by Warren Adler
“Leave it here? In my apartment?” Charleen asked.
“There’s still an ongoing investigation,” Fiona said, turning to the Eggplant. “We declare it evidence. Bend procedures.”
“We nail things down first then use only what’s pertinent to the case?” the Eggplant said. “Is that it?”
“More or less,” Fiona agreed. They were all a party now to constructing a credible evasion.
“Then what?” Charleen asked.
“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” the Eggplant said.
Double-talk. They all knew it.
They exchanged glances and did not speak for a long time. Finally the Eggplant took his coat from the back of the chair.
“Let’s all go home and get some sleep.” He slipped into the jacket and straightened his tie. “And tomorrow let’s get us a killer.”
11
THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, Fiona turned over in her mind the events at Charleen Evans’ apartment.
A conspiracy had hatched between them, despite every effort to prevent it from happening. Moreover, she wasn’t sure who was manipulating whom.
She and Charleen Evans had less to lose than the Eggplant if the material fell into the wrong hands. The Mayor, while he was still in power, could orchestrate their harassment, but they had recourse to departmental review and since they were women they had the tacit support of women’s groups both within and without the department. But that kind of a fight left a sour taste. They would be branded as troublemakers, hassled in a hundred ways.
If the Mayor was forced to resign, which was more than likely, people in the department would remember what she and Charleen Evans had done. A black man gone wrong in his youth who had rehabilitated himself and achieved a measure of success was a favorite hero of black mythology. Fiona and Charleen would be looked upon as spoilers, whatever the political consequences. Another black male would take the Mayor’s place, but they would always remain spoilers, the not-to-be-trusted.
The Eggplant’s dilemma was more complex. Although she could not be certain, she suspected that the Eggplant had received some message, some assurance, that he was high in the running for appointment by the Mayor as the next Police Commissioner. Everyone knew that the present Commissioner was on the verge of making a graceful exit. The narcotics problem and the gang murders it was spawning were putting pressure on the Mayor to relieve the Police Commissioner. Clean house. Find a replacement.
To Captain Luther Greene that appointment would be like reaching Valhalla, the culmination of a lifetime’s ambition.
How far would he go to get it?
Fiona squirmed over the idea. Ambition was a powerful stimulant. The Eggplant understood Machiavellian manipulation. But was he willing to risk all by making a direct quid pro quo deal with the Mayor? Would he trade the Police Commissioner appointment for silence and the destruction of the material on Polly Dearborn’s computer?
But such a move would put him at the mercy of Charleen Evans and Fiona. He could, of course, pay them off by moving them into positions of importance under him as Police Commissioner. But he would lose his authority over them.
Knowing the kind of man he was underneath all the bluster and histrionics, Fiona decided that, for him, it would be too much of a price to pay, although she could not be certain. There was also the matter of her own willingness to go along with the scheme, which was actually out of the question. She could not speak for Charleen Evans.
On the other hand, to deliver the material to the department, no matter how it was sequestered, was no assurance of privacy. Leaks were endemic, in this case a dead certainty. That could finish off the Mayor. A new Mayor would put the Eggplant and his ambitions back to square one, forcing him to do a whole new ingratiation number, which may or may not be effective.
It was highly unlikely, too, that the Eggplant would consent to turn the material over to Harry Barker. That kind of ingratiation might not work. He couldn’t trust Harry Barker to keep the damaging material on the Mayor under wraps. And how would the public destruction of the Mayor help his chances to be Police Commissioner? Nada.
So what was she to do? Refuse to go along? Demand that the material be put back in Polly Dearborn’s computer and let the chips fall where they may? And suppose it did get into the hands of the feds? What then? Innocent people could be used and abused, pressured, even blackmailed. Less-than-innocent people could be harmed far out of proportion to their so-called indiscretions. Cynical politicians and bureaucrats could use it to settle personal scores, especially on those whose guilt was indisputable.
By dawn her ruminations were losing their logic. She hadn’t slept. The sheets were rumpled and she was uncomfortable. She wished she had a partner who was more forthcoming, more communicative and understanding. Like Cates. But she couldn’t discuss this with Cates and it was utterly impossible to bring him into the case at this point. The Eggplant would never stand for increasing the circle of knowledge.
It was times like this that Fiona derided her single state. She wished that she were in bed with a trusting man, a life’s companion, a friend, a lover, someone to share her thoughts and fears, to help with the hard decisions, to soothe her.
The emergence of self-pity, which she greatly feared, jolted her to action. She clambered out of bed and rushed into the shower, forcing herself to endure icy cold water. When the cold lost its shock value, she turned on the hot water until that ran its course. The process calmed her.
She was just getting out of the shower when she heard the chimes. It was still dark. Throwing on a terry-cloth robe and wrapping a towel around her wet hair, she rushed down the stairs, nearly slipping on the marble in the foyer. Charleen Evans was at the door.
“I’ve been ringing,” Charleen said, stepping into the foyer.
“I was in the shower.”
“I’ve got eyes.”
