by Warren Adler
Naturally, she thought. They were the clean-up boys. Despite her knowledge of the system, she was developing a strong distaste for Senator Langford.
"Then explain to him how lucky he is," Fiona said, watching Monte's face. Their eyes locked. In that moment of shared intimacy she tried to convey her feelings. I'm your friend, but I'm a professional. Trust me. I will not hurt you unnecessarily. Such words could not be said without compromising herself, not even if she was alone. Understand the level of my involvement, she begged him. Not quite love. Friendship, perhaps. More than fucking buddies, though. He was, she knew, an honorable man in a dishonorable profession. For that reason he reminded her of her father.
"He is lucky," Monte said, nodding to emphasize the point. He looked toward the battered phone on the wall and its halo of hastily scrawled numbers. "Hate phones," he muttered as he moved toward it, groping in his pockets for coins. He couldn't find any, then came back. She had a quarter ready.
"For want of a nail," she said. He smiled and their hands touched, then lingered, and she knew the subliminal message had been conveyed. Trust me.
"For his sake," Cates said, watching Monte punch in the numbers, "I hope he's a good salesman."
"He sold me," Fiona said, feeling a hot blush rise to her cheeks. She broke into a broad smile. "Did I say that?"
They watched Monte talking into the phone, holding his voice down to a heated whisper. She knew he was begging, imploring.
"A tall order," Cates said.
"Depends," Fiona mused. The story's promise was lurid media fare. They would make a beeline into the lady's secret life, certainly the sexual part. Depended on two things. Had anyone outside the inner circle known? Discretion was relative. There were the little people to consider, the casual observers, the secretaries, messengers, receptionists, waiters, doormen, maids, the inanimate and neutral who bore witness and could come forward. And, of course, the unknown confidants. Like herself. Now Cates. Soon the eggplant. Then, maybe, the Mayor. Everyone would have to look to their agendas.
Monte's body language told her that he was having trouble. At one point he leaned his forehead against the wall in frustration. Then he slammed the receiver back on its hook.
He was agitated when he returned to the booth. The flush was heavy on his cheeks, congealed to two dabs of bright red, like rouge.
"Asshole," he said.
He slid back into the booth and reached for his coffee mug. It looked tepid, and oily circles floated on the surface. His hands shook as he raised it to his lips. Showing the extent of his distraction, he drank half the mug in one gulp.
"For a telephone paranoid, you talked fairly long," Fiona said.
"It's not easy arguing in code," Monte muttered.
"Why are we sitting here?" Fiona asked.
"He wants to consult Bunkie. He's scared shitless. I gave him this number."
"No time for that, pal," Cates said. "We're in a race. Any media calls yet?"
"So far no," Monte said. "Asshole thinks Bunkie can fix it."
They were silent for a long moment.
"Maybe he already did," Fiona said.
Again silence. Monte was the first to stir. He slid out of the booth and stood up.
"You guys coming?" he asked.
12
"GODAMMIT, PAPPAS," Bunkie said, his heels clicking along the marble floor of the Senate Office Building as he came to intercept them. "I told you no." He looked around him furtively, then faced them, talking between clenched teeth. "He doesn't want any part of this. He told you that, for chrissakes."
"He can't duck it, Bunkie," Pappas said coolly as Bunkie's feral eyes darted between Fiona and Cates.
"Now him," Bunkie said, pointing his chin at Cates. He turned again to Monte. "You had to get her involved. Shit, Pappas. All your brains are in your cock."
She fully expected Monte to explode and it took all her discipline to keep herself under control. Monte's reaction was to smile, although she noted a touch of malevolence.
"These are the police," Monte said. She had seen him suck in a deep breath, pull in his stomach and square his shoulders with that Boy-Scout pride that made him so loveable. "They are involved in an official investigation of a murder." He paused and again exchanged glances with Fiona. "And you are one of the primary suspects."
The blood drained out of Bunkie's face and his body seemed to cave in on itself. He had all he could do to control his lip tremors.
"Me?"
