by Warren Adler
They inspected the other rooms. Next to the bedroom was an alcove, also neat as a pin, with everything in its place. There was a computer and a printer on a desk and various plaques and prizes hung on the walls, including a Pulitzer Honorable Mention.
“Seems uncommonly neat for a journalist,” Fiona said.
“Not for this lady,” Evans said.
“How so?”
“She was obviously controlled, obsessively organized, tightly focused, compulsively tight-assed and secretive.”
You must know the turf, lady, Fiona thought.
“Did you know who she was?”
“I read the papers.”
At that moment, there was a sound at the door and the Eggplant strode in, looking surprisingly chipper, dressed to the nines in the dark tan suit he wore for television appearances. He sported a beautiful blue paisley tie on a light blue shirt and his shoes were mirror-shined.
“What have we got, ladies?” he asked, his eyes flitting from one face to another.
“Polly Dearborn,” Fiona said crisply. “Female, about forty, Caucasian, prominent journalist. Looks like death by hanging.”
“Self-imposed?”
Fiona exchanged glances with Evans, who had remained silent, deferring to Fiona, following the protocol of seniority.
“Maybe,” Fiona said hesitantly, quick to sense what a bonanza this case meant for him. It could serve as a decoy, force people’s attention away from the killing fields of the drug wars. The deceased, after all, was a prominent newspaperwoman who had thrown more people of prominence into the garbage heap than any journalist around. In that respect, she was the champ, the numero-uno nutcutter, a world-class investigative reporter. Her death, any which way, had the makings of a media feast.
The method of her demise was compellingly bizarre, the image vivid. The bitch goddess of Journalism hanging from the balcony of fucking Watergate, for chrissakes. Fucking Watergate, the physical place and the genre, symbols of corruption and cover-up, the biggest political story of the century, bar none.
This eclipsed mere drug-related gang wars. This was whitey’s turf. No wonder the Eggplant looked as if the weight of the ages had been lifted from his breast.
“No note?” he asked.
“None.”
“Any sign of foul play?” he asked hopefully, looking around the room. His gaze rested on the overturned potted trees visible on the terrace.
“She could have done that herself,” Fiona said. “To get over the wall.”
“Or they could have fallen when she was thrown over,” the Eggplant said. From his point of view, murder would give the story more legs.
“This is a lady with a lot of enemies,” Fiona said, deliberately feeding the Eggplant’s hope.
He began to pace the living room floor. By now the sun was poking above the horizon, throwing glints along the slate surface of the Potomac.
“Somebody might have bit back,” he said. He suddenly stopped pacing and looked around the room. “Lady lived the good life here. That’s real money on the walls and you can’t knock the view. Are you dead certain there’s no note?”
She looked toward Evans for some support to buttress the fact. She was used to Cates interjecting himself when the Eggplant interrogated them. There was a faintest hint of a smile on Evans’ lips, one of those secretive cryptic Madonna smiles. But the woman kept her silence.
“Unless one shows up somewhere,” Fiona replied. “She might have mailed a note to someone.”
He stroked his chin while she tracked his logic. Without a note, a judgement of suicide could be merely a subjective call. An investigation, on the other hand, would stir up the media, create a mystery good for a running story of many days’ or weeks’ duration. A note would preempt such a possibility. If they flushed out a true murder so much the better. If they solved it? Bingo.
“Barring such a note, I’d say we have our work cut out for us.” His exhilaration bordered on ecstasy. “Considering all the big shots she’s shot full of holes, I’d say we’d have a suspect list as long as an ape’s arm.”
“Lots of grist for the mill, Captain,” Fiona said. No point in being coy about it. More fun in it than doing naturals. Again, she looked at Evans, who had maintained her Madonna smile. Of one thing Fiona was certain. She felt no comraderie with this woman, no sense of sharing or partnership. She debated asking him at that moment for Cates, but held back. No sense raining on his parade.