“Christ, Charleen, it’s too early in the morning for sassy bullshit.” She turned and walked toward the kitchen. The timer on the coffee maker was set for seven, an hour from now. She put it on manual and the water quickly began to bubble and heat.
Charleen leaned against the wall and watched her.
“It’s a bitch, I know,” Fiona said.
“I put them in my car last night, the printouts and the disk. I was going to dump them in the river. Take everybody off the hook. It’s what he really wants. I didn’t do it. Instead, I rode around most of the night.”
“You think that’s wise, Charleen? Leaving them in the trunk of your car?”
“I didn’t.”
She bent over and reached into the front of her blouse, pulled out the gold chain with the computer key. There were now two keys on the chain. Fiona recognized the type of key used in baggage storage compartments.
“You’ve seen too many movies, Charleen,” Fiona said.
“Union Station.”
“The feds could crack into that with no sweat,” Fiona said.
“First they’ve got to find it.”
“I’m sure you gave it a lot of thought,” Fiona said.
“I did. I considered the downside all night,” Charleen said. Fiona turned to observe her. Her dark face was grey with fatigue. “An hour ago I was ready to turn the stuff over to someone, the feds, Barker, the department, anything to get it out of our hair.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t trust any of them.”
“That’s the root of your trouble, Charleen,” Fiona said, despite agreeing with her. She was feeling irritable, needing her coffee.
“You got it right, FitzGerald.”
“I suppose it goes for me, too,” Fiona said. “And the Eggplant.”
Charleen shrugged. Her eyes roamed the kitchen, avoiding Fiona’s deliberately steady stare.
“I’ve got no choice on that.” Charleen said.
“I’ll buy that, Charleen,” Fiona said. “You’re stuck with us. Tight-ass Charleen Evans. Sorry about that. The fact is, Charleen, that sometimes
people actually do have to trust each other. Even support each other.”
“I’ve managed so far, thank you,” Charleen shot back.
“There are other people in this world besides Charleen Evans,” Fiona said, turning to the coffee machine. Impatient for the coffee, she removed the glass pot and let the coffee drip directly into her mug.
“Not as far as Charleen Evans is concerned.”
“Tough shit,” Fiona muttered. “Like it or not, we’ve all got shares in each other. You, me and the Eggplant.”
“I find that name offensive,” Charleen said.
“A racial put-down, right?”
“Among other things.”
“For a self-control freak, you are one mass of contradictions. Are you saying now that you trust him?”
“As you said, do I have a choice?”
“That means you have to trust me, too.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Fiona took a swallow of the coffee. She knew she was off on a tangent, less than rational.
“Ergo, I have to trust you as well,” Fiona muttered. A thought occurred to her suddenly. “Poor Charlene,” she said, “must hurt like hell to give up some of your sovereignty.”
“It’s not easy,” she sighed, showing the tiniest glimpse of vulnerability. The last drip of coffee gurgled through the machine. Fiona put a mug before Charleen and poured.
“Now that we got that out of the way, you might say we’re sisters,” Fiona said, deliberately sarcastic.
Charleen spoke words, but revealed very little of her inner feelings. Fiona had always detested that trait in others. It made it seem as if she were missing half the meaning.
“You think we should tell the Captain?” Charleen asked, as if even a tiny bridge of intimacy had been crossed and was now behind them. The first shot of caffeine seemed to chase Fiona’s irritation.
“He may not want to know.”
“He’s part of it,” Charleen said.
“He could always deny we told him.”
“So could you,” Charleen shot back. She patted her chest. “I’m the one holding the key.”
“Like handing power over your life to somebody else,” Fiona said, cutting directly to the heart of Charleen’s dilemma. It was also Fiona’s dilemma. An image of her father flashed in her mind, his decision to oppose the war when it was politically dangerous because it was the right thing to do, because his conscience demanded it.
For the first time since they were paired together, Fiona understood the commonality between Charleen and himself. It had nothing at all to do with gender. It had to do with values, conscience, doing the right thing. What Polly Dearborn had on her computer endangered people, some of whom may be innocent. Fiona likened it to circumstantial evidence, which sometimes was responsible for convicting innocent people in a courtroom.
This was a homicide detective’s nightmare, condemning the innocent. Polly Dearborn murdered people in different ways, by embellishing facts, grafting gossip and innuendo on events in their lives, by making early mistakes seem like irrevocable sins, an albatross for life. It was true that public officials were servants of the people, subject to a higher standard, but the question was who was to set these standards. Polly Dearborn? Harry Barker? Some holier-than-thou politician or power-mad bureaucrat?
Of course, there were guilty parties among the innocent. A patently illegal and immoral offence in the conduct of doing the public business was fair game for exposure. Unfortunately, Polly Dearborn gave them the wheat with the chaff. The bottom line on all this was that neither Fiona nor Charleen wanted to aid and abet that behavior, however it was rationalized as freedom of the press.
Human endeavors, Fiona knew, were governed by responsibility, and the whole system hung together by trust. Heady thoughts. But thinking them gave her a sense of participation on the basis, not of self-interest, but of knowing right from wrong.
There was only one conclusion to that reasoning.
