by Warren Adler
Fiona studied him. In this business nothing was ever as it seemed. Could the killer have deliberately thrown them off the scent? Serial killers were crafty devils who, for the most part, understood their aberration. It was Bunkie, after all, who had identified Harriet and Judy. They could have been merely two among many, two whose history belied the serial pattern. This did not rule out others who became entangled in the Senator's amorous escapades. A twinge of curiosity invaded her. Involuntary sexual images surfaced in her mind. With an admonishment to herself, she brushed them away and came back to Bunkie.
Indeed, if one were to carry suspicion to the outer limits, she reasoned that Bunkie could be covering for the Senator himself. It was the kind of thought one filed away for future reference.
"By my count," Fiona said, "you administered three Dear-Johns." She didn't count Judy Peters.
"All dead ladies," Cates snapped.
"Christ. Sounds awful," Bunkie muttered. "Remember, though, Harriet had an accident."
"Maybe," Cates said.
"Come on, guys. That's a big leap of faith," Bunkie countered. "And Judy Peters gave Sam the boot."
"You would have gotten around to her, Farrington," Fiona said.
"I guess so," Bunkie mumbled.
"Were there any others?" Cates pushed.
He took the question with resignation.
"That again?" he sighed.
"And again," Fiona said.
"I'm not counting the transients," Bunkie said. "You'd need a computer. I've only considered serious threats to his career."
"Just four?" Fiona asked.
"I don't have eyes in back of my head." He lit another cigarette, inhaled, hacked then said, "He's a bull loose in a cow pasture. What can I say?"
"Ever recommend a psychiatrist?" Fiona asked.
"In this business?" he shot back.
Cates looked at her, not understanding.
"It's a public antishrink prejudice," Fiona explained. "Shows a politician's clay feet."
"You've got to admit, Farrington," Cates said, "the evidence is compelling. They get serious, then they die. Except for Judy Peters."
"It wasn't me," Bunkie said. "And certainly not Sam. He may be a terror in the sack, but at heart he's a pussycat."
"Okay then. We're open to suggestions," Fiona said.
"I haven't any. It's too weird," Bunkie said. "I can't figure it out. Why?"
"Easy enough for us," Fiona said. "Had to be someone who had a great deal to lose, personally or careerwise, by these continuing affairs." She suddenly remembered Judy Peters, the one who had gotten away. "Maybe Mrs. Langford." It was a stab in the dark, she knew.
"Nell? No way."
"Why not?"
"She's on the team is why. But Sam is a good family man. Loves the kids. Nell never rocks the boat."
"You mean all's well on the home front?" Fiona asked.
"Believe it or not."
"She doesn't bug him, threaten to leave?"
"He keeps the other separate."
"With your help?"
"I try," Bunkie said with self-deprecating sarcasm. "It seems I fucked it up."
They left him with that idea hanging in the air.
"We've talked to Judy," Fiona said.
"I figured," Bunkie said. "Proof positive. She corroborated what I told you."
"More or less," Cates said.
"Jeez. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I'm trying to help you, help clear the air." He puffed deeply, coughed, then, catching his breath, spoke again. "What do you mean 'more or less'?"
"Who told Mrs. Langford about the Senator and Judy?"
"Beats the shit out of me," Bunkie said. He puffed again, coughed, bringing a fist up to his mouth.
"You never asked?"
Bunkie looked at them. His tongue flicked along his lips, moistening them.
"I stayed out of that one. I didn't even tell Sam about it."
"What did you tell him?" Fiona pressed.
"She cut out. Had enough. Good riddance."
"How did he take it?"
"Like all of them. He really liked the kid, but he got over it."
"You think Mrs. Langford brought it up to him?" Fiona asked.
"Probably not. I told you. She doesn't rock the boat. The fact is we don't discuss his family life. I told you. The woman doesn't exactly care for me."
"Maybe she's the one? That ever occur to you?" Cates asked cautiously.
