Immaculate Deception (9 page)

"Romantic Beantown," Greg said in his silky
close-to-speaker voice with its blatant tease. She knew from the tone that he
had accepted her offer, meaning that somehow his parental calendar was clear.
His deal with his estranged spouse was that he took the kids every other
weekend. Fiona kept track of that, although occasionally they happened out of
sequence. Like now. It was, she was certain, a clear signal from that place
where fate was concocted.

The childless weekends had belonged to Fiona when she was
not working and there were occasional midweek times when the need arose and
time permitted, the latter far more frequent than the former. In the new safe
sex environment, one-steady was almost a health imperative. She hoped that he
was fulfilling his part of the unspoken bargain, although she secretly
suspected that he was pursuing a long-term closet "office quickie"
relationship with his married secretary, a very frequent Washington
arrangement.

She had almost wished he had refused and she was fully
prepared to accept it as a message from on high that this, like the Harper's
Ferry debacle, was another deliberate squelch of her secret agenda.

"I'd love it, Fi," Greg said, underscoring this
whim of fate. She had little doubt now that the window of opportunity remained
open.

"You understand that I'll be working. I've got to see
people in South Boston on the McGuire case. Means you'll have to fare for
yourself part of the time."

"Good. I'll need it for R and R."

A quick scramble of sexy imagery in her mind made her
cheeks hot and stimulated other familiar reactions. She laughed nervously.

"Hope so," she said saucily, knowing that the die
was cast. No turning back, she vowed. As backup for her resolve, she would
leave her diaphragm home. Burn her bridges. This is commitment time, baby, she
told herself. She had even checked the calendar. Fertility was still in season,
she noted. Was this fate smiling? It frightened her.

"Okay, Fi, you're penciled in."

"Ink it, pal. You've got a date with destiny."

"Heavy," he said, his voice whispering now.
"I feel this rising sensation."

"Take a cold shower."

Nearly a week had gone by since Mrs. McGuire had died and,
already, she and Cates had reached the first level of frustration. Flanagan's
sweep of her apartment had uncovered nothing that was useful. A fistful of
smudged prints. The maid had apparently done a thorough cleaning and polishing
on the day before her death and the only other clear fresh prints besides Mrs.
McGuire's and the maid's were Harlan Foy's.

This meant that either the killer, if there was one, had
been thorough in wiping off his own prints or that Mrs. McGuire did not
ordinarily have many people up to her apartment. To complicate matters further,
the only prints on the wine bottle in the refrigerator were those of the
congresswoman herself. Notwithstanding that, the Eggplant stuck to his guns.

"Means that the killer was one clever bastard. Those
prints were put there after the lady had croaked."

"Comes under the heading of making the facts fit the
theory," Fiona argued.

"Keeps the ball rolling," the Eggplant said
smiling. He had taken a big drag on his panatela and blew a perfect smoke ring
across the room. The media had kept the case alive, although his reported
assessments were still noncommittal and extremely cautious.

"We're not ready to say either way," he had been
quoted in the
Washington Post
. "We are exploring every promising
lead. We want to be absolutely certain before we commit." Talk about
vagaries.

"Foy is another cipher," Cates had volunteered.
Like Fiona, he was reacting primarily to the Eggplant's instincts in direct
contrast to his own. "Mrs. Carter implied that the man was gay. Nothing we
can find confirms that. On the other hand, we don't find any evidence of
heterosexuality."

"May mean that the man's a neuter," Fiona added.
"A not uncommon condition in this town." The political cauldron, she
had discovered, could also have a numbing effect on sexuality. Hard work, long
hours and a high anxiety level could wreak havoc with a man's libido. On
occasion she had encountered this darker side, a message that was not lost on
the two males in the room.

"We bow to your greater knowledge, sergeant," the
Eggplant said. To his credit, his face was expressionless. In the interests of
professionalism, she let it pass.

"Clearly, it's an optional conclusion," Cates
said with a touch of pedantry.

Fiona and Cates had interviewed everyone on the
congresswoman's staff. Frankie was, by all accounts, pretty well insulated by
Foy, who was the staff Mother Hen. He hired and fired, barked out the orders
and took on all of the burdens of administration. This left the congresswoman
free for the upfront chores, showing the flag, communicating with constituents
and colleagues, plying the ideological vineyard and generally pressing the
flesh. The staff loved her, tolerated him, which was only natural, but none of
them, male or female, could offer any solid proof of the man's sexuality. They
offered opinions, of course. But when pressed they retreated.