“We’re both crazy to do this,” Fiona said. It was, she decided, better to avoid any mention of nobility of purpose. Charleen could never admit to that. Fiona wasn’t sure she could.
“Probably,” Charleen said.
12
“I WOULD HAVE killed her gladly,” Robert Downey said. He was sitting in his father’s study, on the very chair in which his father had sat when he killed himself.
Chester Downey had been buried just hours ago at Arlington Cemetery with all the pomp and ceremony accorded to a man of his high office. The President had spoken and presented to Robert the flag that draped Downey’s coffin.
Fiona and Charleen had waited until all the guests had departed before entering the house. They had already contacted the maid, the same one that had discovered Downey’s body. She had told them that the younger Mr. Downey would be willing to see them.
He was a tall red-haired man, with bushy red eyebrows and small light hazel eyes that were set deep behind knobby cheekbones. His skin was a mass of freckles. His coloring offered a sharp contrast with the shiny brown leather of his father’s desk chair.
“We haven’t even entertained that possibility, Mr. Downey,” Fiona said, offering a pleasant smile. The fact was that they had, indeed, entertained such a possibility.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Downey asked. He had sat bolt upright in his chair.
“We’ve ruled out suicide,” Fiona said.
“Well, then there is a God in heaven,” Downey said. He did not smile.
“It was an elaborately staged event,” Fiona said. “The killer was making a statement.”
“Good for him. I wish I had had the guts to do it,” Downey said, holding the thought. His blazing eyes and the fierce set of his strong chin told them that he was deadly serious. He shook his head. “I hope she suffered much before she left this earth.”
“We understand your personal animosity, Mr. Downey . . .” Fiona began, but he still had not run out of steam.
“She wrote lies about my father, lies about me. Deliberate malicious lies. Oh yes, there are the laws of libel. But my father was a public figure. He didn’t have a chance. He was a man of enormous pride and courage. You can be sure he did what he did because he could see no way out, only further disgrace. The woman murdered him.”
He sat back in his chair, lowered his eyes and studied the backs of his hands.
“She did her best to finish me off, too,” he sighed. “Unfortunately, I do not have my father’s courage.” He paused and shook his head. “He did not play favorites with my company. I have never taken part in contract negotiations with the Pentagon. Contracts were awarded to our firm because we were the best engineering consultant group in the area. Now I’m a pariah. My colleagues look at me as if I did them in. And there’s some truth to that. My association with the firm will be the cause of these contracts being canceled. Good, talented people will lose their jobs.”
His face grew flushed and he moved his lips, issuing inaudible but unmistakable curses. Fiona guessed he was not a man ordinarily given to rages. But the presence of the two detectives gave him the opportunity to vent himself.
“Too late for Dad,” he said. “Me? I’m still comparatively young. I’ve got to go on living with this.” An involuntary sob shook his chest. To mask it he coughed into his fist. Recovering his calm, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m still shook up.”
“If you’d rather we come at another time . . .” Fiona said. It was, she knew, a ploy at ingratiation. She and Charleen had determined that they must not let this case drag on. She also knew that there were rough moments ahead for young Downey in their interrogation.
He gestured, mimicking a traffic cop’s stop hand signal.
“No. It’s all right. I’d rather get it over with. I’d rather get everything about this behind me.”
“You do realize that it’s our job to find Polly Dearborn’s killer,” Fiona said, looking at Charleen.
“I hope you never do.”
Fiona
and Charleen exchanged glances.
“We understand, Mr. Downey. But it’s still a capital crime to deliberately take another life.”
“Not in this case,” Downey snapped.
“Believe me, Mr. Downey, we understand your feelings. But we do have to ask some questions. Then you can forget about the whole thing.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Charleen nodding.
He appeared to mull it over.
“You think I’ll ever forget what that woman did to us?”
“Poor choice of words,” Fiona added quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay, let’s get the damned thing over with.”
“We greatly appreciate that, Mr. Downey,” Fiona said in a further effort to placate him. “We’ll try to get out of your hair quickly.”
Although they had not discussed any joint interrogation strategy, Fiona noted that Charleen was letting her lead the way, a good sign. There would be moments where she would welcome her interruption, although such times had not yet arrived. Cates had a sixth sense about such things and, once again, she regretted his absence.
“Were you and your Dad on good terms?” Fiona said, deliberately using the word “Dad” to convey warmth and ingratiation.
“Excellent terms. We were great friends.”
“And saw each other often?”
“Not as often as we both would have liked. He was quite busy and so was I. I lived over in Dupont Circle, just a few blocks from here. We managed dinner together once or twice a week.”
“Ever stay over?” Fiona asked, studying him.
“Sometimes,” he said crisply. “Not often. I told you. I had my own place.”
“But you did talk on the phone?”
“A few times a week,” Robert Downey said proudly. Fiona detected in him a touch of defiance. “Not once did we ever discuss my firm’s participation in defense activities. In fact, we both made it a point to avoid such matters.”
“Did your Dad ever mention that he knew Polly Dearborn?” Fiona asked, hoping to convey an air of innocence.
“Knew her?”
“Socially, I mean. Did he ever say anything about her that indicated he might have met her?”