by Warren Adler
"You're not getting this message, Mrs. Langford," Cates said suddenly. He had been patient. Perhaps he was tired of being ignored, treated as if he weren't there. The woman turned to face him.
"What message, Officer?" she asked coyly, as if she were poised to intimidate him.
"A woman your husband was seeing has just been murdered. You can't ignore either fact. Would it be better if we invited your husband to attend this interrogation and put the question to him directly?"
"He has already admitted it and Bunkie Farrington has confirmed," Fiona added.
"Bunkie." she said coldly. "That man makes my skin crawl."
"Well, we all agree on something," Fiona said. The hint of alliance was not appreciated by Nell.
"That mutual feeling changes nothing," Cates said, clearly assuming the role of bad cop. In this case, badder cop. "Can you account for your time on Tuesday, day and night?"
She started to protest, obviously thought better of it, then paused as if to recall the time frame. Then she nodded.
"Of course I can. And you will find it can easily be confirmed." They assumed as much, but did not pursue it. Time for that later. The psychological aspects seemed more to the point at the moment. It was time to increase the pressure.
"I'll ask you again, Mrs. Langford. Did you know about your husband and Helga Kessel?" Fiona pressed. Surprisingly, she was beginning to show some admiration for Nell. She was fighting it all the way, refusing to be drawn in, although defeat in this regard was inevitable.
"I never asked," she said after a long pause.
"Why not? Didn't it matter?"
"There would be only one way to be sure," she said. "To observe for myself. Everything else would be hearsay."
"Photographs, too?"
"They could be altered."
"And if your husband admitted it, would you believe it then?"
"Not necessarily," she said, defying all logic. "He might have his reasons."
It was exasperating. Nell Langford had the great facility of skewering reality, bending it to her will. She remembered Bunkie's words. "Not Nell." He was dead wrong. Nell could easily hire a hit man to eliminate Helga or anyone else, then cavalierly dismiss it from her mind.
"All right then," Fiona said, as if it were an announcement of a changing tack. Ready about. "Were there any other women rumored to be having an affair with your husband?" The use of the word "rumor" was an obvious placebo. Nell grabbed for it like a life preserver.
"There were always these rumors," she replied with some eagerness, as if the question had been some sort of a cue. "I put no credence in them."
"What about names?"
"If I heard them, I put them out of my mind. The Senator is a good and faithful husband and father. I resent these rumors, not for myself, but for my children. I have explained to them that they will hear them. Children will bring them to school. And I have instructed them to pay no attention. Like me. These rumors are manufactured by his enemies and those that are jealous of his success. He is a national political figure. We are conditioned to expect such things."
She delivered this speech flawlessly, as if it were by rote, to be trotted out for just such occasions. It was, unquestionably, a summation and signaled that she was on the verge of dismissing them. Not so fast, lady, Fiona thought.
"Did you think the Helga thing was a rumor?" Fiona asked, determined not to be deflected.
"I never heard it. If I did, I would have dismissed it as such. Yes."
Fiona's level of exasperation was rising. The woman had an enormous talent for obfuscation.
"You're not helping your husband, Mrs. Langford," Fiona said. In her mind, she decided, she would give the woman the presumption of innocence. At least for the moment. Nell listened silently. "This case stinks of scandal. The media would have a field day and in their environment rumor becomes truth. So let's stop all this bullshit and get to the point."
Still stonewalling, Nell glared at her.
"I have nothing to say," she said haughtily.
"Next thing you'll be calling for your lawyer," Cates interjected.
"Better believe it."
"More people to tell," Fiona sighed. "Keep spreading the word until you destroy your husband's career. He's in real political trouble, Mrs. Langford. Somebody, for reasons that are directly related to your husband, killed those women."
"So you say," Nell said, as if to further prove her resilience. "But it is obvious that you haven't got an iota of evidence to back up that contention." She stood up, pulling back her shoulders, illustrating what Fiona supposed was her sense of aristocratic authority.
