by Warren Adler
“No. Their deal was that she would tell him who she wanted to write about and he would have the right of veto. As far as I know, he never turned her down. Frankly, I doubt very much that she had told him about what story she would be working on next. She trusted no one on that. Especially Mr. Barker.”
“And you,” Charleen said. “Did she trust you?”
Frown lines formed briefly on Sheila’s forehead.
“Yes, she did,” Sheila said with indignance.
“Not completely though,” Fiona pressed.
“You don’t understand,” Sheila said with a sneer. “And I don’t think I could explain it.”
Fiona studied her. Yes, she could understand. Some things were just too valuable to share. Polly Dearborn was self-contained. She lived within her own bounds. That had been adequately confirmed. No one invaded Polly Dearborn, not her mind or her body. It was time to shift the perspective.
“So you don’t think that her next target knew if he or she was in her sights?” Fiona asked.
“You people . . .” Sheila began. “You may not realize it, but there’s lots of folks out there that are from the as-long-as-they-spell-my-name-right school. Most people in power kissed Polly’s butt, hoping that their name would come up on her big wheel. They knew what they were in for. Many thought it was worth the risk. Even Chester Downey.”
Fiona remembered seeing him at the races, his attention to Polly Dearborn eager and solicitous,
“I can buy that,” Fiona said. “What I can’t buy is that people would subject themselves to her scrutiny if they truly knew that they had something to hide.”
“Polly once explained that to me,” Sheila said. “Many people believe their secrets to be well hidden. Others have erased them from memory.” She paused and looked directly at Fiona, staring into her eyes. “Hell, we all have secrets that we think are well hidden or have deliberately forgotten. Haven’t we?”
“We work on a similar principle, Sheila,” Fiona said.
“And when you come up with a damaging secret you don’t expect to get killed for it.”
“Not necessarily,” Fiona countered, remembering statistics she had seen indicating a startling increase in the number of police deaths. She looked at her watch. It was getting late.
“I guess you didn’t bargain for a debate,” Sheila Burns said. She was smiling amiably now, obviously relieved that the interview was coming to an end. She unclasped her hands.
Fiona and Charleen stood up. Fiona extended her hand.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Sheila.”
Sheila’s hand felt soft and clammy. Charleen followed suit.
“It’s all right, we can find our way out,” Fiona said as they moved into the corridor and toward the elevators.
“Tough little biddy,” Fiona said.
“Bet she’d love to have Dearborn’s job,” Charleen said.
The elevator door opened, but before they could move in they heard Sheila’s voice calling out. They looked up the corridor and saw her running toward them.
“Sergeant FitzGerald.”
She reached them, breathless.
“Captain Greene just called. He wants to see you both immediately.”
“Thanks. We’ll head right downtown.”
“Oh, he’s not downtown. He’s in Harry Barker’s office.”
14
“FUCKING LAWYER,” HARRY Barker fulminated. He was livid with rage, pacing his office like a caged lion unable to get to a lioness in heat.
Fiona wondered what cataclysm had created such an outburst. Here was this invulnerable, all-powerful editor, roaring defiance as if he were some impotent lowly Washington species. This was Harry fucking Barker, top of the heap, a world-class nutcutter. She wasn’t sure whether to be frightened or amused.
They were sitting around the rim of his desk, the Eggplant, Charleen and Fiona. They had not had a chance to consult with each other. The Eggplant looked whipped and uncertain.
“Oh, how they love to take shots at the big boys. Really pisses me off.”
Fiona was confused. Even Charleen’s face revealed a rare show of emotion. The Eggplant did not look their way, staring instead at the raging Harry Barker.
