by Warren Adler
Quick to judgement, she thought suddenly. Could she strike Monte off the list so cavalierly, despite Monte's own protestations? As if in counterpoint to her thoughts, Cates continued.
"People who want things badly enough are capable of anything." He paused and his voice dropped a few decibels. "Especially politicians."
"For a comparative newcomer to this town, I'd say that's pretty cynical."
"Bad attitude, right?"
"It does cut into your objectivity," Fiona said. Not that her objectivity remained pristine. Do as I say, not as I do, she cautioned him silently.
"I have a confession then," Cates said. She braced herself for the revelation. Sometimes, she knew, things had to be articulated to make sense of one's thoughts.
"I'd love Farrington to be the one," Cates said. "Shifty bugger."
"That's called emotional involvement," she replied with a touch of rebuke in her tone.
"I know."
"Objectivity means keeping all of our options open. At this stage everybody is fair game. Everybody remains a suspect. Everybody. We call that an open mind, Cates." She smiled, taking the sting out of the admonishment. "Consider yourself spanked."
He shrugged and offered a thin smile.
"For my own good, right, Fi?"
"Right."
They had, she knew, picked up the investigatory rhythm of the case, moving now in perfect tandem, thinking in synch, communicating in their own special shorthand.
"I'll also follow up on the real estate. Touch base later."
"And I'll duck the eggplant until we catch up. We'll pull it together before the meeting."
He nodded and started to move away, stopped suddenly and turned.
"What was that old movie expression? Yeah." He nodded. "Keep your powder dry." He was being cryptic, but she knew his meaning. He was genuinely worried.
"It's okay, Cates. I'll keep my legs crossed."
His lips curled upward, not quite a smile. With one finger he waved goodbye and she watched him move swiftly down the corridor. Then she moved back to where Bunkie and Pappas were waiting.
"We're wasting time," she said.
13
IN THE labyrinthine underground corridors of the Capitol there are about fifty private suites reserved for the use of Senators. Allocation of these suites is based on seniority. Fiona's father had one. Once the Senator invited a group of her friends to celebrate her birthday in his. Her father claimed that he used it more for "thinking things out" than anything else.
Later, when she grew more sophisticated, she learned that they had other, more varied uses.
The suites are, in fact, one of the most sought-after of all Senatorial perks, private hideaways complete with kitchen facilities, showers and bathrooms. Many of them are arranged as living room/dining room combinations. Some are elaborately decorated. Most are equipped with some form of sleeping accommodations, although their prime intention is not for use as an overnight facility.
Over the years Senators have used these suites for entertaining constituents or colleagues at private cocktail parties, buffet lunches or sit-down dinners. Others have used them as retreats from the rigid and often exhausting legislative routine. Some Senators have used them for afternoon naps, or to cater to some dark and dangerous addiction far from the public eye, like alcohol, for example. Some have used them solely for recreation, like playing poker or gin rummy, or listening to their favorite soap opera or ballgame. One Senator, Fiona's father once told her, was known to set up his easel in one of these suites, strip to the buff, and blithely paint canvases of serene landscapes.
At times they were used for sexual trysts. That went without saying. It had its dangers, of course. Access could be monitored by those with sinister purposes. It was not the place for more serious sexual encounters, but it did function as a place for, as they say, sport fucking between Senators and the more round-heeled members of his or her staff.
These suites were, of course, not well publicized, and, Fiona suspected, there seemed to be a general truce between Senators and media to leave the subject in limbo unless their use was so compelling or scandalous that nothing could stop the revelation.
Bunkie had ducked into another empty committee room to use the phone.
"A real hardhead," Monte said when he had gone. "But a human shield."
"Fanatics make me queasy," Fiona said.
"But it does look as if you can put your suspicions to rest."
"Not yet," Fiona said. Far from it, she thought, but she did not wish to alarm him. The connections these people had with the dead woman were too involved to be dismissed so cavalierly.
