Washington Masquerade

by Warren Adler

  “Quite a coup, don’t you think, Fi? I mean, Dolly stepping forward. Those assholes, as expected, denying all. So what else is new? The President gets a star for reacting swiftly: fired their asses. Story has legs, which is the main point.” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “Poor Phil. Some guys are just not made for hardball.”

  She made a decision not to argue the point. In her gut, she was now convinced that Larry and his word-wielding buddies were caught in the web of their own power fantasy. Not now, she told herself. Enough! She felt his gentle hands massaging her feet.

  “Let’s come out of the blizzard and seek a port in the storm,” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and he smiled lasciviously. All that sex talk earlier was coming home to roost, and despite any cerebral interference, she was feeling horny, aided and abetted by the fierce warmth of the alcohol. She gulped down the remnants of the martini, and he poured a refill for her from the pitcher.

  She let him kiss her deeply and slowly undress her, which he knew turned her on even more. Soon they were coupled together on the couch, her legs wrapped around his muscular body as he brought her to climax quickly and successively, then allowed himself the pleasure. “Good,” she whispered. “A real gentlemen.”

  “My mama taught me,” he said, “ladies first.”

  She lay in his arms a long time, then rose, went upstairs to shower, then checked a slew of messages. A couple of male callers left no messages, asserting that they would call again. She figured them for FBI.

  One message was from Judge McGrath, her voice deeply resonant and assured. “I am returning your call, Sergeant Fitzgerald.” Another was clearly from Wallinski, calling from his own untraceable, satellite phone.

  Later she made scrambled eggs and bacon and toasted some frozen bagels. By then Larry was back in thrall to his newspaper’s exclusives on the galloping story. She forced a nonresponsive attitude, letting him carry on, oblivious to her façade of disinterest.

  “Man, this is why I took up journalism. These idiots in their zeal fucked the President. That’s the real story.” He went on chomping on his bagel and shoveling scrambled eggs and bacon as he talked, scattering remnants. She had, of course, heard it all before, and it was getting tiresome. Watching him, she lost any residual illusions that there was any more to their relationship than sexual fun and games, and it struck her that he might have reached the same conclusion.

  As assistant editor, he was quite obviously part of the team that was helping to direct the story, making sure all the hints, clues, allusions, innuendo, and legal bases were covered. He had often bragged that he was the resident expert on the “slant,” which he characterized as the heart of journalism in the modern world. It was also at the heart of Fiona’s disgust and suspicion and gave him the effluvia of distrust.

  “You’ll see, Fi, in my business the story is all. It transcends political loyalty and correctness. It’s all about the fucking story, the revelation, and the excitement. Doesn’t matter which side wins. Don’t you just love it? Proves that the public wants red meat, red meat bursting with blood. Nobody can hide anything anymore. That era is over. What schmucks these guys were, but good for them! They gave us one of the greatest fucking stories of the year.” He looked up at her brandishing a fork. “Look at the chain of events. Imagine. Your poor old buddy.”

  Finally, she could not stand it any longer.

  “What ever happened to the truth?”

  “Truth? What has truth got to do with? There is no absolute truth, only different versions. And yes, it is stranger than fiction.”

  “Do you actually believe that Burns was involved in an assassination plot on the President?”

  “Who gives a shit? The story is everything.”

  “Even if it killed my friend?”

  “I really feel for that guy. He just wasn’t built for the political ballgame. He picked the wrong profession. He should have gone along with the fiction. Wasn’t worth his life.”

  “Stop the horseshit, Larry. You don’t feel for him. You don’t really feel for anybody. You’re not a giver, Larry. You’re a taker, a fucking fraud.”

  “A fraud, am I? Seems I heard that song before.”

  “Your ex was right on. She’s lucky to have dumped you.”

  “Well, well, the dark bitch inside surfaces.”

  “Big time.”

  “Looks like rag time is on its way.”

