Adler, Warren - FitzGerald 03 - Senator Love

by Senator Love [lit]

  Bare from the waist up, they moved toward each other. Slowly they undressed each other, taking off what remained. She studied him in the faint light. He was a fine-looking man, slender and still boyish. His erect penis was as smooth and white as ivory and she bent down to kiss it.

  She felt a delicious trembling begin within her. Reaching out, he helped her up and held her tight against him. His kiss was deep, his hands strong, as they lifted her buttocks, placing her body at the edge of a dresser for support. Then he entered her and she gasped as she surrendered to the pleasure.

  Later, if he would have asked her, "Did the earth move for you?" she would have answered proudly in the affirmative. Three times it moved. She could not bring herself to ask such a question, but she knew he, too, had transcended some previous barrier. It was something sensed, something sure.

  As before, after a much more tender farewell than they had experienced before, he left her. She looked at her watch. They had overstayed by more than a half hour. She showered and dressed in ten minutes, then dashed down to her car.

  Through the rearview mirror, she could see Cates' car waiting by the curb. Starting the car, she moved slowly out of the lot. She unlocked the glove compartment and removed the walkie-talkie. But she did not raise it to her mouth.

  Another car had begun to follow her. Through the mirror she could see the driver.

  Frances was following her now. Only her.

  ———— *27* FRANCES' CALL came early Sunday morning. It seemed so banal a gesture for such a potentially ominous event. Cates had moved into Fiona's house, occupying the room next to the master bedroom, which had been hers when she was growing up. They were connected with an open radio, and there was no way that Fiona could be approached without Cates hearing.

  On Friday they had gone to work as usual. Sam had called her early.

  In their conversation, the communication between them was less in the words they spoke than in their tone and the pauses between them. The very idea that they were protecting their secret exhilarated her and the sound of his voice was undeniably exciting.

  "You have got to be careful," he told her. He had, of course, been informed that Frances had followed her home. Was the message of his concern subject to another, more personal, interpretation? Like he needed her to be careful because he needed her. Dammit, put a lid on that one, she rebuked herself.

  Rather than return to headquarters after leaving the hotel, Fiona had chosen to drive home on the theory that, if Frances was to act swiftly, she would hardly make a move in or near police headquarters.

  Frances' car stayed at a respectable distance. Cates had pulled in behind her. But when Fiona pulled into her driveway, Frances proceeded past it. Cates had continued to follow her car, which took a series of right turns, then headed back down Wisconsin Avenue to her home in Georgetown.

  "She's sniffed the bait and her appetite's up," the eggplant commented after hearing the report.

  "Live bait," Fiona replied, like the boy whistling in the cemetery. Am I scared? she asked herself. Bet your ass.

  "That extra forty minutes had us concerned," Cates pointed out. Fiona repressed the urge to kick his shins. Did he know? she wondered, searching for a logical explanation.

  "Wthought it might send a tougher message, prod her to believe that this one was really hot, heavy and serious. It cost me another fifty thou in gin losses." She could not suppress a girlish giggle. Liar, liar, she railed at herself. She took a quick reading of their expressions. Nothing untoward. They were either hiding it or buying it.

  She felt no guilt. Nor any sense of violation of professional ethics. Time had to be killed anywa y. What better way? Dirty lady, she admonished herself. The fact was that the memory of those moments with Sam, both psychic and physical, still lingered deliciously.

  She could not remember a more powerful experience. And yet his history mitigated against his being as moved as her. The reality was that she had been one among many. Not, as she might have fantasized, that special one, the perfect one, the searched-for one. Or, perhaps, the unspoken assumption that this would be the one and only time had forced their passion to a penultimate explosion of feeling. In her heart, she longed for more. It was, she knew, a greedy, selfish, stupid idea, unprofessional and risky. And it led to a malevolent wish … that Frances would be cautious, string things out, keep the ploy working. Now there was a conflict of interest.

  With only limited success, she tried to brush away such thoughts. Next, would she be contemplating the meaning of love? Oh God. Not that.

  "Still, she might not act for weeks," the eggplant said. Her heart lurched. Could she handle weeks without slipping over the edge? Edge of what?

  "I don't know if the Senator will sit still for that," she had replied.

  "Considering the potential downside for him, I doubt it too," the

  eggplant had pointed out. "He's liable to say, 'Look, I've been a good soldier. I've given my conscience a good ride. Done my duty as an honest citizen. Gimme a break.'"

  "I think she'll act fast," Cates interjected. "She's motivated. Nobody unmotivated hangs around hotels. I'd say she's agitated, ready and plotting her move."

  "Looks like it," the eggplant said. "Sure you don't need more backup?"

