Senator Love

by Warren Adler

  "We're missing something," Cates interjected. He was, after all, the only really neutral force in the group. "I wish I knew what it was."

  For some reason, Fiona's mind had jumped to focus on Helga Kessel. Had she really, as Bunkie and Kessel had alleged, "gone quietly"? And if not, how strong was her capacity to disrupt the Senator's career? In effect, she would be destroying two careers. Her husband's as well as the Senator's. Would that be the rational act of a sophisticated woman of the world? Fiona thought not.

  Her mind fastened on the Betty Taylor connection. Nell was absolutely correct. That was before her time. Also Ambassador Kessel's, which considerably diluted the possibility of their committing what on the surface seemed like a serial crime.

  But the young Betty Taylor, in the throes of a passionate love affair with an older man, offered a troubling prospect, especially for Bunkie and/or the Senator. She might have been quite capable of making waves, tempting fate. Ambition, especially in Washington, had a force beyond measure. To stand in its way was like deliberately planting oneself in the middle of a track in the face of an oncoming train.

  And the power of love, since time immemorial, was capable of making people, both men and women, commit all sorts of acts contrary to their own self-interest. History and literature were filled with examples of such destructive behavior.

  "I keep thinking cover-up," Fiona said.

  "Has all the earmarks," the eggplant said.

  "They could all be in it together," Cates said. "Including the Senator and his wife."

  "Which still leaves how Betty Taylor fits," Fiona said.

  "Or doesn't," Cates said.

  "She fits," Fiona insisted. "I know she does." Intuition again, she cautioned herself. In the game of random selection she played with herself she allowed one intuitive thought to outweigh another.

  "Have to go with that," the eggplant said.

  At that point the phone rang. The eggplant picked it up.

  "For you," he said, handing the phone to Fiona. It was Haber.

  "Found what you wanted, Officer FitzGerald," Haber said as if he were pitching a prospect.

  "Great," Fiona acknowledged. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "The real estate man," she said. The eggplant nodded.

  "House was empty for six months fourteen years ago. Couldn't move the damned thing for $300,000. Goes for one million one now. Imagine that. Only fourteen years."

  "Who was the listing broker?"

  "Another company. Heller and Smith."

  "Was it on Multiple Listing?"

  "Sure was."

  "Thanks, Mr. Haber."

  "Ever ready to oblige," he said. But he did not hang up. "Say, Officer. I understand you have a prime piece of property in Forest Hills. I think I can get you close to eight if you want to move."

  "How the hell did you know that?" Fiona snapped.

  "Ve haf our methods." He chuckled. "You look for killers. I look for real estate. You got a real hot and easy one, Officer. At least eight. Maybe more."

  "Thanks and no thanks," Fiona said, hanging up. She shook her head and looked at the phone. "Says he can get me $800,000 for my house."

  "Was me, I'd take the money and run," the eggplant said. She was instantly sorry she had mentioned that. The class issue was always a silent irritant in her police relationships, more so than the matter of race. It fed her own paranoia as well, since she truly believed that many of her colleagues secretly believed that her serving in the police was a form of slumming, and, therefore, her reaction to them was always patronizing. No matter how much respect she had won, how many psychic medals were strung across her chest, how many cases she had broken, there always lingered the fear in herself that she was still an alien, still arrogantly superior, still the hated lily-white cunt.

  "Run to where?" Fiona replied, pausing. The idea that had been bubbling in her subconscious suddenly broke to the surface. "He did sell me one thing, though."

  "What's that?" the eggplant asked.

  "Ten to one our murderer is a real estate salesman," she said, bells of intuition clanging in her head.

  23

  IT WAS Sam Langford's choice, a Vietnamese cocktail lounge and restaurant in a strip shopping center a few miles south of Roslyn on that stretch of Lee Highway now known as Little Vietnam. A reincarnated Robert E. Lee, for whom the road was named, would have rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Even in the darkened interior of the lounge there wasn't a single anglo or black face.

