Immaculate Deception (19 page)

"She could have done it, though," he mused.
"All she had to do was get past the desk man on the way out, which is
likely considering the sloppy security in that place."

She watched the Eggplant sip his coffee. He was unusually
subdued. The fact was that Captain Luther Greene had been put down in front of
his subordinates. For a man of his ego, this had to be almost unbearably
painful.

"That woman was murdered, FitzGerald," he said
after a long silence.

"My sentiments, exactly."

"And I think we got it close to right."

"So do I."

"A man and a woman as secret lovers, they leave
tracks, something. The whole world isn't blind. Somebody knows something."

"This is the kind of thing the media are good at.
Getting the word out." She lowered her voice. "We could always leak
it. See what bubbles out of the sewer."

The Eggplant lifted his lugubrious eyes and laughed. It was
an empty hollow laugh.

"Plenty I'll bet. You heard them. Paranoid about the
media."

"Nobody can be in politics for more than ten minutes
without getting that disease," Fiona said.

The Eggplant finished his cup of coffee. A waitress came
over and gave him a refill. Fiona refused. She was agitated enough. Caffeine
would make it worse.

"I didn't take over homicide to call murders
suicides," he muttered, peering into the dark shiny coffee. Then he looked
up suddenly, as if someone might have heard. "I can understand their point
of view. I really can. Nothing to go on."

"Nothing but our expertise," Fiona said.
"And that should be enough."

He sighed.

"No skin off my tail if they call the damned thing a
suicide," he snapped, mostly to himself. "Not worth blowing my future
over it."

"Definitely not worth that."

"Except it's right. The right thing." He lifted
his cup and looked over the rim. "Like you said about the lady. She did
the right thing."

Which was really what he had brought her here to say. A
little sob bubbled in her chest.

"Be careful, chief," she said, feeling the rush
of sentiment. She felt her eyes grow moist.

"Hell, the old Eggplant knows how to play the
game," he chuckled, smiling broadly. She blushed and he must have seen her
discomfort and he quickly changed the subject.

"That Rome is a cool one."

"As soft and smooth as olive oil," Fiona said.

"Son of a bitch is playing his own political game.
Probably sees any blow-up of the situation a negative for his side."

"Just remember, chief. Everything a politician does is
all political. He pees, it's political. He snores, it's political."

The Eggplant nodded, then finished his coffee and slapped
the cup back in the saucer. Lifting his hand he signaled for the waitress and
mimed a writing gesture for the check.

"Well, FitzGerald. We got a week. You better get the
lead out. We either wrap it or dump it. Right or wrong. Gut feelings or
not."

"Might as well be a year," she said. It was her
experience that cases either moved fast or withered. The longer a case stayed
open the better its chance of being frozen in place. Interest wavered. Leads
got cold. Indifference set in.

The waitress brought the check and the Eggplant looked at
it and whistled.

"I just wanted coffee not a major investment."
The check came to five dollars.

"You want a fancy hotel," the waitress said,
turning snotty, "you got to pay for it." She was white, red-neck
southern with a hairdo to match. They both knew where she was coming from.

"Too bad fancy service don't go with it," the
Eggplant snapped. He gave the waitress a five dollar bill with the check. She
could tell he wasn't going to leave a tip.

"You people," the waitress muttered. "Run
everything now. Take our women."

"You ain't had black dick, you ain't had
nothing," Fiona sneered, enjoying the woman's reaction. She had opened her
mouth, but no words came out, then she turned on her heel and flounced away.

"You didn't have to do that. It's not your
battle."

"She insulted a cop. That's family."

Again he smiled broadly.

"For a senator's daughter you got a mouth on
you."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment to you and your macho
brothers," she snapped. "Just a put-down for the lady."

"Same old FitzGerald," he laughed.

"Same old..."

"Eggplant."

They walked out of the restaurant, went out the Pennsylvania Avenue side and got into the Eggplant's car. They headed back to headquarters.

"Back there," Fiona asked as they drove. She had
been curious. "The mayor really blasted you."

"Comes with the territory."

He had thrown up his guard again, the tough gruff unfeeling
Eggplant.

"I'm sorry, chief. I really am."

It was the second time she had apologized.

"Want to know what he said?"

She nodded.

"Said I was pussywhipped."

"That sexist bastard."

He turned to look at her.

"He was right," he said. He did not smile.

There was a message on her desk from Greg when she got back
to the office.