  “End of the line,” Fiona muttered, watching him. His face had turned beet red.

  “You can’t be serious. After what we did today?”

  “Call it a swan-song fuck.”

  “Over business? Hell, that’s not a man-woman issue, Fi.”

  “Business, Larry? Ever heard of core values?”

  “All the fucking time, Fi. It’s the cliché of political shitheads. Core values? Jesus, what crap!”

  He searched her face, shrugged, and obviously understood.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted.

  “Not any more, sweetheart.”

  She smiled suddenly at a wayward thought that came into her head like the reverse slogan “a hard man was good to find.” She decided then that she would relegate him to the junk pile of old lovers and go on the prowl for another.

  “I’ll send along your toothbrush and whatever else.”

  “Just another notch in your belt,” he engaged her stare then turned away.

  No room left, she thought, suddenly depressed.

  After he was gone, she quickly threw on jeans and a sweater. Suddenly her phone beeped. It was Wallinski on his satellite phone.

  “Tomorrow. Hains Point. Ten.”

  Secret stuff, she thought. Her aversion to conspiracy theories kicked in, but this caper with the two, mysterious, government guys was unprecedented in her police career. There was something troubling her about the strange role of these men. Was the Eggplant’s apparent trust enough to reassure her? She tried to dismiss her attitude as merely an exercise in paranoia but couldn’t quite get it out of her mind. She debated calling the Chief, but decided against it, for no other reason than he had given them carte blanche. Besides, she knew he was in the loop.

  Then she called Judge McGrath. A man answered, presumably her husband, and without comment referred the call to his wife.

  “This is Judge McGrath,” the woman said. Her modulated voice had the quality of commanding confidence.

  “Thank you for calling back, Judge. We are, as you might know, investigating the death of Adam Burns.”

  “I read the papers, Sergeant Fitzgerald. There seems to be some controversy surrounding the death of that poor man. I’ve talked to his wife. It is a terrible tragedy for the family.”

  “Is it possible, Judge, for us to speak with you?” Fiona asked.

  “We are speaking,” the Judge replied. “Ask me anything you wish. I barely knew the man. We occasionally carpooled our children.”

  “Who were once great friends, I am told,” Fiona said.

  “Yes, they were, although they still interact together. Both are on the soccer team at Cathedral.”

  Fiona expected some further explanation but none came, and she continued the conversation.

  “We’ve talked to a number of the women and some men who had carpooled for the kids. Isn’t there a chance that we might stop by and speak to you personally?”

  “I’m very busy, Sergeant Fitzgerald. My schedule is too tight to spare the time. Besides, I doubt if I could be of any help in your investigation.”

  “We could come by any time, very early, very late, even now if you wish.”

  Fiona could hear the woman’s breathing in the silence that followed. It was such a simple request that the woman’s protestations seemed oddly evasive.

  “Really, Sergeant. I am sorry, but it would be fruitless on your part, and believe me, I cannot spare the time. I’m busy
going over briefs. As I said, I would be happy to answer any questions you might have at this time on the phone, but I assure you I have had in the past almost no contact with Adam… Mr. Burns.”

  A warning bell went off in Fiona’s mind. Adam? She held back from pursuing the issue.

  “I understand, Judge,” Fiona said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  She let the matter ferment in her mind. Not one of the other carpoolers referred to Burns as Adam. Of course, she acknowledged to herself she might have been reading too much into the remark.

  Later, as she lay in her bed unable to sleep, turning it over and over again in her mind, she thought of Larry and their exit confrontation. Good riddance, she told herself, discovering that her period had started.

  Chapter 23

  The episode came off as a scene from a movie thriller. Izzy and she drove to Hains Point. It was raining heavily and few cars were in the area. Slowly they moved through the road that looked out primarily on the Virginia side of the Potomac. As they turned toward the other side, with its wedding cake view of Washington’s buildings and monuments, a car suddenly appeared behind theirs and flashed its headlights. They parked, and the car behind stopped in their rear.