"You realize, of course, that you're forcing us to widen the circle."
The threat could not be made any clearer. In fact, the potential demise of Senator Langford's career might be considered the theme of the meeting. It apparently had not fazed Nell, which, for Fiona, was the heart of the puzzle. Why not?
The answer came after they followed her out of the room. They passed through the living room, festooned with sunlight flowing from window walls that faced out to lush greenery, enriched by the recent rains.
But in the tiled vestibule, Fiona hesitated, waiting for Nell Langford to turn. She did not wish the interview to end. Something was awry here. The woman did not fear the detonation of her husband's career.
Perhaps she hated him with such intensity that she was hoping for it to happen. On the other hand, she might be guilty of the killing of Helga, and valued her own skin above all else. A cool number either way, Fiona decided. Once again the social scene was a poor arena for psychological evaluation. People wore masks in that setting. For this visit, Nell Langford had simply changed masks.
"One might say that it was you who are pulling the trigger." Fiona had chosen the metaphor carefully.
Nell's face, instead of the expected anger, registered a confusing serenity.
"You know," she said, "I admire your tenacity, but you're coming from the wrong place. I'd be quite happy if my husband abandoned his career. Public life is a treacherous jungle. And if his aspirations are scuttled by this affair, I'd be the first to stand up and applaud. I love my husband dearly, and, if you must know, I hate being a political wife. Politics destroys marriages. Yes, he is ambitious. Yes, he is also enormously attractive to women. The important thing for me is that I'm the mother of his children. I'm the woman he takes home at night and I'm the woman he sleeps with. He is also not a person who hurts other people, certainly not intentionally. As for being a killer, that is preposterous. The fact is that, if my family were in danger, I am a more likely candidate for murderer than my husband." By then, her expression had become sweet, benign. A clever act or the soul of sincerity. The latter judgement was terribly convincing. "Do whatever you have to do," she said after a brief pause. "But I'd suggest you look elsewhere for your culprit."
"That"—Fiona said, holding onto a brief shred of purpose—"is why we are here."
"I can't help you," Nell said, opening the door to let them out.
"Won't," Fiona said as she went through the door, carrying with her the uneasy feeling that Nell, despite her apparent indifference, had more than an idea of who the killer might be.
21
"GHOULS," MR. Haber said. "We had two contracts on the house by noon."
His pink cheeks creased into a broad smile, showing a row of perfect white, but obviously false, teeth. With the exception of thick rimless glasses, he was pink from his chin to the back of his bald head where grey hair formed a natural ridge line.
"It has cachet now. A landmark of sorts. Here's where the body of the Austrian Ambassador's wife was buried. They'll probably frame the clippings and put it in the den."
They were getting this lesson in real estate sales from the President of Haber and Weston, a man of obvious self-importance. His office was filled with plaques, framed certificates and photographs that attested to his energetic pursuit of ego-fulfilling honors and sales-motivational ploys.
&nbs
p; Real estate sales was Washington's second-oldest profession and the number-one topic of conversation wherever Washingtonians gathered from Georgetown to Capitol Hill. Fiona was not immune to the subject. She was, after all, a property owner herself and the astounding rise in Washington real estate values did not leave her unaffected.
Fiona had inherited the house in the Forest Hills section, which her father had bought in 1953 for $32,000. When last she checked, it was worth $750,000 and rising, and not a week went by without some real estate person soliciting her interest in a sale. Although she was inherently practical, her sentimental attachment to the house remained stronger than the potential monetary gain.
Cates, who rented his apartment, listened with a student's interest.
"You'd think the house would be less attractive," he said with some surprise.
"Houses are a reflection of our need for identity. They represent our deepest yearnings. The people who expressed their desire to buy were bringing a yearning for celebrity into their lives." Haber unraveled his spiel, honed down by obvious repetition, to appear as if it were coming from Mount Sinai.
