Senator Love

by Warren Adler

  In a quick twist, she reversed the woman's body. Frances was strong. No question about that. But not as skilled in defense. In a few seconds, despite the awkwardness of her position, Fiona had both her arms twisted behind her and was tying her wrists firmly behind her with the scarf.

  In a futile effort to get free, Frances had used her head as a weapon. Fiona had avoided it, and after the knot was tied, she pulled the woman's head back until it literally hung over the front seat and the woman was grunting in pain. Then she quickly rolled over to the rear seat, unholstered her pistol, and still holding a handful of hair put the muzzle of the gun against the woman's forehead.

  "Give me the pleasure, lady," Fiona said breathlessly. Frances had continued to struggle, but the warning froze her. In the light, she saw the woman's frightened eyes. "Funny how even the worst of them hate to die," Fiona snapped.

  She pushed the woman facedown on the rear seat, removed a pair of cuffs from her shoulder bag, closed them on her wrists, undid the scarf, then looped it around the cuffs and, forcing the woman to bend her knees, tied the scarf to her ankles.

  Then she pushed the woman on her side, jumped over to the front seat and started the car. Her body was still charged as she backed the car out of its space and headed out of the lot.

  "Just you and me, babe," she muttered, angling the rearview mirror to see the woman immobilized on the back seat. To see behind her, she glanced at the sideview mirror. No sign of Cates. He was off following Bunkie. Good. This one was for her. And Sam.

  "Real smart-ass," Fiona said, looking at the woman.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "Mine to know. Yours to find out."

  She headed the car north along Route One toward the District of Columbia. Again she checked the sideview mirror. No sign of Cates.

  "Had you going," Frances said after a long and deliberate silence on Fiona's part. The woman needed to simmer. Fiona's own plan was still vague. Above all, she needed the woman to talk up a storm.

  "You have the right to remain silent—" Fiona began.

  "We're getting formal, are we?" Frances sneered.

  Fiona completed the spiel, getting it on tape just in case, knowing that the legal niceties would inevitably be gummed up by the lawyers. Okay, baby, Fiona silently urged the woman. Talk to my tits.

  "You people and your little games," Frances said. "Fools, the pack of you."

  Fiona let silence do its work. She said nothing for a long time, a psychological ploy, feeding on the woman's natural anxiety. Finally, she said, "Blaming all this on poor, sad Bunkie." Fiona shook her head in mock ridicule.

  "Not over yet," Frances said. Incredulously, Fiona thought she saw the woman smile.

  "For you it is," Fiona said.

  No mistaking it now. The woman was smiling.

  "Back to square one, lady. No real evidence." Frances giggled. "And old hot-cock's career goes down the tube."

  "Beware a woman scorned," Fiona said.

  "Scorned? Me? You've got it wrong, lady."

  "Have I?"

  "I was the only one he loved. The first and only."

  "That's a laugh."

  "They didn't have any rights to him. They were usurpers. Who were they supposed to answer to?" She laughed. "They deserved it." Off and running, Fiona thought, relieved.

  "Why not Nell?"

  "I would never interfere with the sanctity of the marriage bond." When she said this, there was not the slightest hint of sarcasm in her tone.

  It was convoluted, of course. But the woman was obviously mad, answering only to her own skewered logic.

  "If you didn't miss the ankle bracelet we might never have identified Betty Taylor."

  "Nobody's perfect," Frances said. "Little black cunt. She was easy."

  "Easy?"

  "Got her just like I nearly got you. In back of the apartment house, where she parked her car. Got rid of everything she owned in the city dump. Fourteen years and you hadn't a clue."

  "You strangled her?"

  "She was gone in no time at all. No time at all."

  "Swimming pool and the rain fucked you up," Fiona said. She pressed her breast, felt the tiny recording purring.

  "The fact was they came too close to the property line when they built that pool. They were illegal. I measured it."

  "There you go. Nobody's perfect."

