by Warren Adler
"Who made the first move to leave?"
"She did."
"And you complied without argument?"
"Of course. It was getting late."
"Did she look at her watch and say something like, it's getting late, I have to be going?"
"Yes. Something like that."
"And then?"
"I paid the check and walked her to the hotel entrance."
"Was there any talk about you going to her room?"
There was a barely perceptible pause, which was odd, since he surely had anticipated the question.
"Yes, there was," he said, sucking in a deep breath. His eyes glazed and he turned away.
"But you said she wasn't interested in such things," Gail pressed.
"Not in my experience. She just wasn't interested in me, I guess." He seemed suddenly regretful, revealing an emotional part of himself that he seemed to have preferred to keep hidden.
"But you were interested in her?"
"I could have been, yes," he admitted. "If she had ever given me half a chance."
"She was rich, beautiful and smart."
"All of the above."
"So after she turned you down, you left her in front of the hotel."
"Yes, I did."
"And she made no mention of meeting someone later."
He shook his head. The sweat stain was deepening and creeping down his sides. Gail exchanged glances with Fiona as if it were an offer to participate. Fiona nodded with closed eyes, signaling that Gail was doing fine on her own. But her instincts told her that Barker was holding something back.
"You say you said good-bye at the lobby entrance?"
"Yes."
"And that was the last you saw of her."
"Yes."
"Is that all, Mr. Barker?" Gail asked, her eyes, laserlike now, boring into him. So Gail, too, was not quite comfortable with Barker's answers.
"What do you mean by 'all'?" Barker said, frowning, his head cocked to one side, listening.
"I had a long conversation with Mr. Herbert last night," Gail said.
Fiona sat up stiffly, moving forward in her chair. Gail kept her eyes leveled on Barker. It was troubling to Fiona not to have known about this conversation. Had Gail deliberately kept it from her?
Surely, Fiona thought, Gail would have briefed her if Fiona had been on time. Yet why hadn't she been told beforehand that Gail and Herbert had spoken? When was it set up? Had they spoken before? Did Gail suspect that Fiona, too, was working on her private track, thus giving herself permission to pursue her own?
"How is Mr. Herbert?" Barker answered, a touch of surliness creeping into his voice.
"Not very good," Gail replied. "In fact, mighty vengeful. And with excellent reason."
"I suppose you might say that's his nature," Barker sighed.
"He told me everything," Gail said.
"Yes, he would do that. So what?"
Gail suddenly turned her attention to Fiona.
"At sixteen he was accused by the thirteen-year-old daughter of the Barker family maid of forcing his attentions on the young lady."
"Rape?" Fiona asked, hiding her surprise.
"An accusation only. Dr. Barker, Phelps's daddy, asked Mr. Herbert to talk to the maid, who apparently was prepared to make the charge to the police."
"It was a total lie," Barker said. The rouge marks mantling his cheeks now spread downward to his neck.
"He told me you had said that," Gail agreed.
"It was a shakedown pure and simple. Dad talked to Mr. Herbert, who talked to the woman, and that was that."
"It was more than talk, Barker. Mr. Herbert said money changed hands. Ten thousand dollars, if I'm not mistaken."
"He told you that. The son-of-a-bitch. He had promised that the matter would never be brought up again. I can't believe he did that."
"That man is going to leave no stone unturned. No matter who gets hurt. He will be completely ruthless about finding the man who caused his daughter's death. He told me that the evidence was overwhelming. That the young girl showed marks of violence on her body."
"Did he also tell you that this spic bitch also accused her own father of violating her and that she had actually seduced me, waved it in front of my face, for crying out loud?"
"Yes," Gail said. "He told me about that. He said that was also part of your defense."
"Mr. Herbert said he believed me. My father did, too. It was clearly a case of blackmail to extort ten thousand dollars from my father. It was awful. It could have ruined any hope for my future. How dare you throw this back in my face. Mr. Herbert violated a trust." His anger was accelerating as his fulminations increased. "That lousy fuck. That girl was a lousy little whore. I was a vulnerable sixteen-year-old boy. I really resent this. I really, really do. What is it with you people? Alright, you need an arrest, but dragging me into it will lead nowhere. Nowhere."