His gaze danced everywhere. The long, wide corridors seemed endless, deep caverns to nowhere. Occasionally, someone would emerge from one of the large oversized doors that opened on to the corridors, but they seemed dwarfed by the huge expanse.
They let him stew his way through a long pause. Of course, he was a prime suspect, but he could barely comprehend it. She attributed that to his lack of insight and his egoistic and therefore narrow focus. It was obvious that the consequences of such suspicion was occurring to him now at an exceedingly rapid rate.
"We can stand here and talk," Cates said, prodding him. He seemed to be unable to make a decision. "Or we can take you down to headquarters."
Movie talk, she knew, but effective. Bunkie managed to muster his own movie retort.
"I'll call my lawyer."
"Be my guest," Fiona said pleasantly.
Bunkie stood rooted to the spot.
"Mulling it over, right, Bunkie?" Monte said. "You want to expand the group go right ahead."
"All right, we'll talk," he shrugged. "But not here. And not in the office, okay?"
"Geography wasn't our primary interest," Fiona said.
Bunkie led them through the long corridor. They came to a polished set of double doors, one of which was lettered "Committee Room" in gold. He opened the door and they followed him in.
Dominating the room was a huge half-moon oval rostrum for the Senators and theater-style seating in front of it for the spectators. Along the side were loose chairs, which Monte drew into a circle for them.
By then, Bunkie had recovered somewhat, although his pallor was still ashen. He was, as Fiona had suspected he did when she had first seen him, wearing flashy suspenders with a garish duck pattern, a matching bow tie and a clashing striped button-down shirt. On his feet were tasseled overshined loafers over red polo socks. All in all, perfect casting for the preppy political loyalist.
Without any more preliminaries, Fiona dived right into it, her eyes fixed on Bunkie's, although he would not lock into her gaze.
"She was found this morning, apparently buried in a hole behind a house in Cleveland Park. Medical examiner says strangled."
He muttered "shit" under his breath and nervously scratched at one arm. Cates filled in additional details. His face became a kaleidoscope of disgust, as if he were being dragged through a cesspool.
"The point is, hotshot," Monte added, after Cates had finished his lurid story, "that Fiona and her partner here are going to try and keep their investigation quiet. No guarantees." He cut a glance at Fiona. "That is no small thing, considering the circumstances."
"Look," Bunkie said, trying to gather the remnants of his courage. "It wasn't us. Not me. Not the Senator. Do we look like murderers?"
"Murderers don't look like murderers," Fiona said.
"Jesus, you were coming to the office. People have eyes. Ears. They watch and listen."
"You refused any other options, Bunkie," Monte reminded him. He looked down at his hands for a long moment, then lifted his head and smiled. "Bunkie baby," he said, "you piss them off, they can haul your ass in, also the Senator, make a big deal, lots of noise." He puffed his cheeks and expelled the air. "Over. All over. Finis. Presidential shot." He made a chopping motion across his neck.
"Damage-control is all, Monte," Bunkie said helplessly. "I know we're clean. Langford wasn't even in the loop on this. These people already know too much."
"Not nearly enough," Fiona interjected, showing a flash of anger. This Bunkie, she thought, had to be cut
down to size.
"Let's stop this bullshit, Bunkie. Where the hell is the Senator?" she said.
"He'll really be pissed," Bunkie mumbled.
"Being a Senator doesn't make one immune to being a suspect in a murder," Cates said.
"True even for a Presidential candidate," Fiona added.
"Don't be an asshole, Bunkie," Monte said.
"Okay," Bunkie said. "I can see me as a suspect. Crazy. But I can see it. I don't like it. But I do understand. Really. I understand." He was being patronizing now, changing tactics. "I'll answer anything you want."
"Will you?" Fiona chirped. "How noble."
She studied him. He was the quintessential Washington cliché. The flunky zealot, ambitious to the point of aberration, who had attached himself to the great man like a Siamese twin. The extent of his dedication was total. No task was too demeaning. That had been confirmed the other night. The perpetuation of Sam Langford on his journey to political power was Bunkie Farrington's reason for living. But would he kill, if he had to? Yes, she decided.