This was true also when they questioned his neighbors in
the apartment house where he lived on Capitol Hill. Suppositions galore. But no
hard evidence. The man kept to himself. Never partied. Had no apparent close
friends of either sex.

"As far as we could find out, his life was his work
and his work was Frankie McGuire," Fiona said.

"Gotta be careful on these things. These repressive
sex types can pop their corks with nasty results."

Restating the homicide axiom constituted a subtle rebuke
which she resented and she could not restrain a cutting response.

"A poisoning does not represent a popping cork. A
poisoner plans."

"A textbook conclusion," the Eggplant said, his
eyes drifting to the ceiling to emphasize deep contemplation and illustrating
his superiority. She capped a rising anger and forced herself to wait for him
to speak again. Cates tapped graceful brown fingers on his thigh, keeping his
own impatience bridled.

"All right then. Try this on for size," the
Eggplant said still looking at the ceiling. "Foy, the devoted retainer, is
also the secret lover."

She shook her head as if she had just swallowed something
very sour.

"There's someone for everyone, FitzGerald. How many
impossible combinations have you seen in your lifetime? The point is that they
had easy access to each other. Perfect cover. Who could suspect? Then suddenly.
Accident of accidents. The lady, who believed she was over the hill in terms of
making babies, suddenly finds herself pregnant. A dilemma for her? Fucking
A."

"The point is, what's the dilemma for him?"

"Maybe he wants to marry the lady. Maybe he doesn't
want her to pass the kid off as her husband's. Maybe he wants to assert himself
in some way."

"When she balks, he ices her?" Fiona said.

"Or some combination thereof."

"It's reaching," Cates said.

"That's what we're here for," the Eggplant said,
crushing the butt of his still lit panatela into an ashtray on his desk,
already piled high with dead butts. "Keep reaching."

"No worse than Mrs. Carter's hit man theory,"
Fiona said.

"Can't be discounted," the Eggplant persisted, as
he sucked in the smoke from a new panatela. "Lots of crazies would kill
for a cause. And this one generates lots of heat."

"All right," Cates said. "It's a theoretical
motive." Fiona could tell he was getting antsy. "The point is ...
there are no clues. Nothing."

"Makes it a challenge," the Eggplant said.

"At this point, I vote suicide," Cates said,
cutting a glance at Fiona. The eggplant's position baffled her. Yet she was not
ready to discount his instincts. Not quite yet.

"The fact is," Fiona said, "your Foy theory
notwithstanding, we couldn't scare up a breath of scandal. Not in Washington, anyway. And the Boston crowd are starting to duck us."

The "second thoughts" syndrome was a common
affliction, especially if the questions hinted a potential murder case.
Involvement, in general, frightened people. In a case where political
ramifications were rampant, like this one, all of the principal players were
running for cover. Even the voluble May Carter had become aloof, nonaccessible.
The same was true for Frankie's husband. She had managed to talk briefly with
Jack Grady, but as soon as the subject was broached, he begged off. A
telephonic interrogation was easy to evade.

Even Harlan Foy, the Eggplant's "prime" suspect
was now less than forthcoming. But he was, at least, a resident and could, if
necessary, be legally coerced. They had not told him about Frankie's pregnancy.
Not yet. It was too delicate a point, too much grist for the media mill in a
town that leaked like a sieve. Even the Eggplant would hang back on that one
until he was certain he had a credible hook.

"Maybe if we were to take a stab at them on their own
turf," the Eggplant said. He lifted his hand and rocked it, meaning sneak
up on them. Enter by the back door. "You know what I mean. Low key.
Nothing to shake the trees."

"Rather be safe than sorry," Fiona said.

"Something like that." The Eggplant muttered. His
panatela had gone out. "Budget'll only handle one." He studied their
faces. Fiona and Cates had exchanged glances. Occasionally they would allude to
their personal lives, but it was the kind of relationship where revelation
stopped at the door, although each acknowledged a kind of psychological
intimacy.

"You go," Cates said, turning away quickly, as if
he had received some message from her eyes.