"Tell me about your engagement to Ann Lawton."
"Jesus," Barker said, turning suddenly to Fiona. "She's trying to nail me to the cross."
"I spoke to her," Gail said.
Busy little bee, Fiona thought, her resentment rising. They had paired her up with a lone wolf, a glory-seeking cop. She wondered if Gail had informed the Eggplant of these little tidbits. That, she decided, would be beyond the pale.
Fiona felt her accelerating irritation. Was it because Gail was closing in on Barker? Or was it the resultant explosion of her theory about Farley Lipscomb?
"And she does not speak kindly of me, am I right?"
"She was not unkind. I would call her 'guarded.'"
"Did she also cry rape?"
"She put things in a much more generous way. She said you and she were incompatible. She implied that this incompatibility was of a physical nature."
"My God. Are there no secrets? Ann is now a fanatic feminist and a commited lesbian."
"Yes. She told me that. Told me other things as well."
"I don't believe this," Barker said.
"She said you liked to see her make love to another woman."
He shook his head, despairing.
"Alright, I have a strong libido. Many men like to see that. It turns them on. Actually, it turned her on as well, witness her present orientation. What turns you on, Officer Prentiss?"
"Finding the bad guys," Gail said coldly.
That remark made Fiona suddenly reflect on her own logic. An instinct for the truth, she discovered, is an acquired skill. Not all detectives ever reached that level of sensitivity, only those with an interior operating system that is able to program itself out of the hubris of personal experience. It was not infallible and only worked under certain conditions.
Unfortunately, such a skill was only practical if it led to the conviction of the perpetrator of a crime. To nail a criminal required facts that could convince a district attorney to make a presentation to a grand jury. The district attorney did not deal in instincts or suppositions, only the quality of facts and, of course, his or her own powers of persuasion to motivate a grand jury to return an indictment.
But everything began with the detective. The detective was the source. Instinct was the cutting edge that sliced through the rope that held the package together. And once the box was open and the lid taken off, the detective might find the validation for his or her instincts.
Watching Gail hone in on Phelps Barker, Fiona could see that she was pursuing a trail bushwhacked by her instincts. Gail, apparently, truly believed that Phelps Barker was the perpetrator, but so far her instincts had led merely to supposition based on Barker's sexual track record. Was it enough to screen out Farley Lipscomb? It was exactly on this point that her logic and instincts went to war.
Despite Barker's bravado, Fiona could see that Gail was breaking him piece by piece. Perhaps she hoped for a confession. Without it, Fiona was certain that, despite Gail's relentlessness, there was, so far, no hard evidence to support her contention.
"Are you certain, Mr. Barker, that yo
u have nothing more to tell me?" Gail asked sharply.
Barker's eyes shifted from side to side as if his mind wanted to jump out of his face to some other reality.
"Like what? You have no right investigating me, dredging up my so-called checkered past." He leaned over toward Gail. "You know this could be actionable."
"I know the limits of my official capacity, Mr. Barker," Gail shot back.
Barker turned suddenly to Fiona.
"You've been awfully quite, Sergeant. Or is this a good-cop/bad-cop scenario?"
"I'm a good listener," Fiona said, deliberately displaying her neutrality.
"Suppose I told you that I have a witness to your being inside the lobby that night," Gail said. "Not outside, as you contend."
He seemed to go suddenly white, swallowing hard. Fiona's irritation accelerated. Was Gail putting bait on her hook or had she found a witness? If so, why wasn't Fiona consulted?
"Now really..." he began.
"You bought a package of mints at the stand in the lobby. The person was just closing up."
"Jesus," Barker said. "Jesus."
"How could she know it was me?"
"How could you know it was a she?" Gail said, triumphantly cutting a glance at Fiona.
Barker shook his head and pursed his lips. He studied his fingernails. The perspiration continued to pour out of him.
