by Warren Adler
She was becoming more and more impressed with Izzy and his way of looking at things, thinking outside of the box. She had been so busy concocting questions on this new theory that she had ignored the prevailing one.
“At the first interrogation, she was touting the groupthink,” Fiona said, recalling.
“Not on the second go,” Izzy said. “Makes me think that she has had another idea about his disappearing act. Just a theory, listen up: He suddenly changed his behavior, dropped off her radar screen. His kid calls, his wife calls. Where’s Adam? She has a King Kong–size crush on him. Maybe she shows him her cards, looking, hoping for reciprocity. No dice. But she’s thinking that in her mind at least, he’s so damned desirable that she suspects someone else has got his attention.”
“Maybe she follows him around,” Fiona embellished. “She thinks other women are after him. Isn’t that the mindset of a woman with a crush? It arouses jealousy, perhaps one step further.”
“Stalking?”
Fiona contemplated the idea. It was entirely possible.
“She discovers that he is seeing someone else. She is inflamed with jealousy. She follows him, pushes him.” Fiona shook her head rejecting her own idea. “No way.”
“Remember that oldie? You always hurt the one you love,” Izzy said.
“Easy to check,” Fiona said.
It was easy. They did check. The Style section had an eleven o’clock staff meeting that morning, and Charlotte took notes.
Chapter 17
In just a few days, it was all over the Internet, television, and newspapers in every language, a multiplying virus, seeping into the collective universal brain. It was melding into a single theory, ubiquitous now, all-encompassing. Adam Burns had been whacked by the target of his barbs. Some marveled at the cleanliness of the hit—no witnesses, a tiny push, and splat!
Chief Hodges was beside himself, being pushed pillar to post at every level and harassed by the all-engulfing media monsters, his superiors, and an avenging army waiting in the wings. They weren’t exactly at square one; they knew that something had happened months ago that made Adam Burns pull a disappearing act. The Chief very diligently and secretly shared information with the two Homeland boys working internally, finding nothing but dead ends.
Congress was calling for an investigation. To his credit, the Chief remained Horatius at the Bridge, urging more time, stalling, insisting that so far they could find no evidence of foul play, none. It wouldn’t be long, Fiona knew, until the giant federal wave would pass over them, casting them aside and losing them in the rough surf. The “hit” scenario was too juicy a story for the politicians and media to pass up.
When the subject came up between Larry and Fiona, they danced cautiously around each other. Larry defended his paper for harping on various theories, one of which hinged on some inside government-connected, assassination-staged hit, although they continued to toy with the theory that the culprits might have been some rogue secret group.
Naturally, the White House and the various allies of the President were offering pious rebuttals and proudly championing the concept of a free press and the rights of journalists to express opinions, however caustic, contrary, and reckless. Thus, the Post was having it both ways, and Larry boasted that their circulation numbers were up.
Fiona kept the A-for-Adultery theory close to the vest, since even that had so far borne no fruit. Again, they interviewed Mrs. Burns, Jack Perkins, and Charlotte Desmond, who were becoming less and less cooperative. Even Charlotte, probably advised by counsel to the Post, was close-mouthed and defensive, adamantly denying that her boss was involved in such a tawdry episode. Nor could they press the point, for fear of being accused of harassment in the new politically correct environment.
Then it was Larry who threw the bombshell that exploded in Fiona’s den, her one hand curled around the stem of a very dry martini. His revelation caused her to spill most of it on her skirt.
“It’s true,” Larry said. “It’s exclusive for tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “You’ve got a two-hour heads-up. The presses roll in a couple of hours, and then shit hits the fan.”
She had made him a martini as well, but his hand was steady as he sipped. He did not spill a drop. He lifted his glass as in a toast.
“They, our great leaders, are itching to accuse our deceased hero of being involved in an assassination attempt on the President. We’ve been mulling that one for days. Now we have the real skinny, a hot inside source. Even I am excluded, Fi. But they assure me that that little rumor has finally been confirmed by a live legitimate source, signed and sealed, and now we can go with the story. They were debating whether to use the man’s name in the breaking story or hold it for future use.”
Fearing that her hand was too shaky to hold the glass, she swallowed the remains of her martini in one gulp.
“Who?” Fiona managed to ask.
“Only Jack Brady and Don Grant are in the loop on that one, Fi. Thank the Lord! It is a burning ember, and I don’t want to handle it. But the story is a go for the bulldog. I love it! Playing hardball with the sons of bitches. Always happens that way, one courageous son-of-a-bitch who couldn’t abide the bullshit cops a plea. We are the watchdogs, Fi. Celebrate us, kiddo, we keep America free. And mix another martini.”
It was not easy for her to remain calm.
“An inside source? Sounds bizarre.”
“That’s what makes it so delicious.”
“And you people actually believe it?”
“Believe? We report what’s out there. It has nothing to do with beliefs.”
For some reason, she remembered her conversation with Dolly and her reference to “cooking the books.” Her thoughts turned dark—not Philip, no way.
“And you don’t know who blew the whistle?” Fiona pressed, knowing she was moving into forbidden territory.
“Outta the loop.” Larry said. She searched his face, but it told her nothing beyond his denial. “Wish I could.”
