The Heart of a Man: 9

"What is he doing?"

Peter looked thoughtfully toward Jenine as she asked the question, then

turned back toward his father's plants. "Meditating."

"Meditating?" Jenine sighed heavily. "Peter, no offense, but how is this

helping? I can't just sit here and wait for him to finish communing with his

candles, or whatever he's doing." She moved toward the door, but Peter grabbed

her arm.

"That's exactly what you're going to do," he warned. "Should give you a

little time to tell me what's really going on."

"What do you mean?" Jenine asked, agitatedly.

"For starters, say I believe you about Steph; I don't think you could

kill him. At least not with a gun. I know how you feel about them."

"Are you saying I could kill him some other way?"

"Let's not get sidetracked," Peter replied. "Why don't you tell me what

happened?"

"There's not much to tell, Peter. He called me, I went to see him. When

I got there, he was already dead. I freaked. I just. . . ran. When I got to

the garage where I'd parked my car, someone was there, they came after me. I

ran some more. Ended up in Chinatown, in some alley. Then, for some strange

reason, I remembered what you said, about 'Go to Chinatown, ask for Caine'. It

was weird. I didn't even look for him, and he was there. I--I must have passed

out and I guess he must have brought me here. When I woke up, you were

standing over me, looking at me like I was an ax murderer."

Peter considered her for several moments. Just showing up was right up

his father's alley, but there was a big gaping hole in Jenine's story. Like

the beginning. "There's more. Tell me about it."

"Nothing more to tell." Jenine tossed her head. "Shouldn't you be doing

your job and looking for my daughter?"

"Do I need to remind you that my job also requires cuffs?" Peter said

warningly.

"Going a little kinky?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Peter responded. "But since you're

pretending to not understand, why don't I make it clear? Technically, you are

in my custody. I could make it official and place you under arrest. My

partner, for one, would love to have a few words with you. That's where the

handcuffs come in. It would look great on the morning news. I'm sure my own

personal reporter-at-large, Sandra Mason, would be more than happy to make

herself available."

"You couldn't do it." Jenine challenged him. "Not to me." But Peter

could hear the uncertainty in her voice, and steeled himself against it. "Why

don't I tell you the parts that I think I've figured out, and you tell me

where I'm wrong?" he asked.

Jenine's response was simply to curl her lips in a small triumphant

smile.

She really doesn't think I'll do it, Peter thought. I wonder if she's

right.

Pushing his own uncertainties aside, he began. "Steph made counterfeit

vases. You asked him to do it. Whatever it was the crooks stole from the

jewelry store, they weren't authentic Crawford Collection vases. How'm I doing

so far?"

Jenine folded her arms across her chest and shrugged, but said nothing.

"Whoever snatched them," Peter continued, "somehow knew or found out

about Steph's place in all this and went to the shop and killed him. They knew

about you, too, or how else would they know to snatch your little girl? They

even knew about the kind of notes your housekeeper wrote to you. Sounds like

an inside job to me. Is that it? You and a "buddy" stealing from the old man?

Or is this all a big setup. You pretending that your daughter was taken? Or

don't you care that you could end up getting your little girl, or yourself,

killed?"

Jenine's face paled slightly, but still she didn't speak.

"Am I hitting a little too close to the truth?" Peter asked. "What I

don't understand is why you would risk your daughter's life for a lousy

$200,000 dollars and let Steph get killed in the bargain. It just doesn't

sound like a very motherly, or a very friendly thing to do."

Peter watch as Jenine balled her fists and her face tightened in anger.

He knew she wanted to strike out at him, possibly pick up one of his father's

clay pots and throw it at him, but she didn't, which worried him more than

anything else. He didn't want the things he'd said to be true. He'd hoped

she'd say something, or at least tell him that he was wrong if only to protect

herself. Unless. . . .

"Who are you protecting, Jenine?" When there was no response, he reached

for his cuffs.

"Jenine Crawford, you have the right to remain silent. You have the

right to an attorney." He tried to distance himself, looking any place but at

her, as her eyes filled with tears of shock and disbelief. He knew how she

hated to cry, or to feel trapped, but he had no other choice. "If you give up

those rights--"

"All right." She raised her hands as tears overflowed. Wiping angrily at

the wetness, she sniffed. "I'll tell you."

"I'm listening," he prompted when she didn't speak for several moments.

He kept the cuffs clutched in his hand as a reminder of her status.

She threw him a look and opened her mouth.

"Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out." Peter cut her

off. "Aside from everything else, my father's a Shaolin lie detector. And like

you said, he's rubbing off on me."

Jenine turned away from him. "I wouldn't risk Jo's life for vases," she

said. "No matter what else you think of me, I wouldn't do that. And I wouldn't

kill anyone for money.

"A couple months ago, Thomas pulled his nephew, Terrance Troung, out of

the corporate office in Japan and sent him to one of the administrative

offices near here. He'd been embezzling from the company, and everyone knew

it. Thomas didn't have the heart to fire him. But still, the transfer amounted

to professional exile. Terrance was angry. Everyone knew how Thomas felt about

those vases. I thought Terrance wanted to take them to get back at Thomas for

transferring him."