"How long have you been with the Senator?" Fiona asked, telling him silently: Assume the position, pal. Spread 'em wide.
"Fourteen years. Right out of Yale. When the Senator was in the House."
"How long did it take you to get this close to him?" The implication that there was something rancid in the idea of it was deliberate. Once again he showed his total lack of insight.
"Very quickly," Bunkie said with pride. "We hit it off instantly. We have a compatibility of political ideals."
Whatever they are, she thought. Fiona, not wanting to deal with the trite, did not pursue this. Monte had addressed the question with more honesty and panache on their first date.
"You told me the other night that you had"—she watched him gathering his concentration—"arranged things for him."
He turned to Monte.
"You had to bring her the other night. You couldn't leave well-enough alone."
"That's the point, Bunkie. Nothing was well-enough. A disaster was unfolding. We needed all the help we could get. Now we need her more than ever."
"To sniff around? Accuse us?"
"You're pushing, Bunkie. They can get real nasty."
"I'll bet."
She turned to Monte.
"One phone call we can sink this ship," Fiona sighed. "This jaboni is going to blow it."
"Better listen, schmuck," Monte warned.
"Just want you all to know I'm not going to lay down just because you're leaning on me." He was obviously hiding behind a fairly flimsy macho facade. "So what was the question?" Bunkie asked.
"She didn't ask any question," Cates interjected.
"You've done this before?" Fiona asked.
"Now that's a question," Cates said.
"Done what?"
"And that's no answer," Cates shot back.
"Been a pimp, for chrissakes," Fiona said with irritation.
"I resent that," Bunkie shouted. The sound of his own voice apparently set off a retreat. After calming himself, he spoke again in a lower tone. "Hell, he is a magnet for women. He didn't need anyone. They love him. I just kept him out of trouble."
"Like with Helga Kessel," Cates pressed.
"She got all that the other night," Bunkie said, shoving a thumbing toward Fiona. His voice was getting shrill again. "And the Ambassador told her that she took it like a trooper. In fact, it didn't seem to mean diddly squat to the bitch. Her being murdered had nothing to do with us. Not with me and not with him." He pointed with his chin in what was undoubtedly the general direction of the Senator's office.
"After your little Dear-John drink you never saw or heard from her again?" Fiona asked.
"Why would I?"
"That's not what I asked, Farrington," Fiona snapped.
"No. I never heard from her again." Arrogance was becoming surly impatience.
"And the others? Did you hear from them again?"
"What others?"
"That's for us to ask and you to say," Cates said.
"What the hell do you think I am?" he protested.
"We've established that," Fiona said.
Suddenly he shifted in his chair and turned to Monte, pointing a finger in his face.
"You talk too fucking much, pal. The Senator's about had it with you."
She wondered if they had gone too far, jeopardized Monte's relationship with the Senator. To keep that cool had been her primary objective. But she could see that the relationship between Monte and Farrington was tense at the best of times.
"You're overreacting, Bunkie," Monte said calmly, illustrating to them that he knew how to unload Bunkie's wagons. Nevertheless, Fiona decided to take a new tack. No sense throwing the baby out with the bath water.
"Let's get down to the cream cheese, Farrington. We figure that Helga was strangled sometime during Monday. She was probably buried during the night, probably that same night..."
He seemed to brighten with optimism.
"Monday." He offered a wry chuckle. "I was with the Senator the entire day. From eight until nearly midnight."
"Just you and him?" Cates asked.
"Most of the time with a roomful of people." He looked around him. "In this committee room as a matter of fact. He was taking testimony on waste disposal. I was with him the whole time, including lunch. We ate in the Senate dining room."
"And after?" Cates pressed.
"Back at his office. We were with his AA in the office until nearly nine. Then we went over to The Monocle for dinner and hung there until midnight." Calmer now, he cut a glance at Monte. "Never stops, does it, Monte?"
"You're a very dedicated man." Monte harrumphed.