"You said ghouls," Fiona reminded him.
He leaned over his desk and lowered his voice.
"Ghouls buy houses, too, Officer FitzGerald. We have only one interest in life here." He raised his arm in a gesture to encompass the universe. "Move 'em out. Stroke 'em. Feed the fantasy. Bring 'em to settlement and take our commission. Name of the game."
It struck Fiona that he was "relating," playing the cynic. Somewhere out there in TV land he had been shown cynical cops.
"How many people," Cates asked, "would have some knowledge that this house was empty?"
"For one thing, everyone in our offices." He moved his hand across his chin, exhibiting a huge star sapphire on his right pinky.
"How many people?"
"Counting part-timers, nearly eight hundred."
Cates cut a glance at Fiona. He had not expected the answer. Seeing this, Haber pressed forward with obvious enjoyment.
"We have twenty offices, all hooked in by computers. Then, of course, there are the people that drive by and see our sign. Be surprised how many people buy that way. We also do a big trade promotion. Hold an open house for agents from different companies. We give them a walk-through. Then, of course, there's Multiple Listing, a computer network plugged into most of the real estate people in the area."
"Brings the access to how many people?" Fiona asked, mostly for Cates' benefit.
"Thousands. Multiple Listing is a data base showing the bulk of the inventory in this area. Every sales agent worth his or her salt knows what's on it. They match a prospect with a house, then make a connection with the listing broker to see the property. It's a salami business." He chuckled at his comparison.
"Salami?" Cates asked.
"Everybody gets their cut. The person that gets the listing splits with the broker and they in turn split with the agent that makes the deal, whether it's from our company or not. Everybody's happy."
"Any other way people learn about the house?"
"Advertising," Haber said. "After a while it's no secret."
"Was the house in Cleveland Park advertised?"
He opened a file on his desk and studied it.
"Not for a while."
"How long ago?" Fiona asked.
"Three months ago. Price was too high. We brought it down some. Then pow. The Kessel murder. Front-page advertising in the Washington Post. None of the customers brought to contract quibbled over price. Actually we could have gotten more. That's the way it goes in this business."
"And the people who lived in the house?"
"They moved out two weeks ago. An elderly couple. Lived there for twenty-five years."
"Do you make a list of everyone who visited the property?" Fiona asked. An idea, still in embryo, was trying to bubble to the surface of her consciousness.
"It's a cockamamie system. We try to save the salesman's cards, but more often than not, we blow it. The point is, if they do make a deal, they have to come through us anyhow."
A presumption was growing in her mind. The perpetrator had to be somewhat familiar with the property. He would need to pick a site that might remain untouched for years. The chances were it would not be a compulsive decision. Something well planned, requiring a passing knowledge of the property. A friend of the family, perhaps? A relative? A neighbor? A friend of a neighbor? A relative of a neighbor? All possibilities. More than likely, Fiona decided, someone who had already made a decision to kill, someone who wanted a sure-fire body-disposal system, someone who could research the site without fear of discovery and someone who knew the site would be empty when it was needed.
"Would Multiple Listing indicate that the house was empty?" Fiona asked.
"Not necessarily. But there would be lots of ways to find out. In the first place, there aren't many houses in Cleveland Park that come up for sale. In the second place, this is a network business. People find out. A house is harder to sell when it's empty."
With all their psychological meanderings into the motives of the Senator, Bunkie, Kessel and Nell, they had missed an essential ingredient. They had not connected the four in any way with the house in Cleveland Park or its occupants. As for the case of Betty Taylor, two of the suspects were not even in the picture at that time. Thinking about Betty Taylor suggested an idea.
"I know there are records of property transfers," Fiona said. "But is it possible for your records to tell me when a house was actually being offered for sale?"
"I think I just explained that," Haber said, somewhat confused.
"I mean fourteen years ago," Fiona explained.
Haber thought for a moment, then nodded his head.
"Take some doing, but I think we might find it."
