Adler, Warren - FitzGerald 03 - Senator Love

by Senator Love [lit]

  Through the eggplant's good offices, he undoubtedly reasoned, the Mayor would have another chit to collect from a politician, an important factor considering that the District of Columbia Government was still beholden to the Congress for its funding. More important, the eggplant, if he chose, could hold the chit for his own purposes. Not corruption, really. Perhaps a form of blackmail. But part and parcel of the political process, which, like most endeavors, was dependent on trade offs, favors and, ultimately, the power to manipulate.

  "So they decided among themselves that robbery gets them all off the hook," the eggplant said. He was calmer now, sopping it up like a sponge. He was, she knew, a quick learner when his mind was freed from his emotions.

  "And that's the genesis of the _Post_ story," she said. "They engineered it for their own political purposes."

  Except for his tight-lipped interpolation, he had barely moved a muscle in his face, his bloodshot eyes fixed into a stare from which she did not flinch.

  "But you did say that the woman's jewelry was probably taken. I can see premature. But misleading?"

  Again she shot Cates a glance and nodded. It was his turn to carry the relay stick.

  " 'Could be diversion' would be a better description," Cates said. She watched the eggplant's stare move from her face to Cates'. "Technically speaking, it was accurate. No question about it. The woman was robbed."

  Before the eggplant could show his dissatisfaction with the explanation, Cates plunged ahead. She watched as the eggplant moved his upper body forward, planting his elbows on the desk.

  "It has to do with those old bones," Cates said. "Bty Taylor." He paused for a moment, perhaps waiting for an expected groan from the eggplant that did not come.

  "Could be just a presumption. But certain connections are inescapable. Connection one: Betty Taylor was believed to be having an affair with someone who wished to keep his identity secret. The Senator, then a representative, a philanderer of the first rank, is on the Committee that Betty Taylor had worked for. Connection two: In the instance of Mrs. Kessel we know that she was having this affair with the Senator. Both women were killed by strangulation. Both were buried in the yards of houses that were then unlived in, on the sales block."

  Cates had, Fiona learned earlier, managed to track down the status of the Woodland Drive property on which Betty Taylor was buried at the time of her death. Like the property in Cleveland Park in which Helga had been buried, it, too, had been empty at the approximate time of the murder. In fact, it had been empty for nearly a year.

  "Helluva theory," the eggplant said. He did not smile, but his eyes were dancing his approval. Fiona sighed with relief.

  "And there might have been more," Fiona said. "We only know of these two."

  "You really think the Senator …" the eggplant began, his voice trailing off.

  "If the logic holds," Fiona said cautiously, "the more likely perpetrator is the Senator's flunkie. Bunkie-Flunkie." In her explanation earlier, she had already mentioned him, without fleshing him out, which she did now. "Farrington. You know him. A stock character in political theater. Overzealous, overidentified with his fearless leader. He takes care of everything. Chief pimp and bottle washer. You know the type."

  "Gets rid of anything that gets in the way," Cates said.

  "He becomes the alter ego," Fiona added. "Most politicians have one. Stays in the background. Pulls strings on his own sometimes. Takes the fall, if necessary. Depending on his commitment."

  "And this guy's commitment?" the eggplant asked.

  "Total," Fiona said. Cates nodded.

  The eggplant straightened and stood up. There were no traces of anger now. He was playing to his strength, doing his job, pacing the room, as he did when deeply immersed in attempting to crack a homicide puzzle.

  "We trace Farrington to the jewelry, he's on the ropes," the eggplant said. It was rhetorical. He was thinking out loud. Then he turned to them. "Get the ice descriptions out as soon as possible. Maybe a search warrant."

  "With respect, Chief," Fiona interjected. The eggplant turned toward her. "My impression is that the jewelry, any personal material gain, is out of it for him. He's got other fish to fry. He'd have dumped the jewelry, maybe buried it elsewhere, thrown it into the Potomac. If he's our man his purpose would have been to put the lady — ladies — away forever, with no identifying possibilities."

  "Hoping that the beautiful Helga would become, like the other lady, old bones." Cates interjected.

  "I'll buy it. No search warrant then," the eggplant said, still pacing, shaking his head in agreement. "Besides, we stick too many fingers in the mix we blow the Senator out of the water. Better if he thinks we're protecting him."

  "Unless he's the one," Cates said.

  "Or the one behind the one," Fiona added.

  "Remains to be seen. Meanwhile why deep-six the poor bastard?" He looked at Fiona. "If having sex was murder, half the politicians would be in prison." She had expected him to chuckle. He didn't. He was dead serious.

  She was locked into his thought pattern now. What's in it for the eggplant? Easy, she decided. Two possibilities. Chits or glory. Either one had value for him.

  If Bunkie were an innocent and none of this slopped over into the media, the eggplant would have his chit. On the other hand, if Bunkie was the perpetrator, the Senator gets blown out of the water, not just out of the Presidential race, but out of Washington, far out. Breaking a case like this becomes international incident, a sure-fire name identifier, grist for the media and the supermarket tabloids. New worlds opening for Chief Luther Greene.

