Immaculate Deception (10 page)

South Boston was Paddy Pig Irish, an expression her father
used whenever he referred to his own Brooklyn neighborhood. Driving through in
her rented car, she noted the same familiar reminders, the false shingle
facades on the two-story houses, the bars on every corner proclaiming their
territorial imperative, O'Neill's, O'Hara's, McCarthy's, The Shamrock, Paddy's,
the profusion of Catholic churches, the parade of Irish faces. Since it was
Sunday, the streets were sprinkled with spruced up family groups coming and
going to Sunday mass.

It was, of course, a place of pride and roots, an embattled
ethnic island fortress, tough and cantankerous, a bastion for the sons and
daughters of the shanty Irish and the mock shanty politicos who lived there for
their own reasons.

My crazy people, Fiona thought, feeling a strange rush of
nostalgia and loss as she threaded her way through the streets, following a map
opened on the seat beside her. She found the storefront headquarters she was
looking for. Above it a shiny new banner proclaimed it as "Grady for
Congress" headquarters. Quick work, but then politics was based upon
opportunism.

She knew he'd be there.

"He'll be interviewing volunteers there all of Sunday morning,"
a voice on Grady's home telephone had told her, sounding like someone who had
just gotten off the boat from the old sod.

It was still early, although some potential volunteers,
mostly teenagers and ladies of uncertain age with blue hair had already
gathered inside, where young men and women sitting at battered second-hand
desks were doing the interviewing.

As she entered, a smiling young woman holding a clipboard
made eye contact and held out her hand.

"I'm Peggy Smith," the woman said. After a very
firm handshake, she peeled off a paper from the clipboard and handed it to
Fiona. "Just fill this out and someone will be with you in a moment."

"I'm here to see Mr. Grady," Fiona said politely.

"Of course. But we have this routine. We have to sort
of get acquainted. Jack is here, of course. But he sees you after the initial
interview." Peggy Smith had rolled her eyes to a partitioned area in the
back of the store. Fiona nodded, took the paper and moved to a shelf along the
side of the wall on which there hung pencils connected by string.

There was always a police advantage to the shock value of
surprise. But she wasn't on her own turf and, above all, she had to avoid
stirring up problems for the Eggplant. He had sent her there with the
understanding that she play the guerilla. If push came to shove, he would
probably deny the instructions. Normal procedure would have been to check in
with the Boston Police Department, but this case, as the Eggplant knew, was
different. Too political. She would have been sidetracked, "Handled".
Police brass and local pols were protective of each other. More than likely
partners in corruption.

The procedure here was simple. The screening process was
merely an eyeball look at the prospective volunteer, a brief conversation to
determine whether the person was of reasonable intelligence and sound mind,
then shunted off for the inspirational kicker, an equally brief meeting with
the candidate.

She went through the process with agility, having used her
own name and social security number, but making up an address. This nearly blew
the scam. The interviewer, a male student at Harvard, had not heard of the
street.

"Only a half a block long," Fiona countered.
"Nobody knows it's there."

This seemed to satisfy him and soon, making no waves at
all, she found herself seated next to Jack Grady. She recognized him at once as
the man who was seated next to May Carter.

He was the image of an Irish pol. Central Casting could not
have done better. Beefy ruddy face, a mop of curly white hair with eyebrows to
match and sky blue eyes that peered out of crinkly laugh pockets. His style was
hug and smile, a real hearty hail fellow well met. He greeted her with klieg
light brightness.

"Welcome aboard, Miss FitzGerald," he said taking
her hand in a double shake, one hand on the forearm, slightly awkward for him
since he had to partially rise from his chair to perform it.

"I'm not who I seem, Mr. Grady," Fiona said.

He sat squarely back on his chair, his smile gone, not
quite knowing how to handle it.

"You media people never let a man rest," he
sighed, slapping the table, the smile restored. He had the knack of puffing
himself up with charm.