  "This your idea of low-profile, Senator?" the eggplant asked. Langford had gone to elaborate lengths to keep their meeting secret. He had returned Fiona's call from a pay phone, providing cloak and dagger instructions. He would meet them at a Giant Supermarket parking lot off Lee Highway.

  The car, they noticed, had no Senatorial license plates.

  "Man's a paranoid," the eggplant had remarked.

  "You'd be too, running for President."

  "With his zipper open?"

  The Senator was aghast when he saw the black face in the driver's seat. She had switched to the back seat to put the Senator next to the eggplant.

  "My boss," Fiona had told him. "Captain Greene, Homicide Division, Senator Sam Langford."

  "Call you Captain?"

  "Your choice." The eggplant shrugged.

  "I'm Sam," the Senator said, offering his most ingratiating political smile and shaking the eggplant's hand as he got in beside him. "I know it's a spy novel," he grunted. "It's also a nightmare."

  Except for giving directions, he grew silent, while Fiona made comments about the changes in the area.

  "Crazy wars," she said. "They came over without a dime. Now they're buying real estate." Odd, she thought, how her mind focused on real estate.

  "Wasn't on a slave ship, though," the eggplant grunted. She dropped the subject.

  They sat in a darkened corner of the restaurant, far from the nearest customer. The dinner hour was over but a few stragglers were lingering over tea. The eggplant ordered a beer and Sam and Fiona ordered Diet Cokes.

  "Hungry?" the eggplant asked.

  "No. But I recommend we order Bo Xao."

  "For appearances?" Fiona asked. The Senator turned to look at her, his face tight, his mouth set firmly. He was definitely not happy. Yet, in the half-light, his sad, handsome face looked mysterious and vulnerable. Even in these circumstances, he sent out vibrations. In fact, the vulnerability and sense of fear it implied made him even more desirable. Ashamed, she pushed the idea from her thoughts. Not too successfully, however. Do your job, Fiona, she berated herself.

  "I did not appreciate your visit to my wife," Sam said to Fiona.

  "She didn't either, Senator," Fiona replied.

  "It upset her," he muttered.

  "She gave as much as she got," Fiona acknowledged.

  "Public life is getting to be a pain in the ass," Sam sighed. "Makes you wonder if it's worth all the trouble."

  "Lots are standing in line to get in," the eggplant said.

  "Too much of a strain, I'll tell you. Problem is none of us are perfect people. We're all flawed. Has been that way from the beginning. Public servants should be judged on the way they handle their jobs, not on extraneous matters."

  "They say a man's personal life is a reflection of his character," the eggplant lectured, shooting her a glance.

  He shook his head.

  "Well, you all know my problem."

  "And we're trying to keep it out of the public arena," Fiona said.

  "Fat chance," the Senator said. The waitress brought them their drinks.

  "The Bo Xao will be coming shortly," the woman, a delicate Vietnamese, said, gliding away from their table. There was a certain indifference in her expression that explained why the Senator had chosen this place and this area. Like all recently arrived minorities, the Vietnamese conspired to silence. She knew he had been here before, probably with one or another of his girls. It occurred to her suddenly that this was undoubtedly a place and an area also ke
pt secret from the ubiquitous Bunkie. A second hidden private life, she snickered to herself.

  "You do remember Betty Taylor?" Fiona asked.

  "Of course I do."

  "You know what happened to her?"

  "Bunkie told me." He expelled air, his lips puffing. "It's beyond belief."

  "We would never have found her, Senator, if it wasn't for that little slave bracelet you gave her. It was still wrapped around the bone of her ankle."

  "That poor kid," the Senator said.

  "'My Bet' was engraved into the gold."

  "My Bet," he whispered. "How awful. She loved that little gift." His voice broke and his throat worked to swallow deeply.

  "Did she, like Helga, go quietly?" the eggplant asked with a touch more sarcasm than was needed. Sam's gaze washed over both of them.

  "I know you must feel that I've been a real shit about this. Sending a surrogate to do my dirty work."

  "It had crossed our minds," Fiona said.

  "I'm not too proud of it myself," he muttered. "I have a tendency to want to avoid confrontations—"

  "With ex-mistresses," Fiona interjected.

