestors somewhere in his family’s past, his face mixed Asian and Eu ro pe an characteristics so well that it would have been impossible to place him in any ge ne tic pool without a DNA test. He wore a brown suit, a white shirt that appeared to be graying around the collar, black shoes and socks. His accent was as bland as a midwest-ern television announcer’s, and when he spoke he kept his hands perfectly still. In total, Mandarin was a veritable Zelig who could fade into even the most convoluted background.

“Can we see another of Agent Forester’s notebooks?” asked Lia. “Something to compare it to?”

“I have to tell you, we really don’t see much of a connection between Forester’s death and the McSweeney assassination,” said Mandarin. “State police called Forester’s death a suicide. FBI looked at it and they agreed.”

“What do you think?” Dean asked.

“Officially, the matter is still open. But unofficially…” He shook his head.

“Our angle is the e-mails,” said Dean.

“Yeah, I know. Another wild-goose chase.” Something about the way Dean stared at the Secret Service agent reminded Lia she loved him. It was an intrusive, unwelcome thought — a distraction when she should be working — but it was difficult to banish.

Mandarin went to a nearby file cabinet to see what he could find. He returned with two pouchlike folders. Besides typed reports and disks, there were stenographers’ notebooks filled with notes.

Lia checked the pads. If anything, there was even less detail in them.

“Are you positive this is the only notebook he used for this case?” Lia asked, pointing to the one Dean still had in his hand.

“He never did anything in Pine Plains,” said Mandarin.

“Killed himself first. Believe me, we’ve gone through his things. It wasn’t in the room, or at his house. Lousy business,” added the agent. “His wife seemed to be a bitch, but he’s got kids, you know? He wanted custody, and she wouldn’t budge. Probably why he pulled the plug.”

Mandarin pressed his lips together, then looked at the floor. He had the air of a man who would trade half a year’s salary to get another assignment.

“Can we have a copy of the notebook?” Lia asked.

“Yeah, I guess. Take a couple of days. You’ll have to fill out a form and then—”

Lia snatched the notebook from Dean’s hand and started toward the copy machine.

“What are you doing?” asked Mandarin.

“Filling out the paperwork,” she said, pulling up the machine’s cover to begin copying.