  Wallinski and Kinney emerged and slid into the backseat of Fiona and Izzy’s car.

  “Are we playing spy games?” Fiona asked when the men had settled in.

  “Probably,” Wallinski said.

  Izzy and Fiona exchanged glances. The cloak-and-dagger aspects of meeting like this put her on her guard.

  “You first,” Fiona said.

  “We’ve got something,” Wallinski said, “might fit.”

  “First,” Fiona said, “I want the truth from you. Where are you in all this? Who do you report to? Who do you work for? It’s time to stop the bullshit. Something is going on here.” She looked at Izzy. “Look kosher to you, Izzy? You oughta know.”

  “Nothing I’ve seen or heard since Burns died sounds kosher to me.”

  “Or to us,” Wallinski said.

  “What does that mean?” Fiona asked sharply.

  She had turned in her seat and watched Wallinski’s expression. Considering her years of experience with liars, she could not read his face. Either he was so good at hiding secrets or he wasn’t hiding any. She wasn’t sure.

  “We’ve been up front with everything,” Wallinski said, with a side glance at his partner. “We’re with Homeland Security.”

  “Just as we said,” Kinney said.

  “We’re vetting things on the inside, out of the mainstream.”

  “How far out?” Fiona asked.

  “Way out. Our role from the beginning was to find out how this story got rolling in the first place. Did it come from inside or outside? Was Burns whacked, and if so, who whacked him? That’s our charge. We did monitor you guys selectively. Not illegal. Comes directly from the President—find out the truth, no holds barred. We know where you’ve been and who you’ve seen.”

  “Fuck you both,” Fiona said in a sudden burst of anger.

  “Look, Sergeant,” Wallinski said. “What could be worse for this country while we’re living on a fault line than for the President to be characterized as a murderer? Think about it. What could be worse at this point in time? We’re in a fucking war, and this is about the Commander in Chief being portrayed as a Mafia don, employing hit men, taking the law into his own hands to silence critics. Come on, woman. We’re living in a crazy, contentious world. Politics is a vicious blood sport these days. We’re fighting a war within a war between Americans. This is serious stuff.”

  “I still say fuck you.” She turned to Izzy. “I don’t feel good about this, but I’d like to hear them out.”

  “Is there a choice?” Izzy replied.

  “Okay,” the redhead said, “then listen up. Here’s what we did, and this is what we have. No one. Do you read me? No one other than the five of us is in on this. Your boss knows but is holding down the main fort while you guys and us do the grunt work. Got it so far?”

  Neither Fiona nor Izzy offered a comment.

  “I’ll assume a Yes. Here goes. One, like you, we don’t believe this guy was whacked by a hit man sent by anyone in the government from the top, middle, or bottom. No way. From the get-go, we chewed on the idea that Burns was shacking up with someone. Just an idea, not ready for digestion.”

  Fiona marveled at the similarity of their deductions.

  “I see that you’re also in the mind-reading business.” She looked at Izzy and smiled.

  “We went with it. We checked every motel along every subway route.”

  “I’m impressed,” Fiona said, and she meant it.

  “We showed these pictures to the desk clerks,” Kinney said, removing some photographs from an envelope he took from a jacket pocket and handing them to Fiona. They were drawn pictures of Adam Burns in various styles of moustaches and spectacles.

  “Okay, good for you,” she said, looking over the pictures.

  “We got a bite, a motel clerk at the Motel Six in Silver Spring with a yen for money and a lack of fear factor. In these hotbed places, they try to keep mum. He recognized the face in one of the photos. We always believed the disguise was shit. The clerk said the man would come in periodically, maybe once a month.”

  “Starting when?” Izzy interrupted.