“Did this source implicate others?” Fiona asked.
“Apparently,” Larry said, adding, “Sorry, Fi, can’t say. Wait until that bomb goes off—boom, boom.” He giggled, showing signs of the alcohol working. “Goes to show you. We played the Burns story on the nose. Proves that even the good guys play hardball. This proves it.”
“So it’s now a pox on both their houses,” Fiona said.
“On the people, not the concept.”
“Meaning the Post’s continual love affair with the progressive tilt.”
“That’s the vision, baby, and we’re the watchdogs.”
“Woof, woof.”
“Very funny.”
Remembering what Dolly had told her, his self-satisfaction was making her nervous. Then suddenly her cell rang. The caller ID identified Dolly. She took the call.
“Need you, Fi. Please.”
“What’s going on?” Fiona said breathlessly.
“I don’t know, Fi,” Dolly said, her voice betraying her hysteria. “I just don’t know.”
“Where is Phil?”
“I don’t know, Fi. I’m scared. I have this note.”
“Oh, shit.”
“He asks forgiveness.”
“Oh my God, Dolly. I’ll be right over.”
A cold sweat crawled down her back. She ran to the bathroom and threw cold water on her face. Asking forgiveness was a signature phrase for a potential suicide, a kind of signal.
“Cop emergency, Larry,” she said.
He was mixing another pitcher of martinis.
“No time for a tiny one, baby?” Larry asked, oblivious to her concern. At that moment, he seemed utterly irrelevant. As she went out the door, she heard him say. “I’ll wait up.”
She didn’t answer and sped to Dolly’s house in Spring Valley, just a ten-minute drive. She put her blinker on th
e roof and made it in five.
Dolly fell into her arms, near collapse.
“I’ve called everywhere!” Dolly could barely get the words out. “I just don’t know. I don’t know!” She repeated the words over and over again. “I’m at my wits’ end!” She was breathing deeply, trying to catch her breath, and the tears were flowing down her cheeks. “He came home early, went right into his study. He looked awful, but I didn’t question him and went about my business making dinner. Suddenly, he appeared, looking pale, his face tear-stained. ‘What is going on?’ I asked. I knew, of course, and I was scared. He looked so strange. He embraced me, kissed me deeply, thanked me for everything, and then walked out of the house. I went after him, but the car shot out of the garage, and he was gone. It’s been a couple of hours. I don’t know what to do! Fi, I’m scared. I don’t know if I can handle this by myself!”
“Don’t think the worst, Dolly,” Fiona said in an effort to be reassuring, but it did sound ominous. “He’s probably in a bar somewhere, getting smashed.”
Hardly, she thought. Phil was not much of a drinker, and was sparing in his wine drinking.
“Hell,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’m sure the phone will ring any minute with Phil on the other end.”
“A woman knows her husband, Fi. He was hurting, really hurting. It was getting worse… you know what I mean? I never told him I spoke to you. He would die if he ever knew I spoke to you about it.” Her expression indicated that she had regretted offering Fiona the revelation. “Please, Fiona. Don’t ever tell, ever.”
Fiona nodded, deeply troubled by Dolly’s report on Phil’s strange behavior.
“He’s never acted like this, Fi, never.”
“Have you called around?”
“I called everyone I could think of. I was circumspect, of course. I did not want to compound his troubles or show them that I was concerned other than I needed to get in touch with him.”
“He’s just working it out in his own mind, Dolly.”
“‘Thanks for everything,’ he said. I’m not stupid, Fi. He kissed me like he was saying good-bye.”
“You’re reading too much into this, Dolly,” Fiona lied. “Let me check.”
Moving away from Dolly, she called Izzy and asked him to put out an alert and to check with the hospitals. She gave him a quick physical description of Philip, explained his government role and her fear that he was a potential suicide victim. She asked for a quick response either way, hoping she was not overreacting.
She deliberately did not inform the Chief, wanting to be certain of the results of Izzy’s inquiry. She reasoned that there was no point in stirring things up until she knew whether Dolly’s hunch was fully explored. Soon, too, the Chief would see the Post story and a new wrinkle would have to be dealt with.
There was a conspicuous dilemma to be faced: the conflict posed by her relationship with Larry. Although it was known, she and the Chief had agreed to be circumspect about it. Unfortunately, the line between business and the personal could be a problem, especially when it was intersected by related events.
To make matters more complicated, it was becoming increasingly obvious to her, considering Dolly’s insight into her husband’s state of mind, that Phil was the source of the Post story.
She sat beside Dolly on the couch, embracing her as they stared into space and waited for a return call.
“I begged him to get out of it. Underneath, he was a fragile man. Oh God, I loved him.”
Fiona noted the past tense and hoped it would not be true, hoped he would come walking in the door, handsome, sensitive, vulnerable Phil Owens, her first flame.
“He was acting strangely. I told you that, Fi. They were asking him to do something against the grain. He said it wasn’t exactly a lie, just a hint, to counter what everybody is saying. He did not name names or anything and said it could not have been an order from the President. No way. He said he would try to go further upstairs….”