"Confabulation necessary. Got to talk," the
message read. He had been calling her more frequently than ever during the past
few days and she had been deliberately cutting the conversations short, blaming
it on her "busyness" which was half-true.

But evenings, when she had finally let go of her work and
was left to her own thoughts, it was harder to keep him out of her mind. Was
she or wasn't she pregnant? Obviously it was too early to tell, nor would she
allow herself to take a do-it-yourself test. And she rejected the idea of
seeing a doctor at this stage. Not yet.

Perhaps this reluctance had its roots in her early Catholic
training. Concepts like God's will be done were ingrained, programmed into the
mind, impossible to extract by a mere exercise of logic and scientific proofs.
Not that she had any illusions about the technology of conception. But the
randomness of fertilization did provoke ideas of mysterious forces at work,
like fate and destiny. If it was meant to be, she had decided, then so be it,
notwithstanding the fact that she had helped the process along. She would,
therefore, await the decision of fate. It would come soon enough.

She had, however, made one decision out of pure reason. She
would not tell him. It was a complication she did not wish to confront or
burden a child with. Therefore, she knew that, if she were pregnant, she would
have to wean herself from him. He must never know he was the father of her
child. Never.

She was certain that she had thought it through. He was not
divorced, nor did it seem that his wife would ever allow it. Aside from the
woman's religious convictions which mitigated against divorce, being married to
an important lawyer like Greg gave her a certain legitimacy and prestige. Washington, like all places where power counted, was a bad place for ex-wives of important
players. No, she decided, even if bells clanged for Greg, his wife would never
release him without a horrendous struggle.

Nor did she wish, under any circumstances, to be part of a
closet family. Not that it was uncommon these days, but it was not her style to
be a closet anything. Besides, the pressure on Greg would be destructive. He
had his two young sons who were always on his mind, guilt trip enough for one
man. It would have to end badly, she had decided.

On the other hand, the importance of fathering, she
presumed, was not to be dismissed. Surely it had made a great impact on her
life. Perhaps some day she would meet a man who would marry her and perform
that function. But it was certainly unfair to both natural father and child to
bring them together in a relationship that could be debilitating and destructive.

Therefore, she had assured herself, it was better to have
the child by herself, mythologize the father in the child's eyes and bring it
up as if she were a widow. In the black culture that surrounded her, it was a
common practice to raise a fatherless child. It was, of course, economically
foolish for those poor black girls, but emotionally, their argument that a
woman alone needs a child to love was not without truth. Simplistic, she knew,
but she had determined that it was also valid for her.

She, too, needed a child to love and the biological window
of opportunity was closing fast. And, unlike those black girls, she was not
impoverished. Her inheritance was substantial enough for her to properly raise
and educate a child. She would not have to worry about day care or proper help.

She had prided herself on her independence and had always
tackled the world on her own terms. Her choice of profession, her financial
independence, her sophistication and her ability to choose her lovers were the
envy of many of her peers. If she had not found a man to share her life
forever, she supposed it was partly her own fault. This was the downside of the
female mystique.

Her mother would have called this idea of being a single
parent self-willed and impractical. But then she maintained a slavish belief in
convention and appearances.

"I'd say I was married, Mother, and wear a wedding
ring, for crying out loud," her inner voice said in its endless debate
with her mother, a constant echo in her mind. "Besides, it's too late.
I've already done it."

That would have stumped her. Like Frankie, her mother was a
confirmed pro-lifer and this would have been too great a challenge to her
hypocrisy. After all, the way the Catholics had worked it out, screwing out of
wedlock was a sin, but it was never a sin to conceive in or out of wedlock.

"Then we'll just have to make the best of it,"
her mother's voice said. Fiona also heard the echo of a sigh, her mother's sure
sign of surrender.

"So I do have your blessing, Mother?"

"Have I a choice?"

To fulfill the spirit of her plan, she would, if pregnant,
have to say goodbye to Greg, cut it clean, but in a positive, civilized manner.

She dialed Greg's number and got his secretary who told her
that she was instructed to put Fiona right through.

"In a meeting, Fi," he said. "Just hold
while I get to another phone."

He was back in less than a minute, slightly out of breath.

"You okay?"

"Working hard. This is a tough one."

Her tone was clipped, hard-edged, the words sparse as if
she wanted to prepare him for the inevitable, start the process of departure.
But she was not totally comfortable with the idea. Suppose it hadn't happened.
What then? She would need him once again.

"I need to talk," he said.

"About what?"

"Us," he said flatly.

"Sounds ominous," she said trying to be
light-hearted.

