Immaculate Deception

by Warren Adler

  “What about Mr. McGuire, the old Jack of Diamonds himself? Might be able to get the sympathy vote. You know, spouse of the victim. Might sell well as a possibility.”

  “Sounds like you know the game, sergeant,” Mrs. Carter said.

  “It’s in the air,” Fiona said, her gaze connecting with Cates, who smiled.

  “The Jack of Diamonds you called him,” Mrs. Carter said, throwing her head back, an attitude designed for hysterical laughter. But it never came. “No way.” She paused and shook her head from side to side.

  “Above all. Not that one. He’s not just carrying baggage, he’s got cement blocks on his feet.”

  “I don’t understand,” Fiona probed gently.

  “Listen, he can play the bereaved husband down here. But up there where it counts Jack McGuire has a different agenda.” Again she turned toward Fiona. “You’re not serious are you? Surely, you know about Jack McGuire.”

  “Know what?” Cates asked.

  “I think you people need a course in detecting,” Mrs. Carter said, with obvious sarcasm. Then she looked at her watch once again, stood up and primly smoothed her skirt. “I’m already late. I hope I’ve given you some help.”

  “What about Jack McGuire’s different agenda?”

  “Not for me to say. Least we can do is let Frankie’s public image rest in peace.”

  “And you insist that this was a hit man murder?”

  “Makes sense to me.” She started to back away, but before she could turn, Fiona touched her arm, the kind of gentle gesture that was emphatic.

  “Just for the record, though, Mrs. Carter,” Fiona asked. It was, of course, the essential question and Fiona had deliberately reserved it for last. “Was there anything about Frankie . . .” Fiona felt comfortable using the dead woman’s nickname. The dead congresswoman was taking on an intimate persona in Fiona’s mind, a sure sign of an intensifying engagement. “Was she depressed? Was there something on her mind, something gnawing at her? Something that might have triggered a self-destructive act?”

  Mrs. Carter pondered the thought for a long moment.

  “Frankie could be moody,” she admitted. “She could also be difficult. We used to have words about her being overly friendly with the enemy, especially the Romes. She bucked at that. Depressed? Maybe enough to be suicidal? No. My theory is far more compelling.”

  “Are you saying she was depressed?” Fiona coaxed. “To some degree.”

  “Not depressed, exactly,” Mrs. Carter said. But she was far more tentative than she had appeared earlier. She was applying her memory now, quite obviously mulling a recent impression. “Will-o’-the-wispy, I’d say. Not quite concentrating. It happens sometime. She didn’t seem as focused as usual.” To Mrs. Carter, Fiona decided, that might have mean not being as intense about “the issue.”

  “She didn’t confide in you? Did you detect . . . well did you get the idea that she might be holding something back?”

  “Frankie?” She shook her head emphatically. “Not to me. The fact is, sergeant, Frankie and I had no secrets between us. None.”

  With that, she turned and headed back toward the Capitol, wearing her determination like a neon sign.

  9

  “Romantic Beantown,” Greg said in his silky close-to-speaker voice with its blatant tease. She knew from the tone that he had accepted her offer, meaning that somehow his parental calendar was clear. His deal with his estranged spouse was that he took the kids every other weekend. Fiona kept track of that, although occasionally they happened out of sequence. Like now. It was, she was certain, a clear signal from that place where fate was concocted.

  The childless weekends had belonged to Fiona when she was not working and there were occasional midweek times when the need arose and time permitted, the latter far more frequent than the former. In the new safe sex environment, one-steady was almost a health imperative. She hoped that he was fulfilling his part of the unspoken bargain, although she secretly suspected that he was pursuing a long-term closet “office quickie” relationship with his married secretary, a very frequent Washington arrangement.

  She had almost wished he had refused and she was fully prepared to accept it as a message from on high that this, like the Harper’s Ferry debacle, was another deliberate squelch of her secret agenda.

  “I’d love it, Fi,” Greg said, underscoring this whim of fate. She had little doubt now that the window of opportunity remained open.