They sat immobile on the couch for more than an hour. Fiona called Larry and told him not to wait up, that something real important was happening that could keep her involved all night. He sounded upset and slightly tipsy and said he would get back to his own apartment for the night.
An hour later the Chief called. “The redhead and his buddy have called a meeting.”
“The Post story?”
“I saw it,” the Chief said, noncommittal.
She quickly informed him of where she was and what was happening regarding Philip.
“Get your ass up here.” He hung up abruptly.
It was an order, tinged with a bit of anger. She should have notified him immediately upon getting it from Larry. Dolly’s call had changed her priorities. She looked at her friend, sitting hunched up on the couch, a pale figure, laden with anxiety, looking up at her, fearing the worst.
“No,” she said, “just my boss. No news. My partner is on it.”
She wished she could offer something more optimistic, but she could not bring herself to fill her friend with false hopes anymore. Dolly nodded.
“Just keep yourself together, Dolly,” Fiona said. “I’ll stay in touch, news or not, and be back just as soon as I can.”
“It runs in families, Fi,” Dolly said ominously. “His grandfather and an aunt… suicides.”
“Proves nothing,” Fiona said cautiously. “It’s a theory, not a scientific fact, purely anecdotal.”
Although the evidence was overwhelming, she did not wish to deepen Dolly’s anguish. She squeezed her friend’s shoulder and turned away before Dolly could see her tears.
“One thing more, Fi,” Dolly said, as Fiona moved toward the door. Her voice stopped Fiona in her tracks. “Phil kept a revolver upstairs in a drawer next to our bed.”
Fiona stiffened.
“It’s gone.”
***
Izzy and the two men from Homeland Security had arrived before she had. It struck her as a strange scene—four men and a woman in the far corner of the men’s lavatory of police headquarters. A sign on the doorknob said Out of Order.
She could tell that the Chief was disturbed, not only by her tardiness but also her failure to tell him about what she had learned earlier from Larry. He did not like surprises.
Chief Hodges held up the front page of the Post, which he had pulled from his pocket. The headline read: Administration Hints Burns Killing Linked to Assassination Ploy. The gist of the story was exactly as recounted by Larry. To Fiona’s cynical reasoning, the Administration was trying to mount a false campaign alleging that somehow Burns’ columns had triggered a plot to assassinate the President and that Burns might have physically provided aid and comfort to the plotters.
The Post cited a high Administration authority who had access to the inside scoop and had revealed it to the Post for ethical and moral reasons. According to the story, the anonymous informer had signed affidavits to back up his claim and had implicated his superiors.
“No clue as to who blew the whistle?” Izzy asked.
The two men from Homeland Security exchanged glances.
“No secrets, remember,” Fiona said, with some trepidation.
“Philip Owen,” Wallinski said, turning to face Fiona.
She felt her stomach congeal and could sense the blood draining from her face.
Chief Hodges turned toward Fiona, as well. He and his wife had been guests at one of Dolly and Phil’s soirees. Fiona nodded.
“What can we say?” Wallinski asked with a shrug, exchanging glances with Fiona.
“Don’t say anything,” Fiona shot back. “I suppose we could expect nothing less from you hotshots. It is no secret that Phil and Dolly are my close friends. Unfortunately, you’re not quite up to date.”
Without giving them a chance to respond, she told them about Phil being missing, leaving out no detail, especiall
y about the gun and the note. After her revelation, the Chief was the first to respond.
“Nothing so far,” he said. “Izzy filled me in.”
“I know Phil. He was ethical to a fault. If he was forced to knuckle under, it was a challenge to his core beliefs,” Fiona said.
“So who was doing the pushing?” Izzy asked.
“The powers that be,” Hodges said. “Who else?”
“And, of course, the media loves this shit,” Fiona said, thinking of Larry.
“They don’t always get it right,” Wallinski said.
“Except that they think they do,” Izzy said, “which is worse.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Fiona said, speculating that the Homeland guys already had the answer as to who was doing the pushing. “The media shits hook the fish but don’t pull it out immediately, keep their readers guessing. Nothing like “what happens next” to mesmerize the eyeballs. I’m sure they know who pressed Owens, but not who pressed the presser.”
“That’s what Dolly figured,” Fiona said. “Somebody starts the ball rolling. It bounces around the pinball machine, touching all the hot spots, and the media does the rest. That’s the dark side. The other side is that one can go to the media and air one’s grievances. Apparently, that’s what Phil did, and he knew it would blow his career, perhaps his life.”
At that moment, it occurred to Fiona that these men knew a lot more than they were telling. Why not? They were sleuthing within the establishment, an anthill of tunnels leading everywhere and nowhere.
“So where was the pressure coming from?” Fiona asked, hoping that the repetition would elicit a more specific answer.
“Upstairs, where else?” Wallinski shrugged.
“That’s a given,” Fiona said. “Is there a who?”
The redhead and his partner exchanged glances and smiled.
“That’s the bureaucracy,” Wallinski muttered. “The higher you go, the more asses are covered. Phil had no place to go. He was the end of the line. His role in this scenario was to leak the manufactured idea of an assassination attempt. Obviously, he couldn’t. This business is not for anyone with a moral conscience.”