Fiona opened her pocketbook and pulled out her badge.

"I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Grady," she
said lifting the badge for him to see, "but I wouldn't have come this far
if it wasn't essential."

Again the smile disappeared. He shook his head.

"I really resent this, ah..."

"FitzGerald. Sergeant. Metropolitan Washington
Police."

"In the flesh now is it? It's a lousy tactic. Worse,
you know damned well that you have no jurisdiction here." He picked up the
phone at his elbow. "Do I have to zap you out of town or will you go
peacefully?"

"I won't go peacefully, Mr. Grady." He started to
push buttons. "And you won't be able to visit my turf without a hassle
from us. That's Washington, remember. If I'm not mistaken, the place where you
want to go."

"Dammit, I got rights." He still held the
telephone, his fingers still poised for action.

"So did Frankie," she said with determination.

"Are you saying what I think I'm hearing?" he
said.

"I know what I'm saying. I don't know what you're
hearing."

"That you think I have something to do with Frankie's
death?"

"You don't think she was a suicide?"

He bit his lip, shook his head, and put down the phone.

"What is it with you people? You think I murdered her
to get a shot at her seat. We were buddies, for chrissakes. Jack and I were
choir boys together. I've known both of them all my life."

"Did I mention murder?"

He struck her as all puffed up ham, the Jack of Clubs. She
could actually see the gears of his mind grind, figuring out the best approach.

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't think so," he
said. She could tell he had reconciled himself.

The truth is, Mr. Grady, we're not sure whether it was
suicide or murder. But we've got to wrap it up one way or another. The woman
was in Congress. She, left no note. The best thing for you and for us, Mr.
Grady, is to tie up all the loose ends and file it away once and for all."

He looked relieved at what seemed like her frankness. But
he still wasn't relaxed.

"I'm a politician, FitzGerald. I ducked you because
there's a downside on this for me. I started out as a cop. I understand the
problem and I know this much. If there's any hint of a homicide, which I doubt,
everybody knows that suspicion always hangs on the question of "Who
benefits?" I know you don't know much about politics, lady, but it's all
perception, all done with mirrors. It gets out that I'm even remotely
considered as a factor in this, in any way, then I hang up my jockstrap."

There was an air of pleading about his justification but it
did make absolute sense.

"I understand. No one but my partner and my boss knows
I'm here. I can assure you, Mr. Grady, that both these men are the soul of
discretion. I can be trusted and I'm not here to make any trouble for
you."

"It's got to be confidential."

"No notes. No tape recorder. All we need to wrap this
up is reasonable justification. We've got to talk to everybody that's
relevant."

"And because I choose to run, I suddenly become
relevant."

"You were a cop. I got my orders. Investigate. Talk to
everybody. Look, Mr. Grady, it's a hot potato. Nobody really wants to fool with
it. All we need to do is close it out."

On the surface, her explanation seemed very credible, even
to her.

"The faster we do it, the better all around." She
felt him studying her, beginning to surrender to the idea. Keeping the case
open, he must have known, wouldn't do him a bit of good.

"Between us then. Man to man." He showed her a
smile.

"Man to man."

He put out his hand. She took it. It was warm and clammy.

"Deal," she said.

It was a kind of coffee shop, with a cracked white Formica
counter, red imitation leather booths, chrome-edged brown formica tables and an
old-fashioned stainless steel urn that made noise like a steam locomotive.

They sat in a booth with high sides, well out of the line
of sight of anyone entering. Grady nodded to the big bellied man behind the
counter.

"You want a cuppa Joe, Fitz?" Grady asked. In his
mind, she could tell, the intimacy with her was sealed. She nodded and he
called the order out to the man. "My regular, Sully."

"Up front," Grady began. She could tell he was
comfortable with their so-called deal and he trusted her. "I'd say the lady
died of a broken heart."