"Nell. A killer. You crazy."
"Why crazy? She could have set it all up herself," Fiona suggested. Such an idea had both precedent and logic. A rich jealous wife had the means and motive to put a private dick on the Senator's tail. And worse. Hiring someone to ice the offending ladies was not unknown in the annals of crime.
"Never." Bunkie said. She could tell that the thought might have crossed his mind. Even if he was the perpetrator the idea had good possibilities in terms of shifting suspicion away from himself. She pressed him further.
"Never say never," Fiona said.
He blew a gust of breath through his lips, making an obscene sound.
"Cops always ask the question, 'Who profits?'" Cates said.
"Bimbos killed, career saved," Fiona added.
"That goes for all of us," he acknowledged. "He goes down. We go down."
If he had any admirable qualities at all, it was absolute loyalty to the cause.
"So you don't really know if Mrs. Langford ever brought up the matter of Judy Peters?"
"And I didn't ask," Bunkie reiterated.
"You expect us to believe that bullshit?" Cates snapped.
"I deal in the irregular. Not the regular. Problem with Sam, he only goes wrong when he gives pussy an identity, recognizes the whole woman."
Odd, Fiona thought, how being a cop made her sometimes appear asexual at times, especially to macho assholes like Bunkie. Worse, he was so insensitive, he couldn't even acknowledge his statement as a gaffe. The man had a real problem with the gender. Not so the great swordsman Senator. He knew the way to a woman's heart, all right. And apparently every other part, as well, including what went on in their collective heads.
"So you say Nell Langford is innocent?" Fiona asked. They were going round and round now, getting nowhere.
"I do."
"And the Senator?"
"No way."
"Monte Pappas?"
"You're kidding. Not a chance."
"Ambassador Kessel?"
He shook his head.
"Leaves you," Fiona said, watching as he attempted to inhale a cloud of smoke. They left him in the kitchen, hacking away.
20
NELL LANGFORD sat in the sunny living room of her spacious Spring Valley home showing all the confidence that was not apparent when Fiona saw her last at the dance. Through large floor-to-ceiling windows, they could see brightly colored swings, a seesaw and sliding pond planted on the grass. A high cedar fence surrounded the yard and a large dog lay sleeping under a tree.
The neat living room was expensively decorated with lush fabrics. Framed Currier and Ives prints, obviously of collectible quality, hung on the walls. There were also nests of family portraits intermingled with silver-framed political photographs on every available flat surface.
True or not, the ambience offered the feel of deep family roots, symbols of what modern politicians were now calling "values." Dropped from the sky without a historical context for the Senator, one might infer from his home that he was a faithful and devoted family man, a loving husband and father. Knowing what she knew, Fiona felt offended by the hypocrisy. Even Sam's little Nell could not escape responsibility for the charade.
Nell Langford was wearing black slacks and a white turtleneck sweater, which showed the lines of a well-endowed female body. The gown she wore at the Mount Vernon dance had muted those lines.
Fiona and Cates had, by design, imposed themselves on her, flashing their badges. If Nell recognized Fiona from the Mount Vernon dance, she gave no sign. It was cl
ear that she had not expected them, had not been forewarned by Bunkie or the Senator. This was good. They had been counting on the element of surprise.
"It's that important, Mrs. Langford," Fiona had pressed, much like a door-to-door salesman about to put his foot in the door. Nell had hesitated, her eyes searching their faces. Her instincts, Fiona observed, from the flash of anxiety that passed across her face, were certainly correct. An enemy was at the door.
"Just routine," Cates said pleasantly, in a poor version of a dissimulating movie cop. She could tell that Nell Langford was not fooled.
It had to be done, of course. There was no avoiding it. If Nell refused, they would have to threaten. She seemed to be weighing the alternatives. Nor could Fiona detect any signs of guilt or innocence, only the palpable fear of the unexpected. The wife of a potential Presidential candidate had to be cautious. In that context anything remotely controversial was to be avoided. Nell chose to speak with them.