"And then?" Fiona asked, still in pursuit. "After The Monocle."
"Sleepy-bye. Remember Bonnie at the Pepsi thing? She was up at her place waiting for a cuddle. Doesn't talk much, that one, but, boy, is she expressive in other ways." He was gloating now, changing his tone yet again. He seemed relieved.
"And the Senator?"
"Back to home and hearth. I called him at seven in the morning. He was there. Nell will back that up. It pisses her off."
"What does?"
"Our ... well, the closeness of our working relationship."
He was getting to her.
"Jealous of the office wife," Fiona snapped.
"Sorry, I won't be baited. Call it what you want, lady cop. Fact is I'm clean as a whistle on this."
"We'll be checking it out, Farrington," Cates said.
"Clean may be too strong a word," Fiona said, annoyed at his final return to arrogance. He had probably seen her back off. Yet she was certain that his story would check out, although she had hoped for more intimidating leverage to cut through the bullshit. Now he would feel more confident about stonewalling.
"They do have an alibi," Cates said, picking up the rhythm of her thoughts.
"I'm relieved," Fiona said. "Aren't you relieved, Monte?"
Monte was confused. His gaze washed over the other three.
"He really had me worried," Fiona said.
"Me, too. I would want nothing to reflect on the integrity of a dedicated public servant."
"I think Captain Greene would be proud to make that announcement." She smiled pleasantly. "Chief of Homicide. Loves publicity."
"What do you mean, 'announcement'?" Bunkie asked, his brow wrinkling.
"About how clean you and the Senator are," Fiona said.
"No longer suspected," Cates echoed.
"You're kidding," Bunkie said, struggling to emit a laugh. "This is a joke, right?" They watched him squirm. "You know we're not without recourse. Senator Langford is very powerful. I wouldn't fuck with him if I were you."
"Above all, I wouldn't let you be me," Fiona said.
"No way," Cates said, meaning himself as well.
They got up from their chairs and started for the door. At the door, Fiona turned.
"Coming, Monte?"
He got up, totally conf
used.
"I want to catch Captain Greene in time. Might make the evening news."
"You're bluffing," Bunkie shouted.
"Put a little pancake on Farrington. He looks a little peaked for TV."
They went out through the double doors, exchanged glances then started down the corridor. They heard his footsteps clattering behind them. They accelerated their pace.
"I'll make a deal," Bunkie said, breathing heavily. They stopped.
"I'm all ears," Fiona said.
"Give us a break, will you? I've handled this badly."
Monte, who had followed Bunkie along the corridor, reached them.
"He's a good man," Bunkie begged. "All right, he's got this problem with the girls. But this is just a coincidence. Something outside our orbit. Be fair. That's all we ask." He turned toward Monte. "Right, Monte? All we want is them to be fair."
"They've agreed to that, Bunkie. That was the point," Monte said.
"Okay, then. But please. Just the lady. One-on-one."
Fiona hesitated, reluctant to comment. The ploy was too obvious, laughable. Throw him a female. He'd have her bamboozled in the blink of an eye.
"It's the best way," Bunkie pleaded. "Too many of us will spook him."
Fiona weighed the offer. She'd danced with the man. Now she remembered her reaction. Nevertheless, she resented the implication.
"I know him, Sergeant FitzGerald," Bunkie said. "He couldn't kill anybody. He's innocent on this. We're all bystanders here."
"Settle down, Farrington," Fiona said. "If we reaffirm both your alibis you could be in the clear. Fact is, it has to be done."
He looked pitiful, but she felt no sympathy. They were clever, these bastards. They could fawn on cue. She looked at Cates.
"Any objection?" she asked.
Both she and Cates knew the question was solely for effect. It was one of the hallmarks of their partnership that they both check their ego at the squad-room door. The name of their game was detecting, finding the bad guys, not gratifying their egos.
"Hereby registered," Cates answered, also for effect. Then he stood up and began to move away. She hurried after him until they were out of earshot of Monte and Bunkie.
"Pappas is okay, but the other guy stinks to high heaven."