"We've got to discuss the future," he said.
"Our future."

The irony was troubling. She could sanction deception for
ferreting out murders, but it was quite difficult for her private life. She
looked around the shabby squad room. At that hour most of the detectives were
on the street. Even the Eggplant was not at his desk. She would have welcomed
the hum of activity, the familiar sounds of interrogation and cajolery, the
clash of accents and the still unfamiliar sounds of the electronic telephones,
the comforting voices of friends and antagonists.

"Why now?" she asked cautiously.

"It's ... well ... because it's bugging me."

No, please, she wanted to say. You're making it quite
difficult. She was silent. What response could she give? She had used him.

"Really Greg, this is not the time..."

"I've got to see you. We've got to talk. I'll be over
tonight. Your place, tonight. Is that all right?"

Certain she owed him that. Besides, it was not yet time to
burn the bridge.

"Not early, Greg. This case is overwhelming. Say
around ten."

"I'll be there," he said. But he did not hang up.
For some reason she, too, continued to hold the instrument to her ear.

"Fi?"

"Yes. Yes I'm here."

"I love you."

Only then did she hang up the phone.

Fiona and Cates sat in the living room of the late Frankie
McGuire's apartment. A film of dust had begun to settle on the surfaces of the
furniture and a mustiness flavored the air. They had carefully gone over every
inch of the apartment. Looking for what? She wasn't quite certain. Something
that might trigger an idea, suggest a promising lead.

Nothing.

Cates had, by then, checked with almost all the tenants in
the building. Many of them, especially those not associated with government,
had never met the congresswoman. Even when shown a picture most had not
acknowledged ever seeing her.

There were eight other congressmen in the building,
including Mr. Rome, also three senators and a number of government officials.
Most, like the Romes were married, and those wives Cates had managed to
question told him, in one way or another, that Frankie, when she was not
accompanied by Foy or the Romes, always arrived at social functions alone.

Mrs. McGuire's apartment was on the fourth floor, at the
end of the corridor, near the fire exit. The staircase ran from the roof to the
lobby. With the exception of the desk man there was no elaborate security
system, which was standard in most of the new buildings being erected in Washington. But this was an older building and since the burglary rate was comparatively
low in the area, the building's owners apparently did not see the need to
install an elaborate system.

It was conceivable that a determined intruder could get
into the building undetected. The chances were, too, that he might even get
past the indifferent desk people. But getting into the apartment would be a
different matter entirely. The owners had installed a modern locking system
that was well secured from inside the apartment.

"An exercise in futility, right, Cates?" Fiona
asked after they had poked around the apartment for a half-hour.

"I'm from Kansas," Cates said

"Missouri. The expression is 'I'm from Missouri.'"

"Same idea."

For her part, she felt herself digging in her heels,
although she did not quite understand the underlying reasons for her surety.
Frankie McGuire was murdered by her lover. Find the lover, find the murderer.

"There are no secrets," she mused aloud.

"Got to admit. That secret is the only airpocket in
this case. Believe me, I've tried to get to it. She dealt with men all the time
on the Hill. She went up to Boston every month. Every person with whom I talked
put the idea down, however it was presented. Not the slightest hint, not an
innuendo, not a breeze of scandal."

"That only meant that she was clever," Fiona
said. "I never heard of a woman conceiving by herself." She paused,
felt the brief pressure of her own situation, than chasing it away said:
"Well, almost never."

She stood in the center of the living room, her mind
focusing on details. Despite the dust and mustiness it was as neat as when she
had first seen it. The technicians had put everything to rights according to
their photographs of the scene at the time of discovery. Every chair, table and
picture was in perfect placement, every knickknack carefully arranged. Nothing
was out of place. The apartment was in effect, still in custody, awaiting a
determination from homicide.

"It's here somewhere," she sighed.

Cates shrugged.

"It'll be over in a week," he said, as if that
were a fait accompli. She ignored the comment. But she could not ignore the
wealth of research he had amassed, all of it buttressing the suicide argument.

"How could she have kept it hidden from the Romes?
They were her closest friends."

"I spoke at length to Mrs. Rome," Cates said.
"She and her husband saw a great deal of Frankie."

It occurred to her that Cates, because he lacked
conviction, might not have been asking the right questions. Quite often a bias
made the difference between success and failure in an interrogation. If her
theory were correct then Cates, too, was missing something.

"Think Mrs. Rome is home?" Fiona asked.

