Washington Masquerade

by Warren Adler

  The woman shifted her eyes to Fiona, begging silently to be rescued from Izzy’s sudden onslaught. While feeling sorry for her, Fiona noted that his fierce questioning was cracking her armor.

  “You have to admit, Miss Desmond,” Fiona said, feeling compelled to intervene, “it does have some logic behind it.”

  Miss Desmond nodded and sighed.

  “Sure I thought about it. And yes, I did think it was unfair, but I believed in Mr. Burns’ judgment. I thought… well, it might have crossed my mind, that he may have wanted to keep me out of the loop.”

  “Meaning?” Izzy shot back.

  “He was, well… a tough critic. He was right on target, of course, but he was pretty forthright. As far as he was concerned, the President and Vice President were evil, and he was determined….”

  “To bring them down,” Izzy snapped. His attitude was beginning to disturb her, taking on the mode of avenging angel, bringing his own politics into the game.

  “We know where he stood,” Fiona intervened. Miss Desmond looked at Fiona with some sense of relief.

  “Could he have been working on something really big, an exposé of mammoth proportions that he might have wanted to keep you from knowing, maybe even protecting you, especially in today’s hostile environment and the use of anonymous sources? Did such a thought occur to you, Miss Desmond?”

  Fiona was surprised at Izzy’s vehemence and the various scenarios it suggested.

  “I suppose so,” Miss Desmond said. She seemed to be rethinking her responses.

  “Did you have any knowledge of the use of disguises by Mr. Burns? Did he employ such tactics during your tenure?”

  “Not that I knew.”

  Obviously, Izzy’s questions were getting increasingly irritating to her. Fiona got the impression that she was sorry she had consented to the interview.

  “When you found out, did it strike you as completely out of character?”

  “Yes, it did. But I suppose he had a good reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Like uncovering some chicanery by this administration, some cover-up of lies and corruption?”

  “Maybe.”

  She seemed to have stiffened, and Fiona could see that she would be less forthcoming as the interrogation proceeded.

  “So you were transferred,” Izzy continued, noting the woman’s changing attitude and obviously curbing his aggressiveness.

  But Fiona had to admit that he had procured a new slant on the issue of her being moved out of Burns’ orbit.

  “Was it about a year ago?”

  She thought for a moment. “Ten months actually.”

  “And before that you sensed that, for whatever reason, he was getting increasingly secretive.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Not in so many words. It was a subtle thing. He spent more time away from the office, for example.”

  It seemed to Fiona he was employing the interrogation tactics of a lawyer questioning a witness on the stand. Fiona was impressed.

  “We were always in touch by computer or cell.” Miss Desmond seemed to be digging in and mounting a defense.

  “Always?”

  “He was a stickler for communication.”

  “And then suddenly it was over,” Izzy sighed. “Much to your surprise.” He paused. “And hurt.”

  “I forgave him, and it turned out just great.”

  “But not for him,” Izzy pressed.

  Fiona thought it mean-minded and cut him a look of displeasure. He took the hint and became silent, nodding to signal that his interrogation was over.

  Fiona took the cue. Miss Desmond might think the police sorely abused her for her cooperation. Fiona speculated that she might go back to the paper and spread the word that the police had a hostile mindset and were toadies to the government. They politely thanked Miss Desmond for her cooperation and declared the interview over.

  ***

  The computer issue bugged them both.

  “We should have acted faster,” Fiona said as they drove back to headquarters.

  “We were checking out a suicide,” Izzy said, “not a homicide.”

  “And we still are. Despite how it is being deliberately played in the media.”

  “There is no evidence,” Izzy countered.

  “Not yet.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Are you buying into their theories about Burns being iced by you-know-who?”

  Fiona grew thoughtful and shrugged.

  “They had to be angry enough to react. I reread some of his stuff online—real nasty, every accusation in the book. No question, it was inflammatory. Words have consequences.”

  “I read them, too,” Izzy said. “He was over the top.”

  “But did it get him killed?”

  “Lots of people seem to think so.”

  “Maybe we should call for a vote,” Fiona snapped, quickly regretting her sudden burst of anger.

  Chapter 9

  Jack Perkins was the administrative assistant to Senator Clark Bauman, a Democrat from New Jersey. He met Fiona and Izzy in his office in the Senate Office Building. Perkins’ office was small, spare, and his desk piled high with papers. Perkins was thin and wiry, and from the way he moved, Fiona observed, agile and athletic.

  His look was somber, and because of an unruly shock of long blonde hair, he had developed a kind of head movement meant to keep it from falling over his eyes. Apparently, he was not given to any interest in ingratiation and did not smile. Fiona felt that their presence was an intrusion. He had briefly observed her card.

  “Fitzgerald, is it? You’re the daughter of the late Senator. I remember him. Heard you were with the cops. Struck me as weird.”

  Fiona ignored the reference. She wasn’t here to be analyzed, and she hadn’t run into Perkins on the social roundelay, which was not uncommon, since assistants worked day and night for their bosses. Many of them were manipulators who worked the strings for their politicos. Senator Bauman was old, a retread who had retired once and been dredged up to keep the party’s seat. There was no doubt that Perkins ran Bauman’s show, despite his title and his shabby office.