  "We handle this gingerly," he warned, stopping his pacing, pointing his finger like a weapon. "No surprises."

  "No surprises," Fiona agreed.

  "Let's get us Mr. Bunkie," the eggplant said. He looked around the office. "Sweat him up. But best we keep him out of here." He looked up and, for the first time that morning, showed a genuine smile. This was his meat. "Your place, FitzGerald?"

  "I thought you'd never ask." ———— *17* HE HAD come without a hassle, willingly. Nor did it surprise him that she had asked him to her house.

  "We want to keep this out of channels," she had assured him on the phone, knowing that he would accept the conspiratorial nature of the request. That was all the shorthand he needed.

  Even when he was introduced to the eggplant, he showed no signs of irritation.

  "We want to keep the Senator out of it, is all," the eggplant told him. He had placed himself on the leather wing chair. Fiona and Cates had taken the two upholstered chairs on the other side of the cocktail table and they had maneuvered Bunkie to the center of the couch. Nothing but space on either side of him. He was alone.

  He had crossed his legs, showing his red socks with the polo symbols coming out of his tasseled loafers. To illustrate, or feign, his lack of concern, he had stretched both arms along the rim of the couch's back, a casual gesture. He had found a way to keep his smile fixed, although his wary, feral eyes roamed their faces in an effort to discover what they had in mind.

  She had made a pot of coffee and placed coffee cups and Oreo cookies in a dish beside them. Only the eggplant and Cates took the coffee. Bunkie declined.

  "Makes me jumpy," he said cheerily, his polka-dot bow tie dancing on his Adam's apple. He wore a blue striped shirt and a blazer with gold buttons.

  He was, of course, no pushover. Fourteen years in the political arena

  surely had honed a great many useful skills. Fiona figured that hair- trigger alarm bells were set to go off in his mind at the first faint sign of danger.

  "There was no way we could keep our commanding officer out of this, Bunkie," Fiona explained.

  "I understand." Bunkie nodded tow ard the eggplant, who waved two ebony fingers in acknowledgment.

  "Nothing is cut and dried," Fiona said. "No question that the woman's jewelry is missing." The Ambassador had, indeed, taken an inventory and acknowledged that to her in a phone call.

 
"Seems pretty obvious where the motive lies. She was always a walking jewelry store."

  "Even when she met the Senator at your place?" Fiona asked.

  "Always. I often told her that it was damned dangerous in this city."

  "She wouldn't listen?" Fiona asked.

  "Apparently not. It finally killed her."

  "You're absolutely certain about that?" the eggplant asked. It was the opening salvo. Bunkie's guard went up. His smile stayed but his eyes gave him away. He also had another habit, Fiona observed. She had not seen it before. He swallowed nervously and the bow tie bobbed on his Adam's apple.

  "Is there any doubt?" Bunkie said, adopting a slight tone of bemused arrogance. "You've just confirmed that she was robbed."

  "That's the way it looks," the eggplant said calmly.

  "How can you possibly say otherwise?" Bunkie asked, bow tie bobbing.

  "You saw her on the Senator's behalf one day before she was killed?" the eggplant asked, his voice calmly modulated, unthreatening.

  "That again." He turned toward Fiona. "I'm sure you've filled the Captain in on that."

  "Such an assignment was part of your job?" the eggplant asked, his tone unchanged.

  His eyes speeded up their inspection of each face in turn. In his mind, Fiona decided, he had begun to sound retreat, get back into the castle, lift the drawbridge.

  "Yes," hacknowledged. "The political ramifications are obvious. Senator Langford is about to become a candidate for President of the United States. I'm not, as Detective FitzGerald knows, trying to hide anything. Helga Kessel was the Senator's mistress. It was decided that the affair, which was clandestine, had to be ended. To avoid a scene, I was designated to make it known to the lady that all was over."

  "Forever or for the time being?" the eggplant asked.

  "I offered no time frame. She was quite understanding of the realities. Her husband, too, is a politician." He uncrossed his legs, shifted his position, removed one arm from along the back of the couch, then recrossed his legs in the opposite direction. He was, Fiona observed, getting antsy. "Why are we going over this ground?"

  "Have you ever carried out such an assignment before?"

  "Unfortunately, I have had to," Bunkie said. "They tell me that years ago the media would have kept those secrets out of the public eye. There's lots of screwing around in this business. It's become fair game when you're running for office. Do I have to cite chapter and verse?" His eyes flitted from face to face. When he got no response, he continued. "The fact that the woman was murdered, frankly, scared the living shit out of us." He looked toward Fiona. _No,_ she cried within herself. She could see it coming. He was poised to put a psychic knife between her shoulder blades. "Thank God for Detective FitzGerald and her ah … friendship … with Monte Pappas, our chief campaign consultant. She led us through the mine fields."