"That's easy enough to find out," Cates said. He
looked up the phone number in his pocket notebook. He was extraordinarily
thorough in finding and preserving information. She knew, too, that he often
transferred such information into his home computer.

Finding the number, he reached for the phone.

"Busy," he said, looking at the useless
instrument. "Let's just go on up."

By then, it was late afternoon. The Romes lived on the
floor above on the tier facing Massachusetts Avenue. Frankie McGuire's
apartment faced New Mexico Avenue and Fiona assumed that the layout was
similiar to Frankie's although reversed. Fiona was not a fan of apartment living,
although she had occasionally rented her parents' place in Chevy Chase and had
sublet an apartment for various lengths of time. Never again, she had decided.
Too confining.

Mrs. Rome answered the door herself. A tall full-bodied and
elegant-looking woman, she was smartly dressed, perfectly groomed and, as
always, not a hair was out of place. Greying, with cheerful brown eyes and lips
formed in what must be a perpetual political smile, Mrs. Rome, raised
well-plucked eyebrows in surprise. Nevertheless she remained placidly calm,
considering that they had barged in on her. Normally, guests were announced by
the desk man.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rome, but my
partner and I have been going over Mrs. McGuire's apartment and would just like
to clear up some loose ends."

"Of course," Mrs. Rome said, flashing a smile and
standing aside to let them in. She was, Fiona decided, the epitome of proper
conduct and reminded her of her mother, who was also always perfectly groomed
and ready to admit guests to her home at any given moment.

Like her mother, too, Fiona noted, Mrs. Rome's apartment
was sparkling clean. It had a polished look. Oriental rugs graced the floors.
Where the hardwood floors were visible they were shined to a high gloss. In
fact, wherever she looked everything was shined to a high gloss.

English and early American antiques were everywhere. A
painting looking suspiciously like a genuine Remington on one wall and smaller
paintings of western scenes, undoubtedly of equally illustrious provenance,
hung on other walls.

"Just came in from an absolutely marvelous luncheon at
the Jocky Club," she said as she led them through the apartment. "A
sendoff for one of our foreign service wives. Her husband has been appointed
Ambassador to Peru."

They followed her through the immaculate living room to a
paneled den. From what they saw of the apartment it smacked of big money, old
big money.

Fiona studied the room. To one side was a wet bar lined
with bottles. Behind Mrs. Rome were floor to ceiling bookcases, filled on one
side with antique leather bound books and on the other with modern novels in
their dust jackets. Thrillers and mysteries seemed to be favored.

"May I get you coffee or tea? A soft drink,
perhaps?" Mrs. Rome asked.

They both declined politely.

Sitting in a leather chair, she waved them to two soft
leather easy chairs and primly crossed her legs. Here was a woman well used to
entertaining constituents and making them seem important. Her mother
reincarnated, Fiona thought.

Mrs. Rome smiled pleasantly offering herself with devoted
expectation.

"Really nice of you to see us without any
notice," Cates said. "But we were here and took the chance."

"No trouble in the least," Mrs. Rome said.
"I can't get dear Frankie out of my mind. It baffles Charles and me.
Frankie never, ever appeared suicidal. Not to us."

"Nor to anyone else," Fiona said.

"She had everything to live for," Mrs. Rome said.

"We met with your husband and the mayor this morning,
Mrs. Rome," Fiona said, somewhat abruptly.

"Oh, yes. It's very hard on Charles, having to deal
with the matter. But the speaker is really anxious to expedite the disposition
of the case one way or the other. Somehow it reflects on all the members when
something like this happens. Casts a cloud."

"Have you spoken to your husband today, Mrs.
Rome?" Fiona asked. It wasn't, after all, her place to impart the
information about Mrs. McGuire's pregnancy.

A frown creased her forehead, although the smile remained
fixed.

"Yes I have," Mrs. Rome said.

"Then you know about..."

"Mrs. McGuire's pregnancy."

Fiona nodded.

"I'm afraid so," she sighed. "I'm sure it's
a mistake."

Was there a double entendre here? Fiona wondered. Whose
mistake?

"Dr. Benton is the finest medical examiner in the United States," Fiona said cautiously.

"I didn't mean that," Mrs. Rome said, frowning.
"I can only assume that to be accurate. But it is somewhat remarkable for
a woman to conceive at her age. That part of her life seemed long over. After
all they have four grown children. But these things happen, I suppose."

Something seemed off kilter in Mrs. Rome's remarks, as if
she was reacting to a totally different stream of information.