  "Either I'm a real target or I'm not," she had managed to say with some authority. "She spots backup, the ballgame is over."

  The object had always been to foil her in the act, force her to confess. They were all betting that the confrontation would induce an overwhelming need to tell all. Criminologists were divided on the premise. Human behavior was too complex for slide-rule verisimilitude.

  To record such a confession, if it came, they had fit her with a trick brassiere with a mini-tape recorder attached. It was laughable, but practical, Miranda notwithstanding. The woman had to be stopped one way or another.

  "Wearing it?" the eggplant asked.

  Fiona nodded and the eggplant showed a thin smile.

  "No 'talk to my tits' jokes," she warned.

  "Would I joke about something so serious?" the eggplant had commented, unable to suppress a broader smile.

  Actually such jokes would have lightened the load. It wasn't only the fear of Frances. She had the courage to face that. It was the other that troubled her more, the female trap. Wanting it to be meaningful. There was no solace for it, except to curse her gender.

  "I'm going along, but I still don't like it," the eggplant said yet again.

  "I'm ready," she told him firmly.

  "Talk about macho."

  With Cates, she had practiced how to resist a garrote attack from the rear and had polished up her karate. She did not fear a one-on-one physical attack, especially by another female. On the other hand, the woman could use another method, a gun, poison, explosives. Here again, they were betting that the same MO would be used, strangulation by a strong, soft object like a scarf.

  Frances' telephone call was a surprise. They had figured on a more surreptitious method, a sneak job. Frances would suddenly appear behind her, flip the garrote around her neck and squeeze. Fiona would overpower her. Ces would come running to her aid. Defeated, the woman would sing her sad song. Finis.

  "This is Frances Langford," the voice said after Fiona had identified herself. They had been drinking coffee in the kitchen. Cates had run to the extension in the den.

  "Oh yes," Fiona had replied.

  "I guess you know who I am?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "We've met casually," Frances said. For a moment, she seemed tentative, pausing. "We saw each other at the OAS a couple of weeks ago." Her voice was pleasant and chatty. Saw each other indeed, Fiona thought, remembering her face peering above the balustrade.

  "We probably did," Fiona said cautiously.

  "You know we did."

  Now it was Fiona's turn to pause. She was genuinely confused.

  "I saw you and Sam. Then you looked up and saw me."

  "That was you?" Fiona said, trying to generat
e surprise, knowing she wasn't convincing.

  "I know you must think I'm crazy. I've actually been following Sam and you. I mean, I know where you go."

  "Really, Mrs. Langford," Fiona replied, reaching for indignation.

  "I have to see you," Frances said. "I just can't wait any longer."

  "What for?"

  "I don't want to say over the phone. But it's very important. Very."

  "When do you suggest?"

  "Today. As soon as possible."

  "Where?"

  "You know the Four Seasons in Georgetown?"

  "Yes."

  "Noon okay?"

  Fiona looked at the digital clock on the microwave.

  "I'll be there."

  Still, she did not hang up. Fiona could hear her breathing.

  "And, Miss FitzGerald."

  "Yes."

  "Be very careful."

  Cates rushed back to the kitchen after the call.

  "How do you read this?" he asked.

  "Obviously a ploy," Fiona said.

  "A public place. Witnesses. She's taking risks she may not have taken with the others. Why?"

  Cates shrugged.

  "She must know you're a cop."

  "I have to assume she knows everything."

  They called the eggplant at home and told him what had happened.

  "Think she knows we're tailing her? Setting her up?" he asked after they told him about the call.

  "No indication," Fiona said crisply. "But we can't be sure. Not yet."

  "Sounds weird," the eggplant said.

  "Cunning," Fiona corrected. "She has something up her sleeve, that's for sure."

  "Cates."

  "Yes, Chief."

  "Like glue. Understand?"

  "Perfectly."

  "And you, FitzGerald. Be careful."

  He hung up. Funny, Fiona thought. That's what Frances said to me.

  ———— *28* THE FOUR Seasons in Georgetown boasted a cocktail lounge that had the look and feel of a huge reception room in a European luxury hotel. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to gardens that were carefully constructed to give the illusion of a great expanse lying beyond the immediate view. Deep upholstered chairs and couches were strategically placed for both comfort and privacy. The decor was impeccable. A pianist in black tie played popular tunes on a shiny black baby grand.

  Frances was already there. She had chosen an out-of-the-way spot in a far corner. She was, Fiona noted, carefully groomed, wearing a beige suit that set off brown eyes flecked with yellow. Blonde hair fell gently to her shoulders, and, while her appearance was very youthful from a distance, closer up tiny nests of smile-wrinkles around her eyes and lips gave hints of an ominously accelerated aging process. Long, tapered fingers played with a double string of what looked like genuine baroque pearls.