  “You understand that I’ll be working. I’ve got to see people in South Boston on the McGuire case. Means you’ll have to fare for yourself part of the time.”

  “Good. I’ll need it for R and R.”

  A quick scramble of sexy imagery in her mind made her cheeks hot and stimulated other familiar reactions. She laughed nervously.

  “Hope so,” she said saucily, knowing that the die was cast. No turning back, she vowed. As backup for her resolve, she would leave her diaphragm home. Burn her bridges. This is commitment time, baby, she told herself. She had even checked the calendar. Fertility was still in season, she noted. Was this fate smiling? It frightened her.

  “Okay, Fi, you’re penciled in.”

  “Ink it, pal. You’ve got a date with destiny.”

  “Heavy,” he said, his voice whispering now. “I feel this rising sensation.”

  “Take a cold shower.”

  Nearly a week had gone by since Mrs. McGuire had died and, already, she and Cates had reached the first level of frustration. Flanagan’s sweep of her apartment had uncovered nothing that was useful. A fistful of smudged prints. The maid had apparently done a thorough cleaning and polishing on the day before her death and the only other clear fresh prints besides Mrs. McGuire’s and the maid’s were Harlan Foy’s.

  This meant that either the killer, if there was one, had been thorough in wiping off his own prints or that Mrs. McGuire did not ordinarily have many people up to her apartment. To complicate matters further, the only prints on the wine bottle in the refrigerator were those of the congresswoman herself. Notwithstanding that, the Eggplant stuck to his guns.

  “Means that the killer was one clever bastard. Those prints were put there after the lady had croaked.”

  “Comes under the heading of making the facts fit the theory,” Fiona argued.

  “Keeps the ball rolling,” the Eggplant said smiling. He had taken a big drag on his panatela and blew a perfect smoke ring across the room. The media had kept the case alive, although his reported assessments were still noncommittal and extremely cautious.

  “We’re not ready to say either way,” he had been quoted in the Washington Post. “We are exploring every promising lead. We want to be absolutely certain before we commit.” Talk about vagaries.

  “Foy is another cipher,” Cates had volunteered. Like Fiona, he was reacting primarily to the Eggplant’s instincts in direct contrast to his own. “Mrs. Carter implied that the man was gay. Nothing we can find confirms that. On the other hand, we don’t find any evidence of heterosexuality.”

  “May mean that the man’s a neuter,” Fiona added. “A not uncommon condition in this town.” The political cauldron, she had discovered, could also have a numbing effect on sexuality. Hard work, long hours and a high anxiety level could wreak havoc with a man’s libido. On occasion she had encountered this darker side, a message that was not lost on the two males in the room.

  “We bow to your greater knowledge, sergeant,” the Eggplant said. To his credit, his face was expressionless. In the interests of professionalism, she let it pass.

  “Clearly, it’s an optional conclusion,” Cates said with a touch of pedantry.

  Fiona and Cates had interviewed everyone on the congresswoman’s staff. Frankie was, by all accounts, pretty well insulated by Foy, who was the staff Mother Hen. He hired and fired, barked out the orders and took on all of the burdens of administration. This left the congresswoman free for the upfront chores, showing the flag, communicating with constituents and colleagues, plying
the ideological vineyard and generally pressing the flesh. The staff loved her, tolerated him, which was only natural, but none of them, male or female, could offer any solid proof of the man’s sexuality. They offered opinions, of course. But when pressed they retreated.

  This was true also when they questioned his neighbors in the apartment house where he lived on Capitol Hill. Suppositions galore. But no hard evidence. The man kept to himself. Never partied. Had no apparent close friends of either sex.

  “As far as we could find out, his life was his work and his work was Frankie McGuire,” Fiona said.

  “Gotta be careful on these things. These repressive sex types can pop their corks with nasty results.”

  Restating the homicide axiom constituted a subtle rebuke which she resented and she could not restrain a cutting response.

  “A poisoning does not represent a popping cork. A poisoner plans.”