  "It's morally repulsive but politically expedient." He reached for his glass, raised it and sipped. Then he said, "The fact is that they did go quietly."

  "That's a helluva criterion," the eggplant said.

  "I know," Sam replied. "Looks awful. But you see, that's the way this game is handled. Everyone knows the rules."

  "Not necessarily the young ones," Fiona countered.

  "They learn fast," he snapped. His gaze drifted inward. "It's a trade-off, really. I've discovered a real urge out there for young ladies to be star-fuckers. I'm giving it to you straight. Doesn't speak well for me, but if the truth were known it's one of the perks of public celebrity. A regular pas de deux. As they say, it enhances the flavor, especially for the girls." He shook his head. "Not exactly a character reference. It's opportunistic and contemptible. But I've always treated the ladies with the utmost respect. Never like dirt." He became reflective. They waited through his silence. "Okay, it's repugnant by most standards. You'll find far more integrity in my political life. But as to killing—my God. Besides—this may strain your credulity—I adored those girls." He looked pointedly at Fiona, who turned her eyes away first.

  "I assume you've been informed about what happened to three of them," the eggplant said. "Three that got the word from Farrington."

  "Yes," the Senator acknowledged, lowering his eyes.

  "It's beyond my understanding," Sam whispered. "Shakes me up." He looked into his drink. "If you want to know, it makes me feel like shit."

  "And them," the eggplant said. "Think about how they might feel—if they could."

  "None of them ever tried to contact you ... after?" Fiona asked.

  "You mean before," the eggplant corrected, meaning before they died.

  "There was a time gap," Fiona explained pleasantly, not wishing to show the Senator any cracks in their solid front.

  "The answer to that is no. Not Betty. Not Harriet. Not Helga. I'm sure they did not think very kindly of me. I wouldn't if I were them."

  "Two of them were definitely murdered, Senator," the eggplant snapped. "Were there others we don't know about?"

  It was one of those outbursts designed to inflame the person being asked. But the Senator remained calm.

  "Others?" Sam asked, frowning.

  "Judy Peters, for example," Fiona said.

  "Judy? Is she also...?"

  "No," Fiona said. "She is, apparently, the one that got away."

  "Gave me the heave-ho, that one," Sam said, smiling wryly.

  "Yes," Fiona said. "We've talked to her."

  "I guess you might call her lucky," the eggplant said.

  "Am I the kiss of death?" Sam wondered aloud. He paused and shook his head. "All right, I made love to them. I cared for them. As for killing them?" He shook his head.

  "Bunkie then?" the eggplant asked. The waitress glided quietly to their table and put down a large plate of Bo Xao.

  "Thank you," the Senator said. "It's really quite good."

  "Bunkie?" the eggplant repeated.

  "Not Bunkie," the Senator said, biting his lip. "Hard to accept. He is loyal to a fault. Ambitious as hell. Sometimes he thinks he's the tail that wags the tiger. A killer? In a figurative sense, yes. If it could hurt me, watch out. But in a literal sense, a murderer...?" His voice trailed off. Despite his denial, he seemed tentative, unsure.

  "But he did demonstrate that he was capable of a kind of cruelty," Fiona prodded. "He was willing, perhaps eager, to take on chores that hurt others."

  "A far cry from murder," the Senator repeated, but his defense seemed less certain. After a long pause, he looked up at them. "Are you seriously considering such a possibility?"

  "Yes, we are," the eggplant said.

  "And me as well?" the Senator asked. "The man behind the man."

  "In our business, anything is possible," Fiona said, cutting a quick glance at the eggplant.

  "I'll say this," the Senator said. "In our tight little circle poor Bunkie gets no defense. Except from me. He does come over as an arrogant bastard. He plays the hatchet man, the bad guy. He does the shit detail. But he's a trusted lieutenant and confidant. You know how valuable that is to a politician." He shook his head. "Bet Nell gave you an earful on that."

  "She led me to believe that he was not one of her favorites," Fiona said, picking at the Bo Xao. It was too spicy and she took a deep gulp of her coke.