Monte moved toward her, held her by the shoulders then drew her closer.
"Thanks for this," he said, kissing her. "Trust is a rare commodity."
"Very," she agreed. Although she was trained to be wary, Monte's presence and character did not disturb her comfort level. She allowed their kiss to linger. Finally she pushed him away, offering the light humor of a time-honored cliché. "I'm on duty, Monte."
They parted just as Bunkie strode through the door. She could tell that he had seen, but he said nothing.
"He's less than happy," Bunkie said.
Fiona said nothing and followed him again through the corridors. At the end of one corridor they came to an elevator, got in and went to a lower level. They traversed more corridors. Sometimes Bunkie or Monte waved to people along the way. She remembered these labyrinthine corridors from her childhood. It had always seemed so self-contained, a world unto itself.
The corridors grew more deserted as they continued, and finally, after a series of turns, they stopped in front of a large polished door. Bunkie knocked three times, then waited. They heard a buzz.
"Go in," Bunkie said. "We'll get a cup of coffee and meet you in an hour."
"Good luck," Monte said.
"You'll see," Bunkie added. "There won't be any reason for you to be suspicious. We're not without our faults. But we don't do murder."
Sam Langford was sitting in his shirtsleeves on a large easy chair, his feet on a hassock. A standing lamp threw light on a pile of papers that he was reading. He put them aside and stood up, showing a broad dimpled smile. His wavy, prematurely greying hair fell carelessly over his forehead. When he got closer she could see his blue eyes, clear and remarkably untroubled, considering all the angst that had to be endured for her to get here.
"Very happy to see you again ... is it Fiona?"
She nodded, responding to his outstretched hand. He took hers gently. At first it felt soft, devoid of pressure. Then it firmed. His touch was insinuating, enveloping. He did have an aura, Fiona thought. She remembered how she had felt held in his arms, dancing.
There was no denying it. The man had sex appeal. Worse, he knew it.
In a sweeping gaze, she took in the room. It looked much like the living room of a well-appointed home. It was filled with what appeared to be antiques or repros. There was a polished mahogany dining table on one side of the room and eight side chairs. In front of the upholstered chair in which the Senator sat was a couch. Also in the conversational setting around a large, highly polished, dark wood cocktail table were two deep leather wing chairs.
A large secretary covered the bulk of one wall, also a tall clock that she was sure tolled the hour and half hour. On another wall was a bookcase filled with books. A number of paintings were hung about the place. One depicted a naval engagement, another scenes of colonial soldiers resting after battle. There were two pictures of dour men with powdered wigs.
The place had a distinctively historical flavor. In it the Senator looked, aside from the sex appeal, well ... Senatorial. Perhaps even Presidential.
"Can I get you anything, Fiona?" he asked, sweeping his arm around the room. "Everything is here. This is where we get away from the madding crowd." He smiled again and out came his dimples. "Well, then make yourself comfortable," he said, pointing to one of the wing chairs. "I'm so glad we can have this li
ttle chat." He went back to his chair and sat down to study her.
She felt him pouring it on, skewering reality, bringing up the big guns of his charm and charisma. His clear blue eyes were x-rays undressing her. Dammit, she berated herself, feeling, despite all caveats, the thrill of his masculine aggression.
"I know you've already heard about Helga Kessel."
"I can't believe it." He shook his head and his eyes glinted briefly. Was it the hint of a tear? She couldn't say, but he seemed to be moved. "We were great friends."
"Yes, great friends," Fiona repeated. It was a remark meant to be sarcastic, but it seemed almost benign. She had been momentarily awed into a kind of submission, which deeply interfered with her normally creative interrogation. Stop this, woman! she rebuked herself.
"Bunkie told me about your conversation the other night." Midway into the sentence he had to clear his throat as if the words had stuck.
She nodded.
"You must think I'm pretty bad. Or stupid."
"On that issue I won't make judgments."