“We’ll run a tight ship on this one, FitzGerald.” The statement was barked out as an order, setting the parameters. His eyes shifted to Evans, then back again to Fiona. “We three. No outside verbalizing.” He pronounced it “verbalahzing.” She took the hint.
“You’ll be apprized of every detail, Captain.” She pronounced it “apprahzed.”
If she was voting at this moment, she’d vote suicide. But that was too pat. She’d been through that before, only to be fooled. Clever killers could make things look like a suicide. Unless an autopsy revealed that the woman was dead before she went over. That would be another ball-game entirely.
The Eggplant started to pace the room again. She could tell he was still mulling it over, considering possibilities.
“You found no sign of a struggle?”
“Only that.” She moved her head in the direction of the overturned pots.
“Any theories come to mind?”
“Not yet,” Fiona said, turning once again to look at Charleen Evans. She seemed to be watching and listening to their exchange with detached bemusement.
“They hear she died, they’ll be dancing round the flagpole,” the Eggplant said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a panatela but he didn’t light up. “I’ve asked Doc Benton to do the autopsy himself. Considering the traffic, I’d say that was an accommodation.”
“He’s that kind of a man,” Fiona said. Dr. Benton, the Medical Examiner, was her friend, mentor and confidant. No one could learn more from a corpse than Dr. Benton.
“This is your turf, FitzGerald—I want you to really give this one a ride.” For the first time in the conversation he turned to Evans. “And a real opportunity for you too, Evans. Let’s show them what the girls can do.”
Shit, Fiona thought. Why go and spoil it? Here she was playing the game exactly as if he had scripted it himself and he goes back to the macho-pig business. She pulled a face to show her obvious displeasure. If he saw her reaction, he didn’t let on. Instead, he looked at his watch.
“I’m going to hold a press conference downtown in a couple of hours. Meantime I want everything you can get . . . without, I repeat, without spilling the beans on the lady’s identity. Not till we’ve had our say. I want those bastards to understand that they’re dealing here with a first-class police department. Capish?”
“You’d better put a lid on the doorman,” Fiona said. “He’s a real glory hound.”
“Him? We’ve got him on ice downtown. Taking his statement. Loves to talk.”
When he was purring, the Eggplant was, most of the time, a step ahead of her.
“And the old folks downstairs?”
“Likewise.”
In his sly way he had bounced it against her for confirmation that he was taking his best shot. She knew why he was waiting the two hours, but saw no harm in it. It would be at least two hours before the reporters and TV crews would be up and running. He was an old hand at media manipulation and public relations and he knew how to work it out for his benefit.
So fortune has smiled, Fiona thought. She could see his reasoning. Throw them a nice tasty bone to keep them all occupied in another direction. Made sense. She’d go along up to a point. Could she honestly search her intelligence and her gut and still find room for doubt about a suicide? Stay with maybe, she decided. Murder would be a lot sexier. No doubt about that.
With a look of satisfaction, the Eggplant lit his panatela, inhaled and puffed smoke out of his nostrils. He nodded and his mouth formed a broad sunny smile. She hadn’t se
en him do that for months. He started toward the door.
“I don’t think it was murder, Captain,” Charleen Evans said quickly, before he was out of earshot.
The Eggplant stopped, cocked his head, but did not turn.
“It’s a clear case of suicide, Captain,” Evans said. “Any objective analysis will tell you that hanging is the weapon of choice for a certain pattern of suicides. It is quite common. This is a textbook case. We check hard enough we’ll find the place where she bought the rope and where she stored it in this apartment. Hanging is the rarest form of modus operandi for a murder. There actually hasn’t been a murder by hanging in this city for nearly three decades.”
She paused for a moment and the Eggplant turned and glared at her.
“Also,” she continued, her chin jutting out, throwing Fiona a glance of clear contempt. “There probably is a note.”
“You found one?” Fiona asked, on the verge of a blowup. This was a real lethal lady, she thought. A hard case.
“No, but I think I can and I know where and how to look for one.”