"Now there's a concrete idea," she mused. Here
was yet another babbling Irishman purveying mysterious sentiment and compelling
charm. The type was painfully familiar. A figurative image crossed her mind,
herself donning hip boots to wade through the effluvia of blarney.

Sully placed two mugs of coffee on the table, one with the
distinctive odor of brandy, her father's occasional breakfast ploy. She watched
as Grady sipped through the steam and smacked his lips.

"I'm telling you why she did it. Broken heart all the
way."

His shaggy eyebrows seemed to roll down over his eyelids,
hiding his eyes as he contemplated his own words. Then he nodded, agreeing
fully with his assessment. She tried not to look skeptical.

"Look. Who would kill Frankie McGuire? Everybody loved
Frankie. Talk to anybody in this district. Frankie McGuire was the Irish
goddess. Could do no wrong. Even her enemies loved her. Hell, you should have
heard what Charlie Rome said at the service in the rotunda of the Capitol of
the United States." She hadn't told him that she was present. He took
another sip and pounded his chest. "I loved her. I loved her since the
first day I saw her coming down the street after church with that green hat on
her red head. Maybe she was twelve. No more. Never gave me a tumble though. It
was the old Jack of Diamonds from the beginning."

Was he running something up the flagpole to test a campaign
ploy? Wrapping himself around the fallen icon? Mustn't forget he is a
politician first and foremost, she warned herself, excavating a mental moat
around her to protect her from gullibility. These old Irish blarney birds had
the ability to reach inside of you, touch the weak spots. Even his tone and
language had subtly changed to meet the requirements of persuasion. Above all,
he was hustling her figurative vote.

He took another deep sip and sighed, then seemed lost in
deep thought for a moment. After a long pause, he then shook himself alert, his
gelatin jowls shivering like a St. Bernard.

"It was me that was going to run that first time out
when old Huey gave up the ghost. Was our man in Washington for thirty years.
You know how it was in the old days." He looked at her. "Maybe not.
But it was me that was groomed to take his place. I had to settle for State
senator." He put both his hands up, palms out. "I'm not complaining.
Been damned good to me. Damned good." He shrugged and she knew he was
reliving it all, reaching far back in time for justification.

Hard to fathom these things, she thought. She had encountered
it many times in her business. A person reluctant to talk at first suddenly
vents himself and explodes with an unstoppable confession. Of course, she
needed to ask questions to fill in the gaps, but she knew it would be wrong to
interrupt him, break the spell. He called for a refill and Sully stopped what
he was doing and eagerly brought it to their booth. He stood over them, waiting
for a response from her.

"I'm okay," Fiona said.

"It was the old Jack of Diamonds. He came to Huey on
his deathbed and begged him to give Frankie the Congressional spot. Huey said
that if Jack Grady stepped aside he would put his blessing on it. That's the
way things are done up here. You being Irish know the drill, all dark and
mystical with blood bonds, curses and promises to the death. So McGuire, he
wasn't the Jack of Diamonds then, and I wasn't the Jack of Clubs, he comes to
me and invokes everything from the Holy Mother to the pope, reminding me about
us being spiritual brothers since choir boy days. Hell, we were always thick as
fleas. Even now." He lowered his voice and leaned over the table.
"Used to filch nickels from the Sunday church box. Him and me were the
counters. Put the foxes in with the sheep." He chuckled. "Used to get
drunk on the ceremonial wine. In the end he was on his knees begging for
Frankie to get the shot and I finally said yes and he said, okay Jackie, I owe
you one."

He sucked in a deep breath, expelled it, then took a deep
drag on his mug. She could fill in the gaps on that one without further
questions. The subtext here was money changing hands, a transaction posing as
an emotional experience.