  “Eight, nine months, he estimated. He couldn’t pin it down exactly. They don’t keep records on cash sales. The clerk knew the game. Obviously, he was scamming the owner. Soon, a lady came. Usual game plan, he told us. He never really caught a good look at her. Said she wore a baseball cap tucked low, long military-surplus-type jacket, no hair showing. The lady had her own disguise.”

  “They have this little trick, these clerks,” Kinney said. “The owners keep track by room cleanups. They check off when a maid cleans a room. In this case, the clerk did the cleaning, said it was spotless when he came in. Even the bed wasn’t mussed up that much. Like someone wiped it clean before he got there.”

  “Real paranoids,” Wallinski said. “My take on this is that they were skirting the edge, taking a big risk.”

  “A family-busting risk?” Fiona asked.

  “That, or a career risk,” Kinney added.

  “I’ve thought about that, Fi,” Izzy interjected. “I still say I don’t believe the wife would have busted up the marriage—just a hunch. She might have blamed herself for not… you know what I mean.”

  “For not providing enough home cooking,” Fiona said.

  “Well, then,” Wallinski said, understanding their shorthand, “we’re on the same page on that one. We went down the line, followed the pattern. Near the end of each subway line were motels a block or two from the station. We lucked out and got two more confirms. Same man. Same lady. Same disguise. We figure they had this routine. Met maybe a couple of times a week, some weeks more, some weeks less.”

  “For ten months, maybe a year. He wasn’t playing the field. He had one playmate, one and only. Never went beyond a couple of hours.”

  “Stolen time from busy lives,” Fiona mused.

  “Those clerks that talked told the same story,” Wallinski said. “Clean as a whistle—towels, sheets, pillowcases in the tub, wet, rinsed out.”

  “Washed out sperm stains and maybe DNA, probably picked away stray hairs as well,” Izzy said. “Not letter perfect, but they were doing the best they could covering their tracks.”

  “Clearly, they had some obsessive fear that they were vulnerable to surveillance or blackmail.” Fiona was speculating now. “It seems over the top.”

  “Fear of exposure,” Wallinski said, “makes people do crazy things. Our take on this is the lady had something to lose, big time.”

  “I gotta hand it to you two guys,” Fiona said.

  “Bottom line, does it fit?” Wallinski asked.

 
Fiona turned the issue over in her mind.

  “Granted. Are you thinking suicide or murder?”

  “Motive,” Wallinski said.

  “Like what?”

  “The old turkey,” Kinney said, “unrequited love. It happens. He wants to chuck home and hearth, can’t, suddenly breaks, a train comes, bye-bye.”

  “Or,” Wallinski said, “he got a Dear John, felt his world cave in, couldn’t hack the rejection, it overwhelmed his reason.”

  “Anna Karenina,” Fiona said.

  “Now we’re getting literary,” Izzy chuckled. “Wrong gender.”

  “Known to happen,” Wallinski said. “It’s a prime motive for both genders.”

  “We’ve dwelled on that one,” Izzy said. “It’s surely possible.”

  “It does however take it out of the realm of politics,” Fiona speculated, “and gets the President off the media hook.”

  “Only if it’s airtight,” Wallinski said. “We’re way out of the theory phase. The media will need proof-positive, absolute one hundred percent proof.”

  Something continued to trouble her. Izzy gave voice to her concerns. Soon they would begin to finish each other’s sentences.

  “It took two to tango,” Izzy said. “What about her? If she was the one with the most to lose, that makes her the number one suspect for murder most foul. They could have gone on their little hegiras together. It was getting too hot to handle. She gave him a little push.”

  “The clerks said they never arrived together,” Kinney said. “Won’t hold. How could they know? My guess is they did not travel together—just a guess. These two were paranoid. Being seen together, despite the disguises, which were lousy, was too much of a risk. I’d say they traveled separately. Besides, the exercise is pointless. There were no witnesses, none.”

  “Okay now. We were first, now you. What did you get?” Wallinski asked.

  “We are in sync on the woman angle. Unfortunately, it is still a missing piece. Who is she?”