  “A textbook conclusion,” the Eggplant said, his eyes drifting to the ceiling to emphasize deep contemplation and illustrating his superiority. She capped a rising anger and forced herself to wait for him to speak again. Cates tapped graceful brown fingers on his thigh, keeping his own impatience bridled.

  “All right then. Try this on for size,” the Eggplant said still looking at the ceiling. “Foy, the devoted retainer, is also the secret lover.”

  She shook her head as if she had just swallowed something very sour.

  “There’s someone for everyone, FitzGerald. How many impossible combinations have you seen in your lifetime? The point is that they had easy access to each other. Perfect cover. Who could suspect? Then suddenly. Accident of accidents. The lady, who believed she was over the hill in terms of making babies, suddenly finds herself pregnant. A dilemma for her? Fucking A.”

  “The point is, what’s the dilemma for him?”

  “Maybe he wants to marry the lady. Maybe he doesn’t want her to pass the kid off as her husband’s. Maybe he wants to assert himself in some way.”

  “When she balks, he ices her?” Fiona said.

  “Or some combination thereof.”

  “It’s reaching,” Cates said.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” the Eggplant said, crushing the butt of his still lit panatela into an ashtray on his desk, already piled high with dead butts. “Keep reaching.”

  “No worse than Mrs. Carter’s hit man theory,” Fiona said.

  “Can’t be discounted,” the Eggplant persisted, as he sucked in the smoke from a new panatela. “Lots of crazies would kill for a cause. And this one generates lots of heat.”

  “All right,” Cates said. “It’s a theoretical motive.” Fiona could tell he was getting antsy. “The point is . . . there are no clues. Nothing.”

  “Makes it a challenge,” the Eggplant said.

  “At this point, I vote suicide,” Cates said, cutting a glance at Fiona. The eggplant’s position baffled her. Yet she was not ready to discount his instincts. Not quite yet.

  “The fact is,” Fiona said, “your Foy theory notwithstanding, we couldn’t scare up a breath of scandal. Not in Washington, anyway. And the Boston crowd are starting to duck us.”

  The “second thoughts” syndrome was a common affliction, especially if the questions hinted a potential murder case. Involvement, in general, frightened people. In a case where political ramifications were rampant, like this one, all of the principal players were running for cover. Even the voluble May Carter had become aloof, nonaccessible. The same was true for Frankie’s husband. She had managed to talk briefly with Jack Grady, but as soon as the subject was broached, he begged off. A telephonic interrogation was easy to evade.

  Even Harlan Foy, the Eggplant’s “prime” suspect was now less than forthcoming. But he was, at least, a resident and could, if necessary, be legally coerced. They had not told him about Frankie’s pregnancy. Not yet. It was too delicate a point, too much grist for the media mill in a town that leaked like a sieve. Even the Eggplant would hang back on that one until he was certain he had a credible hook.

  “Maybe if we were to take a stab at them on their own turf,” the Eggplant said. He lifted his hand and rocked it, meaning sneak up on them. Enter by the back door. “You know what I mean. Low key. Nothing to shake the trees.”

  “Rather be safe than sorry,” Fiona said.

  “Something like that.” The Eggplant muttered. His panatela had gone out. “Budget’ll only handle one.” He studied their faces. Fiona and Cates had exchanged glances. Occasionally they would allude to their personal lives, but it was the kind of relationship where revelation stopped at the door, although each acknowledged a kind of psychological intimacy.

  “You go,” Cates said, turning away quickly, as if he had received some message from her eyes.

  “Worth a try,” Fiona said, hiding her elation. Again fate was beckoning, she thought. A regular Pied Piper, proving once again that there were, after all, no accidents.

  10

  Was this all a dead giveaway? she wondered as the waiter rolled in their dinner on a room service cart. She had splurged on a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, a considerable step up from the lousy per diem the MPD allowed.