"He also said you're a great friend of Monte's and that you're not here to hurt us." He continued to study her.
"Yes on both scores."
"My first instinct was to duck," he said with boyish candor, showing the dimples again. "Wait a bit until the smoke clears. I'm sure you know the drill from your father. I remember reading about him. I would have loved to have met him. But I came here after he had retired."
"He didn't retire. He was defeated," Fiona said. The reference to her father restored her equilibrium. "Anyway, that's not why I'm here."
"I just wanted you to know that I feel comfortable here with you, that I trust you, that my first instinct was wrong. Sometimes politics can get in the way of good sense."
"Always," Fiona said, back on track now. She watched him bear down on her, his eyes searchlights, inspecting her.
"I don't deny it," he said. "Helga and I were lovers. We cared a great deal for each other. Unfortunately, I had to make a choice in my self-interest. The thing about this business ... you become institutionalized, like a corporation. Large numbers of people depend on you. A deeply private life can no longer exist." Suddenly he stopped himself. "Why am I flogging the obvious, telling you what you already know?"
To control the agenda, Sam, she thought, but did not give voice to it.
"Why didn't you tell her yourself?" Fiona asked. Subjectively, it was this act, or nonact, of his that she resented most.
"Pure cowardice," he admitted, lowering his eyes in some clichéd rendition of "shame." Will the real Sam Langford please stand up? Perhaps he no longer knew who that was?
She watched him, but did not comment. Worse than cowardice, she told herself.
"The thing is I can't bear to see people hurt." He paused, waiting for a reaction. When it didn't come he said, "So I'm not a paragon of virtue. Anyway, I felt relieved when Bunkie reported that she had taken it like a good soldier. Hell, she knew from the beginning that this could lead nowhere. We both knew the score." He sighed wistfully. "However you cut it, though, it was beautiful between us while it lasted. I'm sure she felt the same way."
"Did you know that Ambassador Kessel was aware of the affair?"
"That's another thing I didn't bank on. When she told me, I was in shock. Theirs was, as you already know, a most unusual relationship."
"And you accepted it?"
"Accept it? No, I didn't accept it. I lived with it."
"Did Mrs. Langford also know?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."
"Suspect? Did she suspect?"
"How can I know that?" he replied testily. "We have two young children. She's quite a busy woman. It's not easy being the wife of a Senator."
"How would she react if it came out?"
"Not good, I'm afraid."
"You think it would jeopardize your family as well as your career?"
"Is the Pope Catholic? Nell is a proud woman. Nothing would ever be the same, that's for sure."
"So why risk it?"
"Good question, Fiona. You wouldn't be here if that wasn't the case. It's cheating, pure and simple. Call it a weakness. So I'm an incurable romantic." He lifted his hand in a traffic cop's gesture. "I know it's a rationalization. Ten years of therapy might get to the bottom of it. But, for whatever reason, there it is."
His gaze had drifted. Now he raised his eyes again and met hers. "It doesn't make me any less of a political leader. In fact, it is a rather common characteristic, considering what we now know about Jack Kennedy, Franklin Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower and Lyndon Johnson, to name just a few." His eyes bore down. "I love women, Fiona. And I love being in love with women. Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with my family. My wife or kids. It's both a personal problem and a political liability to have such a propensity. I'm also less than courageous about breaking things off when it becomes politically necessary. That, I'm afraid, is the full extent of my venality. I also understand your role as investigator. Indeed, in your place I would consider myself a suspect, even though, knowing myself as I do, I would never, ever ... I am constitutionally unable to murder ... indeed, to physically hurt ... anyone."
He was utterly disarming and passionate in his candor. You could fool me, she told herself with self-deprecating sarcasm.
"Then you realize why I have to be here, have to probe this," she said, trying to match his self-effacement, but losing badly.
"Of course."
It was then that she launched into the technical aspects of her questioning. His answers corroborated what Bunkie had told him, which relieved her. Her instincts told her that this charming rogue was only a lady killer in a symbolic sense.
