Read Online Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 by Dead Man's Island - Free Book Online

habit aligned so exactly, was not where I had left it. Oh, it was only a matter of less than an inch. But purses do not move themselves, no matter how infinitesimal the distance.
    Someone—either careless or hurried—had picked it up and, no doubt, rifled through it.
    I did so myself. Nothing was gone.
    I checked the dresser. The files were there. They were not in the same order.
    Ah, that was careless.
    Or, assuming a clever adversary, it might have been quite deliberate.
    The overall effect was the same. I wasn’t afraid. But I was damned alert. The equation had changed. Someone was much too interested in me. But therewas nothing in this room or among my things to reveal the truth about me. Thank God.
    Dinner was exquisite: beef tournedos, asparagus and carrots, fresh raspberries for dessert, California Chardonnay. The service was flawless. Enrique moved on cat feet, always at the right place at the right time. The surroundings couldn’t have been more charming. Not even the Waterford crystal could match the glisten of the parquet de Versailles floors. But the conversations were tense and unilluminating. Roger Prescott provided the only flash of vigor toward the meal’s end when he passionately, despite Chase’s grim disapproval, persisted in debating his father about the tragedy of the homeless.
    “You know why they’re out there, thousands of them—it’s because government stopped funding mental hospitals. We the people magnanimously gave the mentally ill their freedom. Jesus, how great to be free to walk the streets, frightened and helpless with no place to go and nobody to give a damn. Jesus, that was generous, wasn’t it?” Roger downed his second glass of wine, all in one gulp. “We’re not talking about bums, Dad. We’re talking about people who are too sick to work. And the ones who are on the streets because of alcohol and drug problems, they’re sick, too, but society doesn’t want to treat them. And now we have the New Poor, the people who used to have jobs, good solid members of the middle class who have been discarded by a business system trying to recover from the ravages of Reaganomics. Everywhere you turn government’s cutting services, lessmoney for drug treatment, less money for the mentally ill. Is it any wonder crime increases? Why don’t you cover
that
story?”
    Chase glared at his son. “If you want a soapbox, Roger, earn it. Prescott Communications covers what I want covered because it belongs to
me
. It’s as simple as that. I earned my way in this world. That’s the American way. Take the proceeds from your latest book and buy yourself a newspaper.”
    Roger’s plump cheeks flamed.
    I wondered if his book had been self-published. Or was the dig merely that it hadn’t made money?
    Lyle Stedman broke in. “We do cover the homeless issue, Roger. From all sides. Including the truth that people can’t expect jobs if they have no skills and if they aren’t willing to learn any. And if you’ve studied any history, you know Johnson’s Great Society didn’t work. So don’t come at us with a lot of re-treaded ideas.” The newspaperman’s eyes were cold and bored.
    “That’s half an answer,” Roger retorted angrily. “Of course it didn’t work. Because all the money went into that stupid war. As for your coverage, it sucks. You carry wire news. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. You’re great on murders and society rape and business, oh, God, yes, let’s cover business. But business isn’t so much fun anymore, is it? IBM’s laying off. GM’s laying off. You pick up the paper, and it’s a new giant scrapping people and lives every day.”
    A frown furrowed Valerie St. Vincent’s perfect face. The actress had chosen a rich floral silk chemise. “Even in times of economic woe, people must haveart. All it will take to revive Broadway is one good show, one really good show. Chase, darling, after dinner, we must have a moment, just the two of us, to talk about the