  She appeared open and friendly, with a real estate salesman's flair for ingratiation. Her handshake was firm, strong as a man's.

  Studying her as the waitress poured coffee from a silver urn into delicate cups, Fiona could not detect any sense of the viciousness and evil that motivated those crimes which the woman had allegedly perpetrated. Were they wrong? Fiona wondered. Yet her experience had taught her that the mosruthless murderers often seemed docile and benign.

  "I'm so glad you could make it," Frances said. Only then, as she spoke, did the sunny mood conveyed by her appearance change abruptly.

  When she bent to raise her coffee cup, Fiona did a quick take, catching Cates just as he opened a newspaper at his seat at the other end of the room.

  "Your invitation was more like a summons."

  "I know. I'm sorry. But I'm deeply troubled."

  "You are?"

  She took a deep sip and put down her coffee cup.

  "I've been following you, Miss FitzGerald," Frances said. "Spying on you. On one level I'm terribly ashamed."

  "And on the other?"

  Fiona tried to mask her confusion with a show of sarcastic indignation.

  "I'm frightened for you," Frances said flatly. "And I only hope I can sell this idea as good as I sell real estate." Her gaze revolved around the room. Was it genuine fear Fiona saw in her eyes?

  "What idea?"

  Frances continued to play with her pearls.

  "I think …" Frances hesitated, then sucked in a deep breath, offering an expression that one might make when one is about to ingest some foul- tasting medicine. "… I think you're exposing yourself to extreme danger. Someone is going to attempt to kill you."

  "There's a happy thought," Fiona said with a deliberate air of skepticism. She would resist the idea, make Frances push harder.

  "I know I sound off-the-wall. But hear me out before you make any judgements. The essential point is that you're having an affair with my ex-husband."

  Should she stand up? Make some obvious gesture of indignation? No, she decided. She might not be able to pull it off.

  "You said it up front. You've been spying on me."

  "I had to be sure."

  "Sure that we were having an affair?"

  "Sure that it was the real thing."

  "How in the name of hell could you determine that?"

  "I can't really. I'm making an assumption based on experience and intuition."

  "And of course, it's none of your business."

  "You're right."

  "Then why all the interest?"

  "I could say it's because I want to see justice done, but that would be corny. Let's call it a sisterly thing then. An allianc e of the gender."

  There was, after all, something compelling about such a female call to arms. Fiona shrugged and said nothing, her silence an encouragement for Frances to continue.

  "Fourteen years ago, he was having an affair with a young black woman, Betty Taylor. She was never heard from again. Ever since then, I've been, well … uncomfortable. We were still married then and I found out. Caught them actually in the throes of passion. Quite embarrassing all around. He was up for his first Senate seat. He wasn't exactly contrite, but he was realistic. I made a bargain with him. If he stopped the affair, I would stay with him through the campaign. Oh, the marriage was over. I knew that. And I kept my end of the bargain."

  "Did he?"

  She remembered Sam's explanation, comparing versions now. So far everything fit with what Sam had told her.

  "Perhaps too well," Frances said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The woman disappeared."

  Fiona's heart lurched.

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I tried to contact her."

  "When?"

  "Must have been a couple of weeks after the incident. Sam told me that it was over by then. That was his part of the bargain. But you see, I felt badly about the poor girl. Can you understand that?"

  "Yes. I think I can understand," Fiona said, nodding her head.

  "She was probably a sweet but very naive young woman and I had embarrassed her. I felt uncomfortable about that. I really felt a sense of compassion for her. More than that."

  "The sister thing."

  A tiny smile belied any bitterness. Fiona could not detect a single false note.

  "Her telephone was disconnected and she had moved out of her apartment. Even the people on the Committee were in the dark aut her. She had simply upped and left."

  "Disappeared?"

  "There's no other explanation," Frances said. "I even called her mother in West Virginia. I told her I was a friend of Betty's from Washington. The poor woman was beside herself. I used to call from time to time, to see if Betty had contacted her, then, what with one thing and another, I stopped calling."

  "What do you think happened to her?"

  Her whole body seemed to mobilize itself. She lifted her chin, focused her eyes, straightened her back.

  "I think she was done away with. Murdered."

  "By your ex-husband? By Sam?"

  She shook her head.

  "Sam couldn't kill anyone. Especially a wo
man."

  "Then who?"

  "Let me continue," Frances said. "A few years later, Sam had made it to the Senate. We were long divorced, but I would see him from time to time. Observe him, actually. I know. None of my business. But he had married Nell by then. Anyway, I read in the paper that a woman staffer, Harriet Farley, was killed in an automobile accident."