"It wasn't all Jack McGuire's soft tongue
though," Grady said, after he had slapped the mug down on the table, a
signal for Sully to bring another. "I told you. I loved the woman. Always
did. Always will. Not something a wife likes to live with, but Patsy has been a
card about it. Not that it ever meant anything more than just words. Like now.
The fact is she was a hell of a congresswoman. She gave those bastards a run
for their money. And I aim to follow in her footsteps, I can tell you. She'll
be running with me side by side, all the way."

More campaign stuff, she thought. Because it seemed to be
working, he ladled out some more, thick and steaming.

"Got no regrets, though," he added quickly.
"Just picking up the relay stick is all." Sully brought another mug
for Grady and refilled hers. At that point, he seemed to have gone
contemplative again. He looked into the mug for a long time and when he lifted
his gaze toward her she could see that his eyes were moist. "Poor Frankie.
We really lost one when we lost Frankie."

Not wanting him to lose the thread, she finally spoke.

"You said broken heart."

"Had to be. I can't think what else. Unless she was
sick with some terrible disease that she might not want to face."

"Not according to the autopsy."

He nodded.

"Then it's what I told you."

"Mr. Grady, I really don't understand. Are you saying
she had a lover who threw her over?"

"Frankie?" He seemed to erupt suddenly waving a
finger in her nose. "That's a foul ball, FitzGerald, a real foul ball.
Whatever old Jack McGuire did to her, finding himself a new lady, that doesn't
mean that she'd do the same to him. Frankie was a true and faithful wife down
the line. Next thing you know the damned media will be dragging her hallowed
memory through the slime."

"I'm sorry," Fiona said, peeking through the
struts of his quickly circled wagon wheels. She had, indeed, offended their
Irish tribal mores. Alright for the goose but never for the gander in their
convoluted morality. Irish womanhood derived from the Holy Virgin. The bastards
would sooner sew a big "A" on Frankie's shroud than abominate the
faithlessness of Jack McGuire. She let herself cool inside for a moment.
"I'm not from around here. Just doing my job. I suppose I've confused your
meaning."

"Left field, FitzGerald. Frankie would never do
anything like that. Not Frankie." His look underlined his contempt for the
idea. He took another long drag on his mug.

"Okay. Then educate me. I'd like to close the book on
this one." A blatant lie. This case had taken on a metaphysical importance
in her life. Fate had exchanged a death for life. When a star falls another is
born, her father had told her one evening long ago as they watched a glorious
twinkling night sky. Swiftly, her thoughts shifted to Greg waiting for her back
at the Ritz-Carlton, Greg the unwitting progenitor. With effort, she forced her
concentration back to Jack Grady's speculation.

"If you lived here, you'd know. All night, he flaunts
it with that woman. But you got to understand. Jack McGuire flaunts everything.
Big cars. Big money. Big boats. Hell, even this new lady's got big ... you
know." He described what he meant with his hands. "Got her a fancy
condo near the Common. Half his age, too. Gone on now for may be six, seven
years. Has to be a real burden for Frankie." She noted his sudden lapse
into the present tense. "He shows up around election time, unfurls the
marriage flag and he and their children parade around like a solid loving
family. Like it was one of those Irish promises to the death. You know. Showing
courage and crying on the inside but never ever reneging on a blood pledge. One
thing about the old Jack of Diamonds. He keeps his word."

Again, she swallowed her resentment and taped down any
personal sentiments. Good old Jack of Diamonds, the Barnum of the rotunda,
hadn't kept his word at all, not to Frankie, who was, therefore, entitled to
her secret lover, whoever he might be.

"Don't think I'm condoning Jack's conduct. Fact is
that Frankie also can be faulted for what's going on. Not natural for a woman
to stay away from the marriage bed for long periods. Much as I loved her I
think she could have done something to be with Jack more. Should have insisted
that Jack go down to Washington with her, set up some business there to keep
him busy. Maybe come up here two, three times a month." He pursed his
lips, shook his head, then took another deep drag on the mug. "People
never know how good they had it until they lose it."

"It was her husband who called on the night she died.
He got worried and pushed the panic button. Does that square with this ... this
estrangement."