  The bedroom was all done in peach with a four-poster king-sized bed, the floor covered with thick pile carpets and furniture that was either genuine antique or good copies. The sitting room was done in mauve with peach highlights and both rooms had a commanding view of the Common and the Boston skyline.

  A small anxiety fit seized her in the elevator. Would he see through her plan? Be on his guard? She had told him it was her treat and he had been relaxed about it, but she had not quite counted on the lavishness of the hotel and the fawning of the service help.

  But after the bellman had left and they had inspected the premises, Greg took her in his arms and gave her one of those extraordinary total embrace kisses, which took her mind off her trepidations.

  With some reluctance, she maneuvered out of his arms and ran off into the bathroom. There, she showered and primped and put herself into her new wispy white lace lingerie and peignoir, leaving the room only at the knock of room service serving her pre-ordered dinner. She had ordered pâté de foi gras and medallions of veal and asparagus, and two bottles of Dom Perignon Champagne, both of them leaning in lovely serenity in their sleeves of sparkling ice in silver buckets.

  Criminals, she knew, often gambled with fate, flaunting the obvious, reasoning that if they were not found out, they had, therefore, escaped detection for all time. She had no illusions. If he didn’t catch on, she was home free. The comparison was apt.

  “Am I worth all this?” he asked clinking glasses. She felt the bubbles tickling her nose as she sipped the wonderful moist tartness of the champagne.

  “At times. Well worth it,” she laughed, hiding her nervousness.

  He looked over the glass and studied her with his sea-clear-blue eyes. Her gaze washed over him inspecting and approving.

  “This has all the trappings of a special occasion.”

  “Maybe it is,” she teased as the effects of the Champagne began to soothe her.

  “You could give me a clue.”

  “Never.”

  They were standing near the window watching the twinkle of lights from the buildings that ringed the Common. She did not know much about Boston, but it had historical connotations that pleased her, a seat of history and education that boded well as a place of conception.

  He rose toward her and kissed her neck, nibbling for a moment, then moving upwards toward her right ear.

  “I think you’re terrific,” he whispered.

  With the waiter gone, they ate the pâté de fois gras and picked at the veal, but by the time they popped the cork on the other bottle of Champagne, the special command performance that Fiona had arranged had reached the end of Act One.

  She felt the sudden pull of her inhibitions and, for a moment, it took all of her willpower to overcome her body’s reticence. Surprisingly sensitive to her physical reactions, he stop
ped his ministrations for a moment and whispered.

  “Anything wrong?”

  She did not answer him, fearing that her words might have a negative effect on him. It was usually the male, after all, that was subject to the involuntary whims of the organism. Perhaps this was still another test. Reaching out, she touched him there. Nothing amiss. He passed with flying colors.

  It was only when she fully opened up to him, brought him inside of her, felt her body accepting him, that she finally surrendered completely to the act. It had, she knew, its ritual aspect and she felt it important to show him even more enthusiasm than she usually did, which was considerable.

  Because this was for real, a deliberate act, at least on her part, of conception, she coaxed him then retreated, moved in a grinding motion, then reversed herself, prolonging the act, determined to extract the maximum power of a spermatic infusion. But, soon, even the clinical aspects were lost to her in a long spasmodic excruciatingly delicious orgasm. Was this yet another validation?

  “Lovely,” she said, holding him inside of her, her womb still vibrating from the effect of the coupling.

  “My God, Fi. You’re awesome.”

  “It’s called the Boston effect. The revenge of lust for all those years of repression,” she whispered.

  “Compliments. Compliments. I thought maybe a little of it might have something to do with me.” He pulled a face with his lips turned down.

  “Without you it wouldn’t have worked,” she teased.

  He was silent for a long time, holding her. She felt his breath against her hair. His silence frightened her. Perhaps he had figured it out, she thought.

  “You’re a powerful piece of womanhood, Fi,” he began. Quickly she put a finger over his lips. He was getting too close to the bone, she decided. His subconscious was figuring it out, dredging up suspicions. This often happened in her work. Words as a stalking horse for the subconscious. Then suddenly revelation.