by Warren Adler
“Promised what?” Barker pressed.
“That I would get some recognition, that she would give me greater authority, that she would talk to you about it . . .”
“She never did, Sheila,” Barker said, shaking his head.
“Never did anything for anybody, that bitch,” Sheila shouted. “She deserved what she got, hanging out there for the whole world to see. Oh, that was beautiful, beautiful. I have no regrets . . . none at all.”
Fiona had seen it before, the unburdening, letting out the pressure, like air out of a punctured tire. She looked toward Barker, whose face reflected utter disgust.
“Read her her rights, Charleen,” Fiona said as she reached for her handcuffs.
28
“HE HAD NO choice,” the Eggplant said.
The morning Post’s front page was spread before them on one of Sherry’s cracked plastic chrome-legged booth tables.
“He wouldn’t pass up a story even if it dealt with him, Barker himself, raping his mother.”
“Not that tough son-of-a-bitch,” the Eggplant agreed.
There on the front page was the story of the arrest of Sheila Burns for the murder of Polly Dearborn.
They had given it big play on the left side above the fold. There were pictures of both Sheila Burns and Polly Dearborn, and a quote before the jump to the inside page of Harry Barker expressing “shock and dismay” on behalf of all the employees of the Post.
Sheila had signed a confession and her lawyer was in the process of plea-bargaining a sentence with the District Attorney. The Eggplant considered it a closed case, although his elation was somewhat dampened by three more drug-related gang murders during the night.
The puzzle, of course, was why Barker had not run the story on the Mayor.
“Maybe he was impressed with the way we broke the case,” Charleen said.
“Meaning he was impressed with your dramatic moment,” Fiona said. “Showing those disks.”
“It did the job,” Charleen said. Her confidence had returned fully, although her arrogance was tempered now. Fiona could tell she felt secure, qualified for Homicide.
It was a strange meeting. The Eggplant was amazingly calm, almost too calm. Fiona knew that to be a bad sign.
“We had agreed to make no copies the Eggplant muttered.” Under other circumstances, he would be raging.
Charleen, for the first time since Fiona had met her, suddenly broke into a broad toothy smile. Then she giggled, actually giggled like a mischievous kid.
“I never made copies. I promised I wouldn’t. They were empty disks. I keep my promises.” She looked pointedly at the Eggplant. The giggle turned into a laugh and tears rolled down her cheeks.
The Eggplant shook his head.
“Evans, why are you always telling me things I do not wish to hear?”
Charleen’s shoulders continued to shake with laughter. It became infectious. Then Fiona started, and the Eggplant. Sherry looked at them and frowned.
“You telling filthy jokes again, Luther?” she asked.
“This one’s a lulu, Sherry,” the Eggplant said when he had calmed. Then he turned to Charleen. “You really think you’re a smart-ass, woman?”
They watched Charleen’s face.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Think you found a home in Homicide?” the Eggplant said ominously.
“Yes.” Charleen said with dead certainty, her chin raised pugnaciously.
“Cocky bitch, aren’t you?” the Eggplant said. It was hard to tell whether he was serious or mocking. But the remark induced a long silence. “No. For once. Realistic.”
“Question is,” Fiona said, quickly changing the subject, “Is a person’s past a barometer of a person’s future?”
“People don’t change,” the Eggplant muttered, deflected from his confrontation with Charleen.
“The Mayor, too?” Fiona asked. It was, she knew, a loaded question. He was, as everyone knew, an imperfect Mayor. Certainly not the best. But then, in politics, one could never depend on getting the best. Also, they were privy to the Mayor’s earlier indiscretions, the ones on the verge of exposure by the Post, which would destroy his political career. They all knew that Barker would run the story and, therefore, destroy any chance that the Eggplant would be Police Commissioner.
“Him, too,” the Eggplant said.
His frankness did not surprise her. Conspiracy had bonded them, an odd triumvirate.
“There is something,” Charleen volunteered. She waited until Sherry had refilled their mugs. They looked at her, waiting. “Back home in Indiana, he served six months for assault and battery.”
“Who?” Fiona asked.
“Harry Barker.”
Fiona and the Eggplant exchanged glances.
“I have this data bank . . .” Charleen began.
“Don’t say it,” the Eggplant said. “Please.”
Charleen didn’t. Instead she sipped her coffee.