Leading them into the living room, Nell was cautious and not unpleasant. Also not hospitable. Her consent had been strictly business and no frills were to be expected.
"You have a lovely house, Mrs. Langford," Fiona said with sincere admiration.
"Thank you," Nell replied coldly.
"Like an oasis," Fiona pressed.
"We worked quite hard to create it," Nell said with an air of haughty dismissal. "Now what can I do for you?" She was, Fiona felt, being deliberately patronizing, but she could not completely hide her wariness.
"It's about the murder of Helga Kessel," Fiona began. No small-talk now, she had decided. Plunge right in. Despite a desire to be objective, she could not chase a feeling of irritation based on Nell's not remembering her from the Mount Vernon party. So she wasn't important enough to remember, was she?
Fiona, her expression deliberately stern, focused hostile eyes in Nell's direction. She wanted her to feel under scrutiny, intimidated. It was quite clear that Nell, for her part, had marshaled all her forces to resist them.
It struck her suddenly that this same attitude marked all the others. Like turtles, they had ducked their heads into a protective crust. Kessel, Bunkie, the Senator. Now Nell. And although there were elements of a conspiracy, they all seemed to be holding back pieces of the puzzle for their own purposes.
"Poor woman," Nell said. "But she had no business walking around wearing all that expensive jewelry."
"Did you know her well?" Fiona asked.
"Does anyone in Washington really know anyone well? She was on the circuit. I was at a dance with her just a few days ago. At Mount Vernon."
Still, she showed no recognition that she had ever met Fiona. Nor was Fiona moved to remind her.
"How well did the Senator know her?" Fiona asked. The question was direct, with no attempt to deflect its real meaning.
Nell caught the message. Her eyes unlocked themselves from Fiona's and turned to look through the windows. The grass's sudden reflection turned her hazel eyes a luminous green. Her recovery took place in a flicker as she turned toward Fiona again.
"No more than I did," Nell said with a feeble attempt at a smile. A frown line broke on her forehead, giving away an increasing anxiety. She didn't know about the affair, Fiona decided. Not for sure. Behind the facade, she is steeling herself for the blow. It might have occurred to her, of course. Fiona had seen the suspicion in her eyes the night of the dance, when the Senator and Helga cavorted on the dance floor together.
Satisfied that the message had been received, Fiona was ready for a combination punch.
"Is the name Judith Peters familiar to you, Mrs. Langford?"
Nell's eyes narrowed as she appeared to search her memory for a recollection.
"Go back eight years," Fiona urged, knowing it was a gamble, that Nell might not have made the call after all.
Part of the reality of the political life was the "play dumb" role assigned to wives and children of politicians. Nothing was to be revealed about a politician's private life without first passing through an image-making screening process. Was Nell playing this role with flawless precision? Fiona studied her intensely, waiting for the dice to fall.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "It escapes me."
"Shall I refresh your memory?" Fiona asked cautiously. She glanced at Cates, who gave her a quick supportive blink. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought.
"You called this woman..." Fiona began, halting deliberately to check the impression she was making. Nell's face was expressionless.
"Did I?"
Never volunteer. That was the axiom of the stonewaller. Apparently Nell was quite good at it. Okay, lady, you asked for it, Fiona decided.
"She was having an affair with your husband, Mrs. Langford. You called her and told her to back off."
Only the slightest tremor in her cheek gave her away. But it was there. Loud and clear.
"Why are you asking me these questions?"
"I could explain it better if you cooperated," Fiona rebuked. At that moment, Nell's mind had to be filled with options. She could throw them out. She could call her husband for his immediate advice. Or she could tough it out, hoping that whatever was happening would not spill over to hurt her husband's, and her, aspirations.
The question behind the question, of course, was her culpability, if any. With undoubtedly a great effort of will, Nell managed to keep her features composed, although the little nerve in her cheek offered a tiny betrayal.