"So this Terrance Troung is the one who convinced you to convince

Crawford to display the vases?" Peter asked.

"Yes. That's why I asked Steph to make the forgeries. Terrance wouldn't

know real art if it bit him. I figured he'd bend, spindle or mutilate some

fakes and Thomas could hold on to his memories."

"I suppose 'Just say no' didn't occur to you? Or did Crawford put you up

to getting the faked set?"

"No." Jenine shook her head. "He didn't know anything about it. He's not

involved in this."

"Okay. You've never been a woman to do something you don't want to do.

Why would you play into Terrance Troung's hand? You figured he was up to no

good. What did he have over your head?"

"Haven't you noticed, he's holding my daughter hostage?" Jenine

demanded.

"No. Unh unh. That is not going to wash. I wasn't born yesterday. She

was with you at the mall, and she didn't look like a hostage at the time. What

was it?"

"It's not important," Jenine said, shaking her head. "All we have to do

is go and get the vases. I can tell you where they are. We deliver, we pick up

Jo, and everything is fine."

"Like hell it is!" Peter yelled. "A man is dead, Jenine. Someone put a

gun to his head and blew his brains out. Everything is not going to be just

fine!"

Jenine flinched at his outburst. Peter didn't care. He wanted the truth.

More angry tears washed over her cheeks, and she flashed daggers in

Peter's direction. "Jo isn't my daughter," she said through clenched teeth.

"What?!" Peter was dumbfounded. "What do you mean she isn't your

daughter? Whose is she?"

"She's my sister." Jenine said the words almost as if she meant to use

them as a weapon. There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes at Peter's

reaction. "I fooled everyone." The triumph died. "Terrance found out somehow

and threatened to tell Thomas. I knew he would take her away."

"Why? How?"

"You found your dead father, Peter. Odd coincidence: I found my dead

mother, or rather, she found me."

"But you said she. . . ." Peter murmured in confusion.

"There's that coincidence thing again." She shrugged. "I lied. She was

in prison. You can check the records. Her name is the same as mine, Jenine

Smith, minus the Crawford. I was her birthday gift for a not so sweet sixteen.

That's how I ended up in the foster program.

"As fate would have it, my drunken, pill-popping, ex-convict mother

managed to end up married to one Thomas Andrew Crawford Jr. less than five

months after getting out of the slammer. They did the deed at one of those

little chapels in Vegas, I doubt he even remembered it. But mom was truly in

love, or so she said. She was trying to find him.

"Funny thing is, she found me instead. It happened when I went to that

Interior Decorator's expo out in Vegas. The one that you insisted I go to.

Imagine my surprise to learn that she was in the family way, and by someone

belonging to a family well known by any art collector or designer worth her

craft. Unfortunately, Thomas Jr. had come back here and gotten himself killed.

Drunk driver. It was serendipity, and dear mom didn't even know what she had.

"I tried to convince her to come back here and talk to Thomas Sr., but

she wouldn't listen. She was broken up over Thomas. So, being the dutiful

daughter, I. . . cut ties back here and went out there to be with her. She

died shortly after Johanna was born."

Peter simply stared at her for a full minute. "Why didn't you just tell

me? Or come back after your mother died?" he asked quietly. "I would have

helped. We could have--"

"No we couldn't have," Jenine cut him off. "I was younger then, and. . .

my priorities. . .I had other plans."

"Oh? Other plans that love just didn't figure in to," Peter said

bitterly. "Isn't that right?"

"No."

"Liar. While you were back here breaking my heart into a million pieces

you were probably already working on a way to scam old man Crawford. How'd you

do it, anyway? Did you just show up with a baby and fake papers and pretend to

love the child like you pretended to love me?"

"We argued. We broke up. . . the timing. . .Things are differe--"

"No! We broke up two months after that trip! You planned it. You had

lots of time to tell me."

"Like I said," Jenine eyed him coolly. "You didn't have what I needed."

"How could I have been so stupid? Did you ever even love me? Was I ever-

-"

"Peter."

Peter was surprised by the feel of his father's hand resting on his shoulder.

"No, Pop." He shook it off. "I. . . she--"

"Peter." Caine spoke again, more forcefully. "It is in the past, my son.

You must accept that you have learned the truth. You must embrace it, and let

it go."

Peter turned and focused on his father, taking several gulping breaths.

"But, Pop. . . I. . . . "

"Let go, Peter." Caine insisted, his eyes boring into Peter's soul.

"Let go," Peter echoed, closing his eyes and running a hand through his

hair. "Let go." He rested his head briefly against his father's shoulder, then

pushed away. Caine released him, sensing that this wound that had been

reopened would take time and care to heal. He would be here, he would help his

son.

"I believe I know where the child is being held," Caine said, turning

toward Jenine. "She is alone, and she is frightened. We must go now."