  The road grew more congested as they headed north. She cut into the spaghetti curves at the edge of Arlington and headed past the Pentagon toward Memorial Bridge. Spring buds had just exploded into leaf along the parkland beside the highway and the Potomac was slate grey without its normal muddy brown caste.

  "Tell me about Harriet," Fiona asked.

  "That pig," Frances muttered. "I didn't even want to dirty my hands. I counted her as an infatuation. I used to think about them together, her stinking of horseshit. I just chased her into a tree. Pure panic. I enjoyed the harassment. Never laid a hand on her."

  "But you missed Judy Peters," Fiona goaded.

  "I was going to follow her to Europe, the little bitch. But I had a big deal going. I canceled out. Then when she came back, I burned out on her."

  "Had to feel the white heat of it?"

  "Something like that."

  Then Frances grew silent.

  "Where are you taking me?" she said after a while.

  Fear of death, Fiona thought. She had seen it when she had put the pistol muzzle against her temple. She saw it now. No question. The woman was a psychopath. And yet she feared death. Was that a contradiction? At that point another idea had popped into her mind. Resisting arrest. Bang bang. She tried to will it away.

  "Why, after all that time, did you do Helga?"

  "Kraut pussy. I thought it was over for old hot-cock. I really did. Then when I saw him and her together I knew it hadn't. She was a greedy little pig. I knew she was in the market to buy. Got it right off the computer. I caught her in the ladies' room they had set up in Mount Vernon and told her I had this piece of property to show her, a real deal, a steal. She liked that. Picked her up a block from the Embassy. Dug the hole the night before."

  "In the rain."

  "Yeah, the rain, the damned rain. Was good for digging, though. Nice and soft."

  Frances began to laugh, a kind of cackle, hardly normal.

  "What are you laughing at?"

  "She put the idea in my head about pinning it all on Bunkie."

  "How?"

  "That day when I picked her up—to show her up—on the pretext of showing her some property, we had a real talk, us girls. She told me about her affair with Sam. After all, we did have him in common. All of us. You and me, too."

  The remark curdled Fiona's stomach. All of us, she repeated to herself. How could he have loved all of us?

  "What about the idea?"

  "She told me about how Bunkie had told her it had to end. She was upset about it. But she understood. The thing that upset her the most was being told to do it by Bunkie. It was really just a coincidence."

  "What was?"

  "Him and me onto the same thing. And just about at the same time." She giggled. "Only I made sure it was permanent."

  "Killing them?" Fiona said, mostly for the benefit of the machine purring next to her right breast.

  "You got it. And they deserved what they got."

  "Then you decided my time had come."

  "At first I thought, 'She's just a cop, good for a quirky quickie.' You know, doing-it-while-you-wear-your-gun kind of thing."

  Fiona's hand went up to her breast. Shut that damned recording off, she told herself, but she made no move to stop it.

  "You've got a dirty mind," Fiona said. Again, it was mostly for the recorder's benefit. Who could possibly understand?

  "Do I?"

  "You spotted my partner—you knew it was all a scam to flush you out. Motivate you to do what we believed you did to the others."

  The woman paused, then giggled again. "Big surprise, huh?"

  What di
d that mean? Fiona wondered, feeling strangely uncomfortable. Had she enough on tape? Enough to satisfy them? Was it time to turn it off? More important, was it enough for her?

  She turned onto Memorial Bridge, saw the bronze horses' rear ends glistening in the sun. To reach headquarters she would have followed the curving road to Constitution then headed toward the Hill. Instead, she took another turn, which brought the car back under Memorial Bridge, leading toward Hains Point.

  From the rearview mirror, she saw Frances struggling to raise her chin to see out the window.

  "Where are we going?" she asked again.

  Fiona did not answer. Instead she parked the car in a deserted spot along the curb. Ahead she could see the fountain spraying water in the middle of the Potomac.

  "If you knew it was a trap, why did you walk into it?" Fiona asked. She turned to look at the woman, lying awkwardly on her side, her eyes feral and malevolent.