"If I remember correctly I merely responded to a rumor. I was a newlywed. I had not yet learned that a public figure was a prime target for any crazy with the price of a telephone call."
Well put, Fiona thought. A half-confession.
"So you did call this woman?"
"For which I was soundly admonished," Nell said, offering a tight smile.
"I take it your husband denied it."
"We were married six months and I was pregnant. It was an ugly rumor and I overreacted. My husband, as you can see, is a very attractive man, an easy prey for designing females." Her hand went up to her single strand of pearls and the tiny tremor in her cheek subsided.
"So he did deny it?"
"I would not ever put him in such a position. I have since learned to discount such rumors."
"Have there been others?"
"Countless." She smiled, still playing with her pearls. "We are, you see, a very close family. A political family must expect those things." She turned her eyes full-glare on Fiona, telescoping that she was determined to show her superior credentials. "You have to be there to fully understand. Families of major figures in the political world are subject to these stresses. We grow used to them. It is very difficult to transfer this experience to others." She meant Fiona, of course. As for Cates, he might have been a piece of furniture for all the attention she paid to him.
It was time to throw the bomb, Fiona thought. The woman's attitude made it easy to do.
"Then I take it you did not suspect that your husband was having an affair with Helga Kessel."
Her eyes went into a repetitive nervous blink and her fingers, instead of caressing the pearls, began to pull on them.
"That is quite absurd," she managed to say. But she was having some difficulty keeping her cool.
"Not only is it not absurd. It is a fact. The Ambassador knew. Farrington knew. I know. My partner here knows. The point to be made is that Helga Kessel was murdered by someone, person or persons unknown. We do not believe robbery was the motive."
"What, then?" she asked, her voice quivering.
She apparently had chosen to skirt the issue. Obviously she was still denying it to herself. But the turmoil within her was apparent.
"Jealousy, perhaps," Fiona said pointedly.
"There, you see? Even you suspect another crazy. Now do you get my point?"
It was a valiant effort to take a mental detour.
"We make no conclusions," Fiona said. "Helga was strangled in the same fashion as another woman, years earlier."
"Now you're losing me," Nell said, reaching for a haughty air. But her nervous tension kept her from achieving it.
"This was fourteen years ago."
"I hadn't even met him then," Nell interjected.
"We know that."
Since the serial aspect had been discounted, they could speculate that the two murders were unconnected, although it stretched credulity. The present murderer could have simply come up with the same modus operandi by coincidence.
"The point here is that both women were having affairs with your husband."
"He was somebody else's husband fourteen years ago," Nell protested. She was lashing out now. A slight flush broke out on the cheeks of her well-scrubbed skin.
"But you do see the connection. Why we have to ask you these questions. Believe me, Mrs. Langford, we are not here to harass you."
"This is a very good imitation of it," she said testily. "My husband, I can assure you, will be quite upset about this confrontation."
True to form for these types, Fiona thought. She had expected the threat earlier.
"Mrs. Langford," Fiona said, adopting a deliberately weary tone. "We are trying to protect your husband's reputation and career. But the inescapable fact is that we cannot turn away from the obvious. There are only a few motives that make any sense. One of them is jealousy."
"Are you suggesting..." Nell began. She shook her head, trying hard to control any display of anger.
"We're investigating. Not suggesting. We're doing what needs to be done. If you knew about this affair you had every reason to get rid of this woman."
"This could be actionable, you know," Nell said frostily, still stonewalling. Again, Fiona ignored the threat.
"Neither your husband, yourself, Ambassador Kessel nor Bunkie Farrington is off the hook. You all had your reasons."
"How utterly despicable of you..." She could not go on. Her voice broke. To her credit, the anger never quite got the best of her. When she got control of her voice again she said, "Are you accusing me of murdering this woman?"
"Did you?" Fiona asked.
"You're not serious?"
"Dead serious," Fiona said from between clenched teeth.
"My husband will be appalled."
Off the high-horse, lady, Fiona thought.