She found the Woodland Avenue address in her notebook, then transferred it along with the probable dates to another piece of paper and gave it to Haber.
"Anything to help the defenders of the civic peace," he said, showing the full set of his perfect white false teeth.
"Now tell us about the elderly couple that lived in the Cleveland Park house," Cates said. He looked toward Fiona. It was certainly a reasonable tack to take.
Haber consulted his file.
"A recent retiree from the Justice Department," he said, looking at them over half-reading glasses.
"What did he do there?" Cates asked.
"He was with the Congressional Liaison Office," Haber said, consulting the file again.
"A lobbyist!" Fiona exclaimed.
"More than that," Cates shot back, turning to Fiona. "What committee would concern him?" She saw Haber searching their faces, obviously confused, trying to pick up their shorthand.
"Judiciary," Fiona said.
"Bingo!" Cates exclaimed.
"No prizes until all the numbers are confirmed," Fiona said.
They thanked Haber, who offered his hand in a "sincere" salesman's shake, and left the office.
22
"MORE HOLES in this case than Swiss cheese," the eggplant said, biting into a sticky jelly doughnut. A drop of jelly squirted on his tie. "Shit." He fussed with a napkin and made it worse.
Fiona had come to the same conclusion after a sleepless night. They were sitting in the eggplant's office. Apparently the windows had been cleaned. With the removal of layers of dust the spring sun bathed them in light. Despite the light, no one made a move to lower the blinds. It felt good to have clean, warm sunlight in the otherwise drab office. It filled the room with an air of optimism that had long been absent. Even the eggplant seemed infected by the mood created by the changed light.
"At least we're off the front page," the eggplant said, stabbing an ebony finger into the Washington Post spread out on his desk. A bland one-column headline in an inside page read: PURSUE KESSEL UPDATE. The story was a rehash. Thankfully, the reporter was not an eager beaver and he was still flacking the robbery theory. He had not written that "an arrest i
s imminent."
Both Cates and Fiona had been meticulous in their reporting to the eggplant, who sensed that he was getting the full picture, which, indeed, he was. For his part, the eggplant had reported that nothing had turned up about the jewelry.
"Coincidence or connection," the eggplant had mused when they reported what they had learned about the occupation of the owner of the Cleveland Park house.
The former occupants were on safari in Kenya, Cates had discovered, and currently out of touch. But the euphoria of the revelation had dissipated. At best, the circumstantial thread had little currency without witnesses, and, so far, a canvass of the neighborhood had yielded little and no one had stepped forward to offer any further information. Nor could Cates' informant at the Committee provide any connecting links.
In an effort to accelerate action on the case, they had gone the psychological route with Bunkie and Nell. Spin a web of circumstances that threatened suspects into believing either they were trapped or triggering deep guilt responses, forcing them into confession. So far it hadn't worked.
What was even more troubling to Fiona was that neither Bunkie nor Nell had given her any intuitive sense of their guilt. Not that such feelings were a foolproof barometer. She had often overreacted to these inner signals, only to find that they had guided her in the wrong direction.
"We've got to talk to the man," the eggplant sighed. "I was hoping for more, before we got to him." He shrugged and licked the jelly and sugar off his fingers. "Something really concrete to open him up."
"And then?" Fiona asked. It was the kind of innocent question that often riled others. It had been inadvertent and she moved to quickly correct the situation. She had no desire to change the mood in the room. "What I mean is ... suppose he does open up. Maybe after all this he knows no more than we do."
The eggplant pondered the idea, stood up and moved toward the window, transforming himself into a silhouette.
"Still," the eggplant mused, "we have the power to blow him to hell and back."
"Or save him," Fiona argued, forcing the issue back into the area of self-aggrandizement. To catch a killer, she could be single-minded and ruthless. But something about the Senator left her with a soft center. No politician is ever truly innocent, she knew. And a womanizer like Sam Langford was not deserving of compassion. And yet ... ?