“Guy named Farber comes to my office two, three hours ago, says he’s Polly Dearborn’s lawyer. Okay. No appointment. He makes a big fuss with my secretary. I let him in. Greasy guy, slimy. Pinstripe with a red rose in his lapel. Stinks from heavy perfume, the kind that makes you want to throw up. Then he says that he’s the executor of the Dearborn estate. I must have looked as if I didn’t believe him. Then he pulls out a paper from his inside pocket. I look at the first page. Last will and testament of Polly Dearborn. So far, okay. He tells me that Polly wished to be cremated. No ceremonies, no people. Ashes into the Potomac. That’s her wish, it’s okay with me. He’s taking care of it himself in the next couple of hours he tells me. Then he says it’s also her wish that the material in her computer has to be destroyed.”
Fiona resisted exchanging glances with the Eggplant and Charleen, each of whom continued to stare at the ranting Barker. A solution, Fiona thought, knowing it was in all of their minds. Manna from heaven. Providence intervening. Then she remembered that the computer contained no information, that the disk and hard copies were sitting in a luggage compartment in Union Station. Still, she did not look at them, nor they at her.
“Fact is I had been thinking about that damned computer. Polly’s assistant, Sheila Burns, has been on me about that. Says that Polly had a gold mine just sitting there inside that damned computer.
“Makes a helluva case considering all those data banks Polly was hooked into and her method of operating, close to the vest, thorough, detailed, well within libel limits. Sheila figures that it’s all in there—Polly’s network of informants, contacts, notes, gossip, leads, the usual reporter’s mixed bag of goodies. Real ballsy kid.
“She’s made a pitch for Polly’s job. It’s a tough one for me. Move a tenderfoot like that straight up into the big leagues and I get lots of experienced people pissed of. Bad enough I had this special deal with Polly. It’s tempting, though.
“But the point is that Sheila put it in my head that that computer material is valuable as hell. Then comes this sleazeball lawyer with his pitch and I can see that Polly herself must have thought that the material was so hot that she had better see that it was destroyed if she died rather than let it get into the wrong hands.
“Believe me, I don’t fault her for that. Okay, she trusted me, but even I won’t last forever. Better the divil you know than the divil you don’t. The fact is that Polly never expected to exit the scene so soon and so abruptly. I have to believe that she wanted me to have that material if I was still around.
“Anyway, the paper did pay for that computer. We paid for all the data banks. We paid Polly Dearborn a lot of bread. The stuff in that computer belongs to us, and will or no will, Polly Dearborn can’t tell me from beyond the grave what to do with it. No way.”
He drew in a deep breath and continued to pace.
“No way. I told him that we’d fight him tooth and nail for that material, that he had better not take any precipitous action or else there would be hell to pay. Then he says he doesn’t want to be obnoxious about it. He says maybe we could do business. Do business? I got the bastard’s message fast enough. No fencing around. How much? I ask the cocksucker.”
He stopped for a moment and pointed with his finger in the direction of those observing his tantrum. “I’ve checked the prick out. A real bad apple. Can’t imagine under what rock Polly found him.”
Barker shook his head in an attitude of disbelief, then continued:
“Six figures. No piker, this scumbag. Hundred thou. You’re off your rocker, I tell him. He argues with me. It’s probably very, very valuable, he says. Probably is. I granted him that. But I contended that we won’t pay for what belongs to us.
“I ask him if he has seen the material. No, Farber tells me. He doesn�
�t want to see it. But he does say that he will have to defend any action on the part of the paper to obtain it. That, he tells me, would cost the paper far more than a hundred thousand dollars. Then I ask him how he can simply go against Polly’s will with the snap of a buck. He says he can tell the judge that the material should go to the paper for the greater public good, some legalese bullshit.
“Blackmail, I tell him. Hell, we got an army of lawyers on the payroll. We’ll get an injunction. He says go ahead, but first he tells me put on my running sneakers. A real hard case, that one.”
He stopped his pacing, then walked purposefully back to his desk and sank heavily into his chair, propping his feet on the rim. Fiona noted that his shoes were new, the soles and heels barely worn. His pose was rough-hewn and salty. Underneath, she was certain, he was pure Ivy League and snobby.