"I just assumed..." he said bravely.
"Never assume, Barker. I showed her your picture."
"My picture?"
"Simple. The Georgetown Law School yearbook. You haven't changed much in two years."
He turned to Fiona, his demeanor pleading.
"I don't believe this. She wants to frame me."
"I put you in the lobby and I'll put you in her room," Gail said.
Fiona was beginning to feel insecurity about her neutrality. Gail had, indeed, put him in the lobby.
"Look, I know how this must look. But surely you can't believe that I could do such a thing. Alright, I was in the lobby. I did buy some mints. I was drinking. I hate that kind of taste in my mouth. Is that a crime? I bought the mints and then I went home."
"I don't believe you," Gail snapped.
"Your prerogative. I'm a lawyer, remember. You need a lot more than that to charge me. Put me in the room and I'll concede I'd better get me a good lawyer."
"Don't worry, I will," Gail said.
"She really believes I am the man," Barker said, trying to preserve some fragment of credibility, but he was clearly on the way to defeat. Then, suddenly, any last vestige of machismo disintegrated. "Alright, you probably think I'm an arrogant bastard. But I'm not a killer. No way ... I hope..." He seemed to find it difficult to find words and his eyes moistened. He was no longer able to keep his emotions in check.
Suddenly his throat rasped and he cleared it. "I hope you won't destroy me. I'm an innocent in this. I tried to be of some help to the girl ... I..." He shook his head and held out his hands palms up. "I don't know why I've become a target. I'm ... I'm not your man."
"We'll see," Gail said, getting up, rising to her full height. Despite her chagrin at being out of the loop on this, Fiona could not dismiss her admiration for Gail's thoroughness and professionalism. The dark side, of course, was her relentlessness in her pursuit of Barker. She admitted to herself that she didn't like him, and Gail, too, probably despised him, but was this enough to mark him as the perpetrator? Fiona left the question open.
"You could have filled me in," Fiona said, as they settled into one of Sherry's much-battered Naugahyde booths. She tried to keep her tone nonjudgmental, but that was difficult under the circumstances.
"I wanted to, but..."
"I know," Fiona said, waving away any explanation. "I was late."
"That was part of it."
"And the other part?"
"Sometimes when it comes out fresh, it adds to the impact. Actually, Fiona, I had no intention of doing it this way," Gail said. "And I'm sorry it upset you."
Fiona decided then that it would be counterproductive to show any belligerence. Gail might jump to the conclusion that her nose was out of joint for reasons of ego, which was part of it. But what kept her in check was the other. She still clung to her theory about Farley Lipscomb.
Until there was enough evidence to prove the guilt of Phelps Barker, she was determined not to falter in her pursuit of Lipscomb. Pursuit? It seemed a strong word in the face of her rather awkward confrontation. It hadn't seemed to make a dent in his demeanor, although the obvious posture of denial could be interpreted as a ploy. Of course, that was what she wanted to infer.
What now, she asked herself. How must she proceed? She was worried suddenly that Gail and her ally Thomas Herbert would pump up the pressure on Phelps Barker, twist his mind, confuse him, perhaps extract a confession. She had seen it happen before. A man guilty of one crime confessing to another.
"The point is," Gail said, "I know in my gut that Barker is our man."
"Gut feeling does not a case make," Fiona countered, keeping the rebuke light.
Sherry came up to them in her floppy slippers and took their order. Both ordered tuna-fish sandwiches.
"There's more to this than meets the eye, Fiona," Gail said, sipping the coffee that Sherry had poured into their cups.
"Like what?" Fiona asked, bracing herself for more revelations.
"Those latents we picked up," Gail said. "We couldn't find a match..."
"You didn't..." Fiona snapped.
Gail smiled and nodded, took her large pocketbook from the seat beside her, opened it and tipped it toward Fiona. There was the Pepsi can, lying in a bed of scarf.
"Put him in the room, we got something, right?" Gail said.
Gail was lengths ahead of her. Fiona, despite her feelings, offered a nod of admiration. Under ordinary circumstances, it seemed a logical course of action. Now it was, of her, a personal source of shame.