"Of course, the way they lived, with Jack McGuire in Boston and she here most of the time, it wouldn't have been very good for the child, don't
you think?" Her brown eyes sparkled as she spoke.

"Are you saying that you think that Frankie's husband
was the father?"

Mrs. Rome raised her eyebrows indignantly and Fiona did all
she could to resist exchanging glances with Cates.

"Isn't that the usual explanation for a married
woman?"

"Mrs. Rome," Fiona responded, unwilling to let
the statement go unchallenged. "The McGuires haven't been together as man
and wife for years."

"Media nonsense," Mrs. Rome said.

"I'm afraid not," Fiona pressed. Mrs. Rome
apparently also had her mother's habit of evading unpleasant truths. "I've
spoken to Mr. McGuire. He confirms it."

"You can't believe anything that man says," she
said fiercely. "We had them out to our ranch in Nevada. When was it? Six,
seven years ago. I'm a Nevada girl, grew up there. Daddy was in the mineral
business. Anyway, all that McGuire man did was booze booze booze. No wonder she
wouldn't have him ever come to Washington. I can tell you that marriage was
always strained. I couldn't imagine how she ever put up with it. I'll say this
for her, she was always quite defensive about Jack. And overly tolerant."

"He's already married another woman, Mrs. Rome,"
Fiona said.

"Wouldn't surprise me," she said with a familiar
huff in her voice. Yet Mrs. Rome's naïveté in this matter seemed genuine. Fiona
felt her tolerance level descend.

"Which sort of buttresses the argument that they
hadn't been living together," Fiona said. "It also suggests that it
was unlikely that Jack McGuire was the child's father."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Rome said with a smile.
"This is not my expertise."

"But surely you would agree..."

"Gossip is simply not my ken," Mrs. Rome said,
making an obvious effort to be pleasant.

"Surely you noticed something. Anything. Really, Mrs.
Rome, this is very important. If you had the slightest hint..."

"Little blinders," Mrs. Rome said mimicking
someone putting on spectacles. "That's what you wear in this town.
Especially as regards those matters. I stay in my own vineyard."

"I'm asking specifically about Frankie McGuire,"
Fiona said with growing exasperation. "Did you ever have any indication
that there was a man in her life?"

"Other than her husband?"

"I just told you about her husband, Mrs. Rome,"
Fiona snapped. The sudden pique elicited absolutely no reaction in Mrs. Rome.

"The answer to your question is no," Mrs. Rome
said simply. "It is inconceivable."

"But the evidence of her pregnancy suggests otherwise.
Surely you have to concede the possibility of her having a lover who impregnated
her. Knowing who it was is really quite critical to this investigation. You and
your husband were her closest friends in town. Think back. Review it in your
mind. Was there ever anyone...?"

"I suppose I haven't made myself clear," Mrs.
Rome said politely.

"It's just that ... secrets are so difficult to keep
in this town."

"Quite true," Mrs. Rome said. "And I'll
grant you that liaisons are, I suppose, quite common. Something about the
aphrodisia of power. Any woman who leaves her husband alone for extended
periods has to be mad. All those ambitious young ladies thirsting for
excitement. It does go on, I'm sure. Makes for bad politics, not to mention bad
morals." Her words were emphatic but not angry and the smile never left
her face.

"Goes for the gander as well as the goose," Fiona
said, studying Mrs. Rome's face.

"I really don't think it's the same," Mrs. Rome
said. "I guess I'm an old-fashioned gal."

"Apparently Frankie McGuire wasn't," Fiona said
pointedly.

"That's because you didn't know Frankie," Mrs.
Rome said. "She was a hardworking, dedicated, brilliant woman. Her focus
was completely on her work. My husband and she had tremendous differences. Her
position on abortion, for example, is well known, as is my husband's."

"Can you ever recall seeing her with another
man?" Fiona asked. Her question seemed almost desperate, obviously
repetitive. She cut a glance at Cates who had remained silent and deadpanned.

"Why, of course," Mrs. Rome said calmly.
"She was a member of Congress. You can't imagine how hard devoted members
work. My husband is a case in point. Up at the crack of dawn. Off to the job
while most of us are still locked in dreamland. Sixteen hour days.

"I meant being with men in another context.
Romantically, if you will."

"Never. How could she find the time?"

Her smile broadened with the little joke and she showed no
sign of losing patience with Fiona's line of questioning. Undaunted, Fiona
pressed ahead, although she was beginning to see this interrogation as a futile
pursuit.