  To his credit, the eggplant kept his eyes fixed on Bunkie's face. Fiona felt her cheeks grow hot. She knew she had reddened. But she was thankful that her instincts had opted for confession.

  "Mr. Farrington," the eggplant said, tugging at his ear, his eyes deliberately hooded and seemingly indifferent. "Did you know a Betty Taylor?" In the clinches, Fiona thought, he was beautiful.

  Bunkie's reaction was merely to look at the ceiling as if the shard of memory was embedded there. It did not strike Fiona as an untoward or guilty reaction.

  "Betty Taylor." His glance roamed the ceiling, then moved to his hands. "Betty Taylor." He shook his head, bit his lip.

  "Go back say fourteen years. The Senator is a Representative. He serves on the Judiciary Committee."

  "Betty Taylor. Jesus." His face brightened although his bow tie continued to bob. "A real beauty." He looked toward the eggplant and his gaze lingered. "It's so damned long ago. I think I was with Langford no more than six months." He laughed. "Betty Taylor."

  "You and she had one of your little talks."

  "Had to. He was planning for the Senate."

  He appeared totally without guile, showing amusement.

  "And he was married," Fiona added.

  "That was unraveling," Bunkie said. "The downside for him was …" It had obviously occurred to him that he had better be careful about the racial angle. "Florida is a southern state. In some parts of the state it wouldn't be taken kindly. The Senator hasn't got a bone of prejudice in him." He seemed confident, unwavering. "She was gorgeous, what they call high yellow. She had actually passed as white … until we checked." He backtracked, turned his eyes away from the eggplant. "It wasn't easy for me. It was my first time at this. I hated to do it."

  "You told her it was all over."

  "Yes I did."

  "And what was her reaction?"

  "You're making me go back fourteen years. Christ." He studied the faces surrounding him. The space on either side of him must have appeared to expand. Undoubtedly, he was beginning to feel totally alone and certainly suspicious. When they did not respond, he uncrossed his legs again and took the other arm from the back of the couch. "I think she bawled like hell. She was just a kid. He really liked her, treated her very well. He always treats them well." Suddenly, arrogance surfaced again. "Hell, they got value received."

  id she go quietly?" the eggplant asked. "Like Mrs. Kessel?"

  His bow tie bounced on his throat.

  "I can't remember. She might have called once or twice. But the Senator never took the calls. Soon she got the message and was gone with the wind."

  "You never heard about her or saw her again?" the eggplant asked.

  "Never."

  The eggplant let silence take over for a while. Fiona and Cates knew the drill. Force him to break the silence, show his nervousness.

  "You think I like doing this? It's the pissant part of the job. The Senator likes girls. He can't keep his zipper closed. It's a problem and he's the first to acknowledge it. Maybe he needs some kind of therapy for it. Problem is how does a politician with Presidential aspirations get therapy without the world finding out someday? It's another no-no. So we hang on and hope for the best. It's an addiction, but somehow he manages to keep things under control around election time. So far he's been lucky … and he's had me."

  "You've done this often?"

  "Not often," Bunkie sighed. "Only when it gets out of hand."

  "He falls for the lady?" the eggplant asked.

  "Gets involved. I wouldn't say falls for. Hell, they're all over him." His eyes met Fiona's. Remembering the Senator's effect on her, she turned away in embarrassment.

  "To keep all of them at bay would require a full-time staff of dozens.

  Sometimes he got hooked. Only then did I have to get involved."

  "How many others?" the eggplant asked. "Not counting Betty Taylor or Helga Kessel." Something had changed in the calibration of his question. He was starting to push.

  "Maybe two," Bunkie said, his comfort level falling rapidly. "Not bad in fourteen years."

  "I don't want maybes," the eggplant thundered. His manner caught Bunkie by surprise. He blanched.

  "I know of two others, okay?" Bunkie said after a long pause. He was genuinely alarmed, getting testy. His hands began to shake. "What the hell is going on?"

  "What were their names?"

  "How can I remember — "

  "Remember," the eggplant intoned. The color drained from Bunkie's face.

  "I do remember Harriet Farley. She was on our publicity staff during the Senator's first campaign. He spent a week with her in the Bahamas. I had to do that one quick."

  "No repercussions?"

  "Got a little messy. She got so involved she left her husband. The Senator was actually single then, but the husband was getting antsy."

  "What does antsy mean?" the eggplant pressed.

  "He kept calling. You know how it is. She had this jiboni that she had married in college. He was a salesman somewhere. Then she got a taste of the Senator, thought there was more to it and had to be set straight. It all cooled off pretty soon."


  "How so?"

  "The husband stopped calling and we never heard from Harriet again."

  "And the other?"

  "Judy something," Bunkie said. "She wrote speeches for us. I can get her last name. She was really bright. Suddenly he was spending lots of time writing speeches. He had married Nell by then, had their first kid."

  "Same pattern?" the eggplant asked.