“I told him to get the fuck out of the office,” Barker said. “Didn’t faze that bastard. He gets up, hands me his card and tells me to think it over and let him know what I’ve decided. Then, just as he’s walking out that door, Farber turns around and says: “You’ve got six hours.” Gives me a fucking deadline. This is one hot number. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”
Suddenly he slapped his hand down on the desk, startling them. But they said nothing. What was there to say? There was more coming. Save your energy for the worst that was to come, Fiona decided, searching for ways to brace herself for the inevitable.
“I still have a newspaper to run. The whole Dearborn mess is bizarre. Okay, this thing with the lawyer is a whole new wrinkle. I can crucify this guy, but let’s face it, this is sensitive stuff for the newspaper. I’ve got to assume that old Polly has a gold mine in her computer. Sure we want the material, but not this way.”
Harry Barker paused and scratched his head. From where she sat, Fiona could see the frenetic activity in the city room and hear the muted hum of the busy staff manufacturing tomorrow’s paper. In it would be the recorded agonies and ecstasies of people forever frozen for posterity in a moment in time. Fortune or failure could hang on the manipulation of language and truth, and Barker could, by guidance or decree, shift the balance of life by a mere change of a word or phrase, a tiny adjustment in the calibration of language.
Fiona felt a strange thrill course through her. She wasn’t sure whether it was the result of fear or awe, but she had no doubt it had something to do with the immensity of Barker’s power. Then suddenly his pause was over and his scratchy voice began again.
“I called you, Captain Greene, as soon as I hung up from Farber. There he was on the horn two hours on the nose from when he left my office. Probably to the second. He tells me he used the key that Polly had given him when her will was signed, gone to her apartment and taken the computer and that it was now in a safe and secret place. He tells me that if we don’t make a deal by noon tomorrow, he will destroy the material on the computer.”
Fiona froze. There was no way that she could restrain herself any longer from exchanging looks with the Eggplant and Charleen. Providence intervening. No apparent reference to the fact that there was nothing in the computer. Of course, Farber might find that out. All he’d need was a screwdriver. Best thing that could happen was for Farber to dump the computer lock stock and barrel into the Potomac along with Polly Dearborn’s ashes. Just desserts, Fiona thought, forcing herself not to smile.
Barker seemed to be studying them for their reaction. Fiona wondered how he was reading them. The Eggplant’s complexion had turned grey. Charleen had crawled behind her stoic, frozen look. It was, she knew, one of those decisive moments that change the course of events. The air seemed charged, electric. Don’t say, “search warrant,” she begged Barker in her heart.
The Eggplant cleared his throat and coughed into his big fist. He had obviously been summoned to Barker’s office on an emergency basis, adding to the impossible burdens already imposed on him.
“How did the conversation end?” the Eggplant asked. He was obviously stalling, testing Barker’s knowledge of police procedure.
“Open-ended. I told him I’d have to think it over.”
“And are you?” the Eggplant asked.
“I’m thinking what schmucks we were not getting to that computer before him.”
Fiona felt her heart lurch.
“I’m not blaming you, Captain,” Barker added quickly. “I thought your initial idea was right on target. You had indicated that one theory you were following was that Polly Dearborn might have been murdered by someone she had written about, someone who had been badly hurt by what was published. I understand your people got the clippings we provided.”
The Eggplant nodded.
Fiona lifted the envelopes that Sheila Burns had placed in their hands minutes before.
“Sheila has just given us the material,” Fiona said, hoping to keep the subject deflected.
“The thing is, maybe she was killed by someone who had not yet been written about,” Barker said. “Someone she had been compiling stuff about, stuff in the computer.”
Fiona felt her flesh grow cold.
“You didn’t know who her next . . . her next subject would be?” the Eggplant asked cautiously.
“Our deal was to finish one story before we started on another,” Barker said. “We were set to talk next week.”
At least he was moving away from the heart of the issue.