"Oh, they talked. Had to. Lots beween them. Kids.
Always a worry on that score I can tell you. And, yet, there was money between
them. Things like that. But I can tell you this. He was caught between a rock
and a hard place. He was getting pressure from that other woman. He told me
himself. He came down to my office one day. Last July it was. Hot as a pistol.
Pours it out. Claims he loves this woman, really loves her, needs her, all that
jazz. He wants a divorce. The woman, Beatrice, I think her name is. An eyetie.
Yeah. Beatrice Dellarotta. Sticks in your head. Wants to be an honest woman.
Wants kids. Time running out. Usual stuff for an older guy with a younger
woman. He begs me to talk to Frankie. Me? The guy is desperate. He tells me
that he's begging her for a divorce ever since he met the new lady."

"You think it was all coming to a head?"

"First of all. Face facts. Politically speaking a
divorce is no asset. Not in this neck of the woods. Also, by now, Frankie is a
national figure, a real force. She's the leader of the pro-life people in
Congress. She's a ball buster on prayer in the schools. That's potent political
stuff for our people. She divorces, she blows her credibility with the real
die-hard Catholics, the ones that still support the Latin litany which nobody
ever understood except the priests. You don't fuck ... sorry ... you don't mess
with the committed Irish Catholics on these issues. Sure they talked, but I'll
bet most of it was about the divorce. Him nagging. She rejecting."

Everything is politics to these people, Fiona sighed. Her
people. Again Sully arrived with a refill and she could see the veins in
Grady's face begin to redden.

"And did you speak to her?"

"I sure did. When she came back to the district we
talked. Cried like hell on my shoulder. Hysterical she was. Too late by then.
Jack was committed to this new one and she knew it. Said all this fame and
fortune wasn't worth diddley squat. Values. Frankie had values."

"But you said broken heart," Fiona coaxed.
"Over Jack McGuire?"

"She loved him, you see. Loved the old Jack of
Diamonds."

"She said that?"

"Her? Too much pride to tell it to me."

"So how can you be sure?"

She was easing him along, her voice soft and coaxing. There
was a sense of bizarre about it, hearing this middle-aged hard-bitten,
booze-and-blarney-soaked Irish pol talk about love.

"Love like they had doesn't die so easily. Jack told
me himself on the phone, when was it, two, three weeks ago. It's not just
political, he says. It's love, he confesses. Says maybe she loves him too much
to give him up." Again he leaned over the table. She could smell the booze
and his eyes had that rheumy look. "He really took off on her that time.
Said a lot of stuff I didn't want to hear."

"Like what?"

"I don't like to be talking about things like
this," he said, shaking his head sadly. "And I don't want this great
lady's name taken in vain."

"We just need to wrap it up, Grady. Just wrap it
up."

"She needs to lie in peace. We owe her that
much."

"Problem is, she was in Congress. We can't have a lot
of smoke hanging around her death. You understand. It's something that can't be
swept under the rug. The important thing for you to know, though, is that
everything you're telling me will be strictly confidential. That I can promise
you."

She couldn't really. In Washington nothing ever remained
secret for long. Nothing. But, instinctively, she knew that this was the time
for reinforcement if he was to give her more. Responding, he lowered his voice.

"He said he wished she'd fall out of a window or get
hit by car."

"He said that. In those words."

"I couldn't say for sure. But he was some kind of
pissed off. Said she went back on her word."

"What word?"

"He didn't say."

She paused, watching him. He was hunched over the mug,
lugubriously inspecting its contents.

"You think he killed her?"

Slowly, he lifted his eyes from the mug.

"Jack? You crazy." He pointed a stubby finger at
her nose. "You get that one right out of your head, lady. People wish
people dead all the time. It was a figure of speech. Typical of Jack McGuire.
Man has a fierce temper. Fact is, under it all, there was genuine love
there."