  "Only natural. She hates him. Both my wives hated him. Fact is, being a politician's wife is a bad rap from the go."

  "Your first wife, Senator..." Fiona began. For some reason, she had hardly focused on that. She suddenly remembered that she had seen her at the Mount Vernon dance. Seemed ages ago. A tall blonde, regal-looking woman, bigger than life, amply endowed. They had politely exchanged smiles across the dance floor. Fiona had noted that she had stolen glances at him all evening. "...Did she know about your..."

  "Peccadillos," the Senator said. He offered a small laugh between clenched teeth. "Afraid so."

  "Only natural, you said," the eggplant said. "They wouldn't have been too happy with Bunkie. Not the pimp part."

  "He was never that," the Senator snapped in a sudden burst of anger. No way, Fiona thought. Of all things, this man could find his own ladies to park their shoes under his bed.

  "They were jealous of the relationship," Fiona said, as if it were an explanation for the eggplant.

  "Couldn't be helped," Sam muttered. Obviously this was a sore spot.

  "How come you broke up with Frances?"

  "We were college sweethearts. Florida State. She was the campus queen. I was the BMOC. Remember that expression? A good soldier she was, and I was a good boy—until we got to Washington."

  "And then?" the eggplant pressed.

  He looked into his drink and smiled.

  "Opportunity presented itself," he muttered.

  "She caught you?" the eggplant asked.

  He looked up at them.

  "You're really digging," he said, shrugging. "Anyway, it's history. We've been divorced for eons."

  "What was the trigger?" Fiona asked, working to keep her excitement under control.

  "The trigger?" the Senator asked, frowning.

  "Did any one thing set her off?" Fiona pressed.

  He took his time mulling it over.

  "It's been a long time," the Senator sighed.

  "It's important," Fiona said, cutting a glance at the eggplant, who leaned closer toward the Senator from across the table. She sensed a crackle of excitement. Even the Senator, eyes shifting from one face to the other, seemed to pick up the electricity.

  "Frances?" he asked.

  "Just tell me," Fiona said.

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. Then his eyes grew vague, as if he were plumbing his memory.

  "She suspected I was playing around. She was right, of course. Maybe she sm
elled it. I tried to be discreet. She actually began to follow me. Saw me with women in my car. Naturally she wasn't happy about it."

  "She had fits of jealousy and rage?" the eggplant asked.

  "I don't know about rage. She wasn't one for demonstrations. She was a pouter. Wouldn't talk to me for days. Just looked at me with those liquid brown eyes of hers, full of contempt. Our marriage was falling apart by then. Finally she did catch me."

  "In flagrante delicto?" Fiona asked with a touch of sarcasm.

  "Afraid so," he sighed.

  "Who was the woman?" Fiona asked.

  "Betty Taylor."

  He frowned, suddenly appalled by the connection.

  "Of all people," the eggplant said.

  "She was following me. She found out that Betty was living in this apartment on the Hill. Just walked in on us. Found us in the sack."

  "She make a scene?" Fiona asked.

  "Hell no. Not Frances. She just stood there for a moment while we scrambled for cover. I must tell you, it's a very tacky situation to be in." He paused and shook his head, obviously pained by the memory.

  "And then?" the eggplant asked.

  "Downhill all the way. Aside from her own indignation, she did bring up the career aspects. Hell, the Senatorial campaign was only a few weeks away."

  "So you called in Bunkie," Fiona said.

  "You make it sound like a crime."

  "In a way it is," Fiona snapped.

  "But not THE crime," the Senator rejoined. "Not murder. Cowardly. Objectionable. Repugnant. But not murder."

  "And Frances' reaction to all this?" Fiona asked.

  "A good sport, actually. We both knew it was over. I told her the fire was out and I assumed the feeling was mutual. We played at marriage through the campaign, then, when it was over, we quietly split. No scenes. No wild confrontations. We split what we owned and parted amicably."

  "It just ended?" Fiona asked, snapping her fingers. "Like that?"

  "More or less. I see her around. She's quite cordial. We had no children. Nobody really got hurt."