  “Adam was a buddy, and we played squash a couple of times a week. He was a fierce competitor, but we usually split wins. Upfront I have to tell you, he could not have killed himself, not Adam, last man on earth for that. Tell you the truth I’m devastated. Feel sorry for his wife and kids, a fierce foursome—all for one, one for all. I’m divorced. I envied them.”

  Through this conversational introduction, Perkins remained stoic. Fiona decided, in tone and attitude, he was hostile.

  “Did he show any outward signs of depression, any change in demeanor in the last, say, ten months?”

  “Shit! Get off that suicide kick. He was killed, dispatched, eliminated. If you’re still following that stupid suicide line, you’re looking the wrong way. I’m so fucking mad… Adam? A suicide? And there’s a heat wave in the Arctic Circle. As for an accident, Adam was nimble and coordinated. Scratch that. You people just don’t get it. He was whacked, as they’re saying in some quarters. And it’s about time you looked hard in that direction.”

  Fiona, used to such diatribes, nodded and waited patiently through his little speech, knowing that more was sure to follow. Izzy sat beside her, watching the man with laser concentration. She was just beginning to note the intensity of her partner, as if he was trying to see into the brain of the subject being questioned.

  “Are you saying you noticed nothing out of the ordinary?”

  “Of course not. I would know. I saw him twice a week for the last four years—and for years before that. We went to high school together in Paramus, New Jersey, and kept in touch when we went off to different colleges. He was Harvard, and I was Amherst. I even dated
his wife before he did. He was always one lucky son of a bitch.” His throat caught, and he looked away, fighting for control. “Until it ran out.”

  “And you saw nothing that would make you question…?”

  “Jesus! He was murdered. You need a brick to fall on your head? I can’t believe you’re that thick-headed.”

  “No change in pattern or behavior?”

  “Hell, no. He was still a formidable opponent on the squash court, even with his knee trouble.”

  “Knee trouble?” Fiona asked.

  “Arthritic knee, he called it. Kept him out of action from time to time.”

  Fiona made a mental note to check with the medical examiner about the autopsy results.

  “But he continued to play, although less frequently?” Fiona asked.

  “He was very competitive. We were like two kids. Our objective was to devastate the other on the squash court. Believe me, the knee didn’t make a difference. On the court, the times he didn’t postpone the game, he was a tiger. Does that sound like someone who wanted to kill himself? Besides, he was a devoted family man.”

  They listened patiently to the familiar litany. After a while Perkins’ mood, despite his hostility, morphed into nostalgia.

  “Odd how we both wound up in Washington. We were political junkies, although we took different occupational paths. Adam gave the bastards hell. He pissed all over them. You had to hand it to him. I warned him. I told him he was pushing the envelope too fucking far. Politicians are hardball players.” He stared at Fiona. “It’s a blood sport now. No gentlemen players, like it was in your dad’s day. Now they stick the knife in and turn it a few revolutions to increase the pain.”

  “You must have read about the phony moustache and the glasses?” Fiona asked.

  “I sure did.” He shifted his glance from Fiona to the Izzy. “You think it’s strange, right?”

  “We do.”

  “Not me. I figured he was onto something. He didn’t want to be recognized. Adam was always into dramatics like that. You know why they got him? Not for what he had written, but for what he was going to write—something really big. Adam was one of these guys who once he got his teeth into something never let go. To me, this disguise business was not strange at all.”

  “Had you any knowledge of him doing such things before? In all the years you knew him?”

  “As a kid, he was into magic—played magician, knew lots of card tricks.” He laughed suddenly. “Had one of these fart makers he bought at a magic store. It was hilarious. He was—don’t you see?—a man with a great sense of humor. A hell of a friend.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll miss the hell out of him.”

  “Do you still have the regular squash game?” Izzy asked suddenly.

  Fiona had still not reconciled Izzy’s penchant for oblique questions, the kind she had observed in their interrogation of Miss Desmond.

  “Sure. I would never give that up. Harry Latham. Works at State. Hell of a player. He was always the designated substitute when Adam wasn’t available.”

  “Because of his knee?” Izzy prodded.

  “Sometimes he said it hurt so much, he could barely take a step without screaming bloody murder.” Perkins shrugged. “Stupid description, considering the circumstances.”

  “When was the last time you played together?” Izzy asked.

  Perkins looked askance, showing that the question was irrelevant.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  “On the prowl for that change-of-attitude answer?” He looked at Fiona. “Why don’t you people get off that wagonload of shit? It’s all the same question asked in different ways. I used to be a defense attorney. I know the turf. An injury of the knee is a physical downer for the game of squash. If you count that as a change in attitude, you’re off the charts. There’s a big difference between physical and psychological.”

  “Who can argue with that, Mr. Perkins?” Izzy asked politely. “I understand. My game is tennis. An injury of the knee is a bitch. When did it hit him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nine months, give or take. His games were sporadic after that. He was thinking of arthroscopic surgery. Said his knee was bone on bone.”