  "Because it had to be done," Frances said, as if it was the most elementary bit of knowledge. "You had no rights to Sam. I had to set things straight."

  "By killing me?"

  "Of course. You know that."

  It was getting too close to the bone, Fiona decided. Irrelevant to the confession. Still, she could not bring herself to stop the recorder. Then, suddenly, it was too late.

  "You think you could fool me?" Frances chortled with contempt. "You can't deny it, Miss Cop. You and he were getting it on and it was the real thing. That had to be stopped."

  "So here you are. Caught in the act," Fiona said with some bravado. Only then did she cut the recorder.

  "Your word against mine," Frances said. "Bunkie, on the other hand, is in deep shit."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Bring me in. I'm ready to tell my story."

  Fiona felt her anger mounting. This was a crazy woman. Why then was she taking so much time with her? She had the confession on tape. Surely it would be enough to put the woman away. A good lawyer could plea bargain her into an institution.

  "What story?"

  "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

  "You just told me the story."

  She was tempted to tell her about the recorder.

  "But not about Bunkie and the jewels," Frances teased.

  "What about them?"

  "Interested, aren't you?" She giggled again, reflecting an inner hysteria. "I'll make you a deal."

  "No deals."

  "I'll let you have Sam. Sam forever. Sam your true love. No more Bunkies to give you the old Dear-John."

  It was madness talking, spewing out the distorted logic of a twisted mind. And yet, there was something in it that was too compelling to resist.

  "And what do you get for your revelation?" Fiona asked.

  "I go off into the sunrise."

  Fiona paused, continuing to observe the woman. She still lay awkwardly on her side, her eyes wild, her lips twisted in ridicule.

  "I'm listening," Fiona said.

  The woman giggled again.

  "All right then. I know you'll do it."

  Fiona did not respond, her gaze drifting. Outside the car, the shadows were deepening. She looked out to the slate grey of the Potomac, which was now turning to black. The woman's voice brought her back.

  "Helga's jewels are planted in a flowerpot on Bunkie's front stoop."

  "Fascinating stuff," Fiona said, wondering if she really meant it.

  "That's not all," Frances said. "I sprinkled some of the dirt from Helga's grave on the floor of Bunkie's car. In those hard-to-find places, as they say on TV."

  "The criminal mind at work."

  "If we need more I have more."

  "More what?"

  "Evidence. Isn't that the way police convict people?"

  "You're really nuts," Fiona said, embarrassed by her own remark. Of course she was. Off the wall. Then why was she listening? Why wasn't she bringing her in?

  "Either you want Sam or you don't. Putting me away won't do it for you."

  Fiona paused, then shook her head, but it was the hesitation that gave her away. The light was dimming, although there was still enough of it for her to see the woman's eyes, intense and glowing orange as they caught the last gasp of the setting sun.

  "Stick your hand on my chest," Frances said.

  "Jesus. That, too."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Just put your hand in and pull out the locket."

  "You are too much," Fiona said. But her words belied her action. She moved fast, put her hand on the woman's blouse, ripped it open, found the locket and ripped it off her.

  "You didn't have to break it, for crying out loud. Besides, you hurt me."

  Fiona pried open the locket with her fingernails. Something soft was inside. It seemed like hair. Human hair.

  "The black is Betty's. Stands up pretty good, don't you think. The blonde is Helga's. Car was too mangled to get at Harriet."

  "A real collector." It was sick, gruesome.

  "Got to have something for my efforts," Frances said, giggling again. "I would only use the Helga hair, though."

  "I don't get it."

  She reminded Fiona of a flawed jigsaw puzzle in which pieces fitted perfectly into an illogical pattern. What was needed was for someone to recut the pieces to make a more understandable picture. The idea had jumped into her mind. What evil alchemy did Frances practice to summon up such bizarre behavior, such weird ideas?

  Then it came to her. She saw it with pristine sharpness. She could save Sam, save his career, save his aspirations. Was it possible? She shook away the thought, tried to exorcise the idea.