"You're closer, that's for sure," Fiona managed to say. Her obsession with Farley Lipscomb was obviously interfering with judgment.
"We, Fiona, we are closer."
Fiona nodded and sipped her coffee, hoping it would mask her self-disgust.
"And if there is no match?" Fiona asked, further upset by her obvious display of negativity.
"Then we have the tech boys do the room again."
"And then if we find nothing?"
"Back to the drawing board," Gail replied. She paused and Fiona felt the intensity of her gaze as she studied her face. Fiona knew what had to come next.
"You don't seem very enthusiastic, Fiona," Gail said, after a long pause.
"It's a little premature for enthusiasm, Gail. Although I am very impressed with your work."
Gail lowered her eyes, as if trying to avoid commenting on the pallid comment. At that moment, much to Fiona's relief, Sherry brought their tuna-fish sandwiches.
"Oh yes," Gail said suddenly. Having lifted the sandwich, she put it down on her plate again. "Mr. Herbert has launched a private investigation of Barker."
Fiona again tried to tamp down her negative reaction, fearful that it might be possible to build up a good enough circumstantial case, which, whether brought to trial or not, would ruin Barker. The media would fixate on it and provide enough exposure to doom Barker's career dreams. But what Fiona feared most was that, circumstantial or not, a jury could declare the man guilty and destroy him. The law, after all, was not a science.
"Have you told the Chief?" Fiona asked.
"Yes, I did," Gail said, avoiding Fiona's stunned gaze. "I called him first thing this morning."
"Don't you think you should have consulted with your senior partner?"
"Herbert asked me to keep it between us, at least until I had spoken to my superior. I had to keep that confidence, Fiona. And, of course, I'm telling you now and the fact is that the Chief must have interpreted it as if I were speaking for both of us. No harm done, is there? I was careful to make no waves. Herbert is grief-stricken and determined
. There seemed no other way to handle it. He is, in fact, making our job easier." She laughed. "I mean it does solve the personnel problem, and if we crack it, it'd be a feather in both our caps. And the Chief would have the glory that comes with the success of his first gender team."
Studying Gail's face, Fiona looked for some sinister intent in this explanation. She couldn't find any, or probably didn't want to. She had her own sense of ethics to contend with, her own violation of the partnership pact between police officers, and she was too vulnerable to protest. What puzzled her most, however, was her absolute unwillingness to characterize Barker as the guilty party. It seemed more like a stubborn, obsessive compulsion.
"You've got a point, I suppose," Fiona sighed. She had been waiting for Gail to question her about the pictures she had presented to the assistant manager and staff of the Mayflower. Surely Gail had gone through the same dance, showing a blown-up picture of Phelps Barker extracted from his Georgetown yearbook. Someone must have mentioned it. But on this matter, Gail was inexplicably silent.
By then, the first bite of the sandwich had turned to stone in her stomach. If Gail noticed her lack of appetite, she said nothing.
After lunch, Gail left for the lab to pursue the processing of Phelps Barker's prints. Fiona went back to the squad room. The Eggplant was just leaving as she came in.
"Looks like we have a break coming on the Herbert case," he said.
"I wouldn't be that optimistic, Chief," Fiona said.
"Prentiss seems to feel otherwise."
"We'll soon find out," Fiona said, feeling foolish. The Eggplant looked at her with some curiosity, then turned and left the room. So her indifference was showing, she thought.
For a long time she sat in the squad room faking work. Her mind felt like a slot machine churning endless, unmatching symbols in their little windows. People came in, talked, made phone calls, joked. When they talked to her she answered in monosyllables with just enough effort to project an idea of alertness.
She felt bottled up, gorged with secrets, unable to find a clear path of action. Her attention drifted to the telephone messages on her desk. One was from Harrison. She called home to get her messages from the answering machine, admitting finally to herself that she had expected Farley to call, to follow up on their confrontation. Despite the vagaries of his reaction, she still believed that her message had been received.