“But it did set me thinking,” Barker said. “Maybe we’ve been looking at things ass backwards. Maybe the real clue is not in what was written in the past, but what was intended. I figure it’s in the computer, right?”
“It’s a possibility,” the Eggplant said haltingly, showing contrived disinterest.
“That’s what I thought, Captain,” Barker said. “And if it’s a possibility then what’s in that computer is evidence.”
“Following that theory, yes.”
An oiliness began to ooze out of the Eggplant’s skin. He was, of course, being deliberately indecisive.
“That’s why I called you in, Captain,” Barker said. “I’m looking for ideas. I figure we both have an interest in getting into that computer.”
The two men studied each other across the desk.
“We certainly should question the lawyer,” the Eggplant said.
“From what I can tell, he’d stonewall. He’s beyond intimidation. We need some device that moves faster.”
“Doesn’t give us much time,” the Eggplant said, looking at his watch.
“I’m instructing my lawyers to get an injunction to prevent him from destroying the computer,” Barker said. “It’s a long shot though. I don’t know if they can work fast enough.”
A long shot. Good odds, Fiona thought. The deadline passes. Farber destroys the computer. The information that’s in the luggage compartment in Union Station no longer exists officially. The Eggplant looked somewhat relieved.
At that moment, Charleen, with her infallible nose for bad timing, spoke out:
“Maybe we can speed things up. Get a search warrant and pick up the computer.”
Fiona thought the Eggplant would collapse. She saw him grip the arms of his chair. Fiona felt her heart jump into her throat.
Harry Barker’s eyes moved quickly to contemplate Charleen Evans.
“Now there’s one smart lady,” he said.
15
THE PARKING LOT adjacent to the Washington Post was not the best place in the world to have it out, but the Eggplant was adamant.
“Here and now,” he said.
They stood by the car that Fiona had driven, a nondescript Ford from the pool, badly in need of washing. Charleen, tall, straight and unbowed, stood directly in front of him, feet planted firmly on the ground, her face wearing its most neutral mask. The Eggplant, on the other hand, wore a rainbow’s worth of emotions on his dark, perspiring face.
Fiona could sympathize with him. No. Empathize, she decided.
“What’s your game, woman?” he asked, between clenched teeth.
“Game? I thought I was doing the right thing,” Charleen said.
“You and your right things,” the Eggplant said with exasperation. He was having a hard time repressing his anger. A man passed them, walking to his car. He looked at them briefly, then moved on.
“We have the material, Chief. Not Farber,” Charleen said. “We find the computer, we have options.”
“Like what?”
“We put the disks back into the computer,” Charleen said, looking toward Fiona for help. Fiona looked away. Poor Captain Greene. Charleen was his albatross. Fiona’s, too.
“Before or after Barker gets his injunction?” Fiona asked.
“He said it was a long shot,” Charleen said.
“Long shots win sometimes,” the Eggplant said.
“Not often,” Charleen pressed. “What I was thinking was that we find the computer, replace the two hard disks. Barker doesn’t get his injunction. The disks are destroyed.”
“But you said it’s possible that Farber does not know the disks are missing,” Fiona said.
“It’s possible,” Charleen said. “Depends how much he knows about computers. Since I screwed the metal container back in place, he may not be aware of it. That’s the point, Captain. If we get to the computer, I can easily pop the disks back in. Then we’re all off the hook, whether Farber knows or not.”
“Suppose you’re wrong and he does know the disks are missing. We get a search warrant, find the computer, replace the disks. Farber would know somebody has jacked him around. Like us.”
“His word against ours, I guess,” Charleen said. She did not look too comfortable saying it. “I only said we get a search warrant. Barker loves the idea. You saw him. Who knows, we might not even find it.”
“On purpose. Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“We just don’t find it,” Charleen said. “Not officially find it. But if we do, we just replace the disks.”
“And if we don’t?” the Eggplant asked, pulling a face of total exasperation. “And Barker gets his injunction?”
Charleen mulled it over for a moment.