Hawke

“Well,” Congreve said, “we’re honored to meet you, Mr. Witherspoon. As I said last evening on the telephone, Inspector Sutherland and I are looking into a very old murder case. An unsolved double homicide that took place here in the islands back in the 1970s.”

“Yes. Lord and Lady Hawke,” Stubbs said. “Brutally murdered aboard their yacht Seahawke. Well, that was a bad one, I’ll tell you. One of the worst I ever saw. I just joined the force at that time, no big cases under my belt. Until that one.”

“Can you tell us about it, Mr. Witherspoon?”

“Better than that. I’ve got the entire Hawke file right over there in my desk. I dug it out last evening after your call. Sip your lemonade, I’ll get it, I’ll get it. Soon come.”

“I like to rock,” Ross whispered under his breath, and Congreve broke into a big grin.

Witherspoon returned with a large cardboard box held tightly to his chest with his left hand. He sat down and looked at his two guests.

“Before I show you the file’s contents, may I tell you gentlemen something? I may have still been wet behind the ears on that case, but what I did know was the name of the man responsible for the murders aboard the yacht Seahawke.”

“You know his name?” Congreve said.

26

“Hey.”

“Good morning, Doc.”

“What time is it?”

“I think a little after seven—wait, don’t get up. You’re supposed to stay in bed until the doctor comes.”

“Oh. That’s right. I’m in the hospital.”

“Good. You haven’t lost your remarkable powers of perception.”

“Oh. God. I’ve got a terrible headache.”

“I should imagine you do, darling.”

“Did I have a lot to drink last night?”

“You were working your way through two rather large vodka martinis.”

“That’s all? Wow, what a hangover. It feels like I really got bombed.”

“Bombed?”

“Why aren’t you laughing? You don’t get it?”

“Feeling sluggish. Slow on the uptake.”

“You look awful. Have you been sitting there in that chair all night? Doesn’t look very comfy.”

“Me? No, no. I raced home straightaway after you were admitted to the hospital. There I cracked a bottle of champers, soaked in a long hot bath, shaved, and jumped right back into this bloody tuxedo.”

“That’s fu

“Really? Why is that fu

“Because you’re always saying ‘bloody this’ and ‘bloody that.’ ”

“And?”

“And this time, your tuxedo really is bloody. Get it? Ouch, that hurts.”

“Stop laughing. You’ll kill yourself.”

“I feel fine. Can I get out of here?”

“The doctor’s coming by at eight when he does his rounds. I think he’ll let you make a run for it if you can convince him you’re feeling well enough to walk.”

“What are my chances for escape?”

“Fairly good, I should say. You’ve suffered a mild concussion. Under those lovely bandages, you’ve got a number of stitches on the top of your head. Assorted contusions, scrapes, and scratches. Otherwise, fine fettle.”

“How about you? Are you in fine fettle?”

“I got a fork through the hand. That’s about it.”

“Next time you invite me to di

“Brilliant idea. Chopsticks being a lot less dangerous than salad forks. Are you hungry? Your breakfast is on the tray in front of you.”

“I can’t even look at food. What’s this little box thingy?”

“The nurse put it on the tray with your cereal. You were clutching it in your hand when they wheeled you into the Georgetown University emergency room.”

“What is it?”

“It appears to be a small black velvet box.”

“What’s in it?”

“Perhaps you should open it. I gave it to you last night, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

“I’m terrified of men bearing small black velvet boxes.”

“Go ahead and open it, Doc. It’s something I want you to have.”

“Oh, Alex.”

“Yes?”

“Alex, it’s lovely.”

“It’s quite an old locket, actually. It, well, it belonged to my mother.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.”

“You can open it up, too. There are little heart-shaped pictures inside.”

“Oh, look! It’s—”

“Hard to see, I know. On the left side of the heart is my mother and me. On the right, that’s me and Scoundrel. He was a fine old dog.”

“How old are you in the pictures, Alex?”

“Not more than five or six, I shouldn’t think. Those were taken in England. On the beach below my grandfather’s house on Greybeard Island. It was summer. Just before a bad storm. See the waves breaking?”

“Alex, I don’t know what to say. It’s—”

There was a knocking at the door then, just as Alex was bending over the hospital bed to kiss Victoria.

Stoke was standing in the doorway with a huge bouquet of yellow roses.

“Man, I can’t leave y’all alone for twenty minutes y’all don’t manage to get y’allselves all blown to shit and back.”

“Hi, Stoke,” Vicky said. “Those are beautiful. Thank you.”

“Mornin’, boss,” Stoke said, handing the flowers to Vicky. “Be glad you alive, my brother. You front page news.”

“Oh, God, just what I need,” Hawke said, giving Vicky a kiss on her bandaged forehead and taking the Post from Stokely.

What he did not need at the moment was publicity. He started skimming the long article.

“It was a bomb, all right, boss,” Stoke said. “Plastic. C-4. Joint was so full of dignitaries it’s hard to say who it was intended for.”

“Anybody killed?” Hawke asked.

“Lots hurt. Just one killed. An employee. Some cat who’d only been a waiter there for about seventy years. Five hospitalized including you, Vicky. Your name is in there, too, boss. Says you were treated and released.”

“Any group claiming responsibility?” asked Hawke.

“Nope, nobody. Hell, half of Washington was in that joint last night. Target could have been anybody. The police think it was PLO, Hezbollah, or the Mujahideen, though. Least that’s what my D.C. boys are sayin’ privately.”

“Not a particularly bright idea on the part of our Arab friends, blowing up a Washington restaurant in the middle of peace talks,” Hawke said.

“Well,” Stoke said, “no actual fingers are pointed yet. Naturally, FBI, CIA, NSA, all them initials are in there now, poking around. But I hear the focus is on the PLO.”

“Why the PLO?”

“Remember that Israeli commander who bombed the shit out of Arafat’s West Bank headquarters last month? Boy had himself a reservation at eight o’clock. Bomb exploded at eight-thirty right beside his table.”

“Was he hurt?” Alex asked.

“Lucky for him, he hadn’t showed up.”

“Alex?” Vicky said softly from her hospital bed.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember that urgent phone call for me?”

“Of course, Vicky.”

“When Herbert showed me which of the telephone booths to take it in—”

“Yes? Go on.”

“Well, I’m sure this doesn’t mean anything. But when I sat down to take the call, I felt something with my foot. There was a black briefcase. It was on the floor, tucked under the little shelf where the phone sits.”

“And?”

“When there was no one on the line, other than the breathing, I mean, I hung up. I picked up the briefcase figuring someone had forgotten it.”

“What did you do with it, Vicky?” Alex asked, looking at her intently now.

“I handed it to Herbert on the way back to our table. A couple of minutes before—”

Alex and Stokely stared at her.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions, darling. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. We don’t know anything about that briefcase. Now, eat your breakfast. You’re getting up and out of here. Stoke, could I speak to you out in the hall for a second?”

“You think it was for Vicky?” Stoke said as soon as they were out in the hallway, out of earshot. “Don’t make no sense at all.”