"Are you satisfied, Senator, that Farrington's report on Helga's reaction to their tête-à-tête is completely accurate?"
Sam Langford rubbed his chin, then tapped his teeth with his fingers.
"The man has been with me ever since I came here, first as a Congressman, he was just out of Yale. He can be overbearing at times, overprotective, hyperdedicated, probably loyal to a fault. He will deliberately keep me uninformed, especially, like now, if he believes something will upset me. He will edit out. He will be oblique. Yet, we have our shorthand. Every successful politician has his Bunkie. He did this thing with Helga because I trusted him to do it."
"He called it damage-control," Fiona said, noting how cleverly he had surgically removed himself from Bunkie's excesses.
"Indeed, it is. And I am completely satisfied. Poor Helga's death had to be the result of circumstances far outside our orbit, Fiona. Sure, I'd like to keep out of the clutches of the media on this. We both know it could wipe me out, certainly politically. I've been lucky so far. I'll admit that. I'm no Gary Hart challenging the media to follow me. In their eyes, I would be guilty as hell. But I'm"—he smiled, telescoping the humor that was to come—"off the stuff now. Scared off by my advisors. This episode with Helga makes it official. No more. It's my latest slogan. Just say no." He swung his arms in a gesture of rejection. "Finis. Nada. Verboten." He dimpled his face again. "Anything you can do to help will, of course, be greatly appreciated. I'm not sure it's possible to keep the media wolf from the door. I hope it can be done and I won't blame you if you can't. I happen also to trust Monte's judgement completely. He is the best political strategist in the business, and that takes the ability to know people and what makes them tick."
He had the entertainer's ability to hold one's interest. She quickly cast aside his effusive thank-yous and pressed on. There was more to test, more to learn.
"Did she talk about what went on, as you say, outside your orbit?" Fiona asked. Postcoital pillow talk, she meant.
He nodded his head as if he both understood and appreciated the subtlety.
"She was an enormously positive person. She loved being the chatelaine of the Embassy, loved the parties, the political discussions, loved to dress up, loved jewelry. She was highly educated, and very serious about many things.
She also respected her husband enormously. Like me, though, she was a romantic and was able to conjure up a rich fantasy life." He stopped his narrative and looked at her playfully, flashing a thin but still-dimpled smile. "It was good sex, too, and we both enjoyed it."
Fiona felt herself flush and knew she had turned red. He was obviously selling her a picture of total honesty and she was probably buying it. Although flustered, Fiona managed to fire off a related question.
"Anything that dissatisfied her?" she asked.
"Yes, there was," he said swiftly, emphasizing his openness. "She resented not being able to legally hold a job. That was frustrating to her. She had been in business in Europe. She would have preferred working at something productive instead of the endless round of events she attended during the day with only women present. In a way, I suppose, our little meetings gave her a respite from that. Perhaps, at first, she consented merely to relieve the boredom." He raised a finger in the air. "At first, I said. Let's say it started out as a small flame and moved into a conflagration. I think we were both turned on by the danger of it. Can you understand that, Fiona?"
She knew what he meant. Hadn't she been there herself? She had seen it, felt it, knew its power. A sudden image invaded her mind. Herself naked, spread-eagled on the couch on which he sat. He, naked and aroused, moving to embrace her. She felt her heartbeat accelerate and other, more personal physical reactions. My God, she cried inwardly, forcing herself to erase the image. Did it show?
"I'm not trying to justify my philandering, Fiona," he continued. Or had there really been a pause in his explanation while he observed her, read her thoughts? Again, she felt a burning hot flush color her face. "I'm only trying to provide some insight into my motives."
And so you have, Fiona told him silently, finally picking up the thread of her interrogation.
"Do you believe that you and the Ambassador were the only men in Helga's life?"
"I never let myself ask that question," he said.
"Do you believe she was capable of having multiple affairs?"
He had to mull that over.