Smug bitch, Fiona thought, exchanging glances with the Eggplant, whose complexion had turned to the grey tone displayed at the morning meeting.
“Do you now?” the Eggplant asked, offering his familiar grimace of intimidation.
“In the computer, Captain. If it’s anywhere it’s there.”
The veins reddened in his eyes. Fiona saw the great effort he was making to repress his anger, knowing that his perception of her as a castrating female was far more menacing than her own.
“Would you like to hear my theory?” Evans asked.
A nerve twitched in his jaw as he studied her.
“You got two hours, Mama,” he said.
With a man in his command, he would have exploded in rage. In this case, he turned quickly, bottling up his agitation as he stormed out of the apartment.
4
“YOU’VE GOT A problem, Evans,” Fiona said after the Eggplant had left. Any remote hope of allegiance on gender grounds had totally evaporated.
“So it seems,” Evans responded. “He would have been better served to hear me out.”
“It’s not that, lady. You’ve got a piece missing in your character.” It was, Fiona decided, a fully justified frontal assault.
“Do I?”
Evans was unfazed, her features a mask of indifference.
“It’s called insight,” Fiona pressed. “Plus a screw loose on timing.”
The woman’s eyes studied her, betraying nothing that was going on behind them.
“You want my theory or not?”
Fiona shrugged.
“How can I avoid it?”
Evans nodded, then crooked a finger, as if coaxing a recalcitrant child to follow. Assuming that her gesture was enough of a summons to Fiona, she moved into the bedroom. Capping her exasperation, Fiona followed, more curious than obedient.
Evans stood facing the computer on the desk in the bedroom alcove, her back to Fiona. Fiona looked at the computer screen perfectly centered on the desk. Behind it was a long shelf of programming handbooks. Beside the screen was a laser printer and on the shelf below a fax machine.
“You know computers, FitzGerald?” Evans asked without turning to face her. Fiona caught the insult in the condescending words, tone and position.
“Apparently you do.”
She bridled at her own childish response, feeling inadequate to the occasion, knowing that the woman was about to flaunt her superior knowledge. Fiona’s experience with computers was rudimentary, just enough to service the basics.
“Note the passion for neatness evident everywhere,” Evans continued, her voice flat, but with a teacher’s earnest surety. The woman was lecturing now. “This is the working space of a journalist, an important journalist. There is not a piece of paper visible. The books on the shelf behind the computer are all programming handbooks, most of them very sophisticated. My guess is that this woman was a computer expert.” Still not turning, she put a palm on the monitor. “It’s also obvious that the computer is her principal tool. Everything has to be in there. Notes, research, first drafts, everything. Which suggests that she was fully computer literate.”
Evans sat down at the desk, put the key in the computer and switched it on. Strings of amber words, numbers and symbols marched across the monitor screen. Evans seemed totally at home, her brown fingers flying swiftly over the keyboard keys while amber symbols raced across the screen. She said nothing, intent on her work.
“There,” Evans said. “She’s hooked into a large number of data banks.” She pointed to the screen, which rapidly scrolled lists as Evans repeatedly hit the space bar. “This is a menu of data banks. There are scores of them. Anything a journalist might want to know about anybody. Could even be some computer violations if we really looked.”
“Nobody is private any more,” Fiona muttered, irritated by her resort to sarcasm.
“There’s a gold mine here if you want to get something on someone.”
“That was her business. No question about that.”
Fiona waited as Evans worked her fingers over the keyboard, intensely watching the screen.
“Okay, I’m impressed, Evans. You’re a whiz. Now what about the suicide note?”
“If it’s here, I’ll find it.”
Her fingers raced over the keyboard.
“Talk about confidence. You left the impression with the Egg . . .” She stopped herself. The familiar nickname was too private and affectionate to be shared with this alien. Without insight, it was impossible for Evans to understand the kinship of respect and ridicule many of her squad mates had for the Chief. “. . . with the Captain that you were dead certain. You posed the idea almost as a conclusion, not a theory.” It was Fiona’s turn now, although she knew she was setting herself up for a crow’s feast if Evans was right, which seemed a distinct possibility.