  “A bitch,” Izzy said, becoming silent again. “Which knee?”

  Perkins blew air between his teeth in frustration.

  “Left, I think. Yeah, left. He wore a knee brace on his left.”

  Fiona picked up as Izzy retreated.

  “So there was nothing you can point to about any changes in Mr. Burns? Except the knee.”

  “What is the point?” Perkins sighed. “Do you think we’re all a bunch of naïve morons? We’re going to call for an investigation of Burns’ death. We just can’t let this one fall through the cracks. There is something obviously fishy here. Might make Watergate seem like a walk in the park. We’re talking murder here, silencing a voice of protest. I don’t know how they did it. But they must have been pretty clever if they have you guys going around to make it look like suicide. Time to deep six that turkey.”

  He was growing increasingly irritating, and Fiona was having a tough time holding her temper.

  “Look, Mr. Perkins. We’re homicide detectives. Our job is to investigate every death of this nature that happens in the nation’s capital. Note that our cards say we’re with the Homicide Squad. Murder, suicide, accident—that’s our mission. We will get to the bottom of this one way or another.”

  “There is no bottom,” Perkins said.

  Fiona stood up. Izzy followed. They left Perkins’ office without shaking hands.

  “You think it escaped me, don’t you, Izzy?” Fiona asked as they headed back to headquarters.

  “Not for a minute.”

  “For the moment, it did escape me,” Fiona admitted. “Charlotte Desmond transferred, a bona fide change. This knee business, another change.”

  “Consider the time frame.”

  “You are one hell of a black Jew, Izzy,” Fiona said, laughing.

  In a gesture of camaraderie, she slapped Izzy on his upper arm. He smiled, showing his incredibly white teeth. At that moment, her phone vibrated.

  “The suits are here,” Hodges said. “Sherry’s. Better come.”

  Chapter 10

  The suits were two men who showed Homeland Security credentials, but Fiona suspected they were really CIA operatives. It was only a suspicion, but it did suggest some of the paranoid tendencies she had discovered in her earlier interviews, paramount of which was not trusting the government as it currently did its business. She did not have to ask, why Sherry’s? Sherry’s was, they felt certain, swept regularly and kept clean from electronic surveillance. It was, after all, a cop’s hangout, and who knew more about wires and surveillance than cops?

  When they arrived, the Chief was sitting at the large booth that could hold six. They were five. Three coffees in white mugs were sitting on the table before the three men.

  “This is Wallinski,” Hodges said, “and that is Kinney. They’re from Homeland Security. They know why we’re meeting here.”

  Fiona and Izzy shook hands with the two men and slid into their places along the Naugahyde-covered seats. Sherry was quick to bring them hot mugs of coffee.

  “Why Homeland?” Fiona asked. “Why not FBI?”

  Fiona could see that he had deliberately eliminated the CIA. And why did they consent to meet where their conversation could not be overheard?

  “Call us ‘liaison,’” Wallinski said.

  He was a redhead with a moon face and a manner that could be characterized as deliberately ingratiating. From his name, Fiona deduced Polish descent. He was in his mid-thirties and had ice blue eyes that gave him a colder look than his manner implied. The other was a white-bread FBI type, complete with dark suit, crew cut, and a clipped way of talking, which Fiona at
tributed to his Quantico education.

  “I asked,” Hodges said.

  “Upstairs, they think Burns’ death is relevant,” Kinney said.

  “Relevant to what?” the Chief asked.

  “To national security. What else?” the redhead responded pleasantly.

  “How so?” Fiona asked, pretending to be naïve.

  “A prominent critic of the President dies. He is wearing a disguise. Surely you can see the implications and why it should interest Homeland.”

  “Are you saying you think he could have been involved with a terrorist group?” the Chief asked, his startled glance studying both men in tandem. “Meaning that his critical view of the President and the Administration might have been deliberately organized as a psychological terrorist attack. Is that the reasoning of the agency?”

  “Whatever happened to free speech, the First Amendment?” Fiona said.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” the redhead said.

  “It must be the prevailing view of your people,” Hodges said. “Otherwise, why stick your nose under our tent?”

  The idea of intrusion by the Feds, or for that matter the local politicos, was the bane of the Chief’s existence. Nothing but nothing could get his back up more than interference by so-called higher authority. Sometimes, as was probably the case now, he would pretend surrender, but in his gut this was the big no-no. Inside, Fiona knew he was seething and was calling on all his acting skills to present a congenial façade.

  He was also a realist and knew how to play the bureaucratic game. At this stage, he probably felt he had no other option but to appear conciliatory and to cooperate. From his perspective, the men from Homeland knew his attitude and were trying to placate and ingratiate. What it told Fiona was that this case was becoming a far bigger deal by the minute.

  “No need to be upset,” Kinney said. “We’re here to help, not hinder.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Fiona said, thinking that maybe the people at the Post were correct in their assumptions. She knew she had no right to question the position they were in, but she couldn’t contain herself. The Chief cut her a look of rebuke.