  "You are a filthy little demented bitch," Fiona said, turning in her seat, gunning the motor, starting the car. "It's a lie about the jewelry and you know it."

  "The proof is in the pudding," Frances said.

  She headed the car back toward Capitol Hill. It was almost completely dark. They would be concerned by now. The eggplant would be fuming, berating Cates. She resisted any temptation to contact them. What was churning in her mind now could not be shared.

  Bunkie's townhouse was just a stone's throw from the Ninth Street exit of the 605. She made the distance in less than ten minutes and pulled up in front of it. No lights were visible. It was obvious that Bunkie had not come home. Getting on her knees on the front seat, she bent over and lifted Frances' head so that she could see out of the window.

  "The one on the left. Just get a hold of a fistful of plant and pull. The jewelry is in a plastic bag."

  Fiona pushed the woman away roughly, got out of the car, its motor still running. She bent over the flowerpot and, as Frances had instructed her, gave the plant a quick pull. It came out in tightly packed earth the shape of the flowerpot. At the bottom of the pot lay a pile of jewels in a plastic bag. She put the jewels into her shoulder bag and replaced the plant.

  It was not the time to reflect. Events were simply moving ahead of her. She got into the car again.

  "You see them?" Frances asked. Because of her position in the back of the car she couldn't see out of the window.

  "Yes."

  "You see? I was telling the truth."

  "Now Helga's hair. We mustn't forget that. Where would you put the hairs?"

  "I'd have to get inside. Maybe put them on a pair of jeans. Something like that."

  "See how easy it would be? The jewels, the dirt, the hair. Pin it on the bastard. Put a bullet in his brain. Say he attacked you. Then you find the evidence. Pow. Then it's only a simple case of robbery. No trial. No bullshit."

  Fiona turned to look at the woman again. She was smiling.

  "Do I get a good mark on that, Miss Cop? Enough to get a ticket out of here?"

  "It has its charm," Fiona whispered.

  "And we'd save the day for the man we both love."

  The idea had an odd fascination. She should run it through her mind, just for kicks, she told herself.

  "We'd be framing the man," Fiona said hoarsely, goading Frances to believe in her
sincerity.

  "Who deserves it more?"

  Fiona gunned the motor and guided the car back to the 605. She headed the car west.

  "See the beauty of it?" Frances said from the rear seat.

  "It does have cachet," Fiona muttered.

  Indeed, the exercise did have its own twisted logic. Fiona was putting it in perspective now, understanding her own motives. It might be worth considering, she thought, even if it were only theory.

  "Where are we going?" Frances asked.

  "Georgetown."

  "You taking me home?"

  Fiona didn't answer. A matrix was forming in her mind and she was surrendering to the fascination.

  She had the jewels. She had Helga's hair. She could find the appropriate places to plant them in Frances' Georgetown house. They would be found later. After.

  Take it further, Fiona prodded herself, speculating that Frances was probably still concocting ways to eliminate her. Hadn't that been her object all along?

  The scenario spun itself out in her head. She might just give Frances the golden opportunity to achieve her objective. Fiona's mind raced with possibilities. Authenticity was, of course, essential. Frances' modus operandi was fixed in her mind, the use of the garrote, murder by strangulation. Naturally, Fiona would have to make the scarf available. It was right there beside her on the seat.

  She would be on her guard, ready to counterattack. There would have to be a struggle, then Fiona would fire her pistol in self-protection. One shot direct to the heart. Maybe two.

  There would be a hearing, of course. The jewels would be found. Helga's hairs would be found. Verdict: A homicide detective kills a suspect in self-defense. In the absence of a rebuttal, the suspect is circumstantially guilty. Loose ends would have to be tied. Maybe there would be a period of suspension. Maybe not. They would put the Betty Taylor case on ice.

  And Sam would be free to pursue his career without fear. He was finished with that kind of a life, wasn't he? And Fiona would be his secret mistress, his only love, and perhaps someday ... ?