“Just exercising logic, FitzGerald, which is the heart of this instrument.”
“I’ll stick with the human variety, the one influenced by emotion, subtlety and insight.”
“Of which you believe I have none.”
“If the shoe fits.”
Fiona heard a sound come from Evans, a cross between a chuckle and a harumph. She stood over her shoulder, watching the screen, which moved too fast for her understanding.
“Takes a while to dope out her system,” Evans said, as she swung her pocketbook off her shoulder and laid it beside the computer. She seemed to be settling in for a long, intense stay. “I’ll get it.”
“You’ve got two hours,” Fiona said.
“You needn’t stand there watching me,” Evans said, dismissing her. It was infuriating. Fiona stood there, rooted to the ground, angered and embarrassed, unable to concoct a response. At that moment she heard a faint muffled sound.
“What the hell is that?” Fiona asked.
“What?”
It seemed to be coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the computer. Evans stopped beating on the keys and listened. Then she opened a drawer.
“Answering machine,” she said. A telephone stood beside the computer, but it hadn’t rung. “She’s got it silenced.”
They watched the machine until the sound had stopped and a red numeral one began to flash. Evans reached into the drawer and pressed the button of the instrument, setting off the rewind mechanism. When that stopped she pressed another button. Again she seemed to be deliberately flaunting her electronic wizardry. But this time it triggered in Fiona a grudging respect. Fiona would have wasted time trying to figure out how the machine worked with predictably mixed results.
“Polly,” a high-pitched, young-sounding voice said. “Sheila here. Mr. Barker is still not happy with the last Downey segment. As I told you last night, I have a feeling that he is being pressured by Mrs. Grayson. He seems to be having second thoughts and wants to discuss it with you. I also have the impression that there are lawyers involved. I told him I’d get you t
o call immediately. He says it’s real urgent.” There was a short pause. “Seven-ten and I’m still home but will be heading to the office in a few minutes. I wouldn’t have bothered you so early if I didn’t think it was important.”
“Eager beaver,” Fiona said.
“No modem,” Evans said. “Interesting.”
“What’s a modem?”
“Put it in your computer you can send something over the telephone wires. She chose a printer and a fax instead. Tells you something.”
“What?” Fiona asked.
“That she guarded her computer. Wouldn’t even connect it to her office. That’s why she has two hard disks, one for backup and dupes. Afraid someone might copy things onto floppies. Harder to do otherwise. You need another computer to receive the dump.”
Fiona was confused, but wouldn’t dare admit it. Evans returned her attention to the computer.
“There,” Evans said, pointing to the screen. “This is her memo file. Apparently Sheila is her assistant. Woman’s name is Sheila Burns.”
Again Charleen Evans’ fingers raced over the keyboard. At that moment they heard a tingling sound from an open shelf below the computer. It was the fax machine. They waited for the paper to roll out. Evans tore it off and handed it to Fiona.
“A message from Harry Barker.” Fiona said. Harry Barker was the editor of the Post, a household name in Washington. “Jesus. He’s hot.” She read it aloud. “Tried calling you last night. No answer. Sheila says she can’t get hold of you this morning. Better stop ducking me, Polly. This last Downey piece still needs work. We don’t hear from you soon, I’ll get out the old blue pencil. This is not what we agreed. I’m pissed. Harry.”
“I’m afraid Polly has ducked Harry Barker permanently,” Fiona said. She remembered him as a reporter. Years ago he had been to the house to interview her father and she would meet him occasionally at Washington social events. Handsome leathery face, athletic body, tough-talking. He posed as a rough-cut diamond, but he didn’t fool anybody. Under it all he was Ivy League to the marrow.
These days, as editor of one of the most important papers in the country, he was a national powerhouse, a celebrity.