"Worth a try," Fiona said, hiding her elation.
Again fate was beckoning, she thought. A regular Pied Piper, proving once again
that there were, after all, no accidents.

Was this all a dead giveaway? she wondered as the waiter
rolled in their dinner on a room service cart. She had splurged on a suite at
the Ritz-Carlton, a considerable step up from the lousy per diem the MPD
allowed.

The bedroom was all done in peach with a four-poster
king-sized bed, the floor covered with thick pile carpets and furniture that
was either genuine antique or good copies. The sitting room was done in mauve
with peach highlights and both rooms had a commanding view of the Common and
the Boston skyline.

A small anxiety fit seized her in the elevator. Would he
see through her plan? Be on his guard? She had told him it was her treat and he
had been relaxed about it, but she had not quite counted on the lavishness of
the hotel and the fawning of the service help.

But after the bellman had left and they had inspected the
premises, Greg took her in his arms and gave her one of those extraordinary
total embrace kisses, which took her mind off her trepidations.

With some reluctance, she maneuvered out of his arms and
ran off into the bathroom. There, she showered and primped and put herself into
her new wispy white lace lingerie and peignoir, leaving the room only at the
knock of room service serving her pre-ordered dinner. She had ordered pâté de
foi gras and medallions of veal and asparagus, and two bottles of Dom Perignon Champagne, both of them leaning in lovely serenity in their sleeves of sparkling ice in
silver buckets.

Criminals, she knew, often gambled with fate, flaunting the
obvious, reasoning that if they were not found out, they had, therefore,
escaped detection for all time. She had no illusions. If he didn't catch on,
she was home free. The comparison was apt.

"Am I worth all this?" he asked clinking glasses.
She felt the bubbles tickling her nose as she sipped the wonderful moist
tartness of the champagne.

"At times. Well worth it," she laughed, hiding
her nervousness.

He looked over the glass and studied her with his
sea-clear-blue eyes. Her gaze washed over him inspecting and approving.

"This has all the trappings of a special
occasion."

"Maybe it is," she teased as the effects of the Champagne began to soothe her.

"You could give me a clue."

"Never."

They were standing near the window watching the twinkle of
lights from the buildings that ringed the Common. She did not know much about Boston, but it had historical connotations that pleased her, a seat of history and
education that boded well as a place of conception.

He rose toward her and kissed her neck, nibbling for a
moment, then moving upwards toward her right ear.

"I think you're terrific," he whispered.

With the waiter gone, they ate the pâté de fois gras and
picked at the veal, but by the time they popped the cork on the other bottle of
Champagne, the special command performance that Fiona had arranged had
reached the end of Act One.

She felt the sudden pull of her inhibitions and, for a
moment, it took all of her willpower to overcome her body's reticence.
Surprisingly sensitive to her physical reactions, he stopped his ministrations
for a moment and whispered.

"Anything wrong?"

She did not answer him, fearing that her words might have a
negative effect on him. It was usually the male, after all, that was subject to
the involuntary whims of the organism. Perhaps this was still another test.
Reaching out, she touched him there. Nothing amiss. He passed with flying
colors.

It was only when she fully opened up to him, brought him
inside of her, felt her body accepting him, that she finally surrendered completely
to the act. It had, she knew, its ritual aspect and she felt it important to
show him even more enthusiasm than she usually did, which was considerable.

Because this was for real, a deliberate act, at least on
her part, of conception, she coaxed him then retreated, moved in a grinding
motion, then reversed herself, prolonging the act, determined to extract the
maximum power of a spermatic infusion. But, soon, even the clinical aspects
were lost to her in a long spasmodic excruciatingly delicious orgasm. Was this
yet another validation?

"Lovely," she said, holding him inside of her,
her womb still vibrating from the effect of the coupling.

"My God, Fi. You're awesome."

"It's called the Boston effect. The revenge of lust
for all those years of repression," she whispered.

"Compliments. Compliments. I thought maybe a little of
it might have something to do with me." He pulled a face with his lips
turned down.

"Without you it wouldn't have worked," she
teased.

He was silent for a long time, holding her. She felt his
breath against her hair. His silence frightened her. Perhaps he had figured it
out, she thought.

"You're a powerful piece of womanhood, Fi," he
began. Quickly she put a finger over his lips. He was getting too close to the
bone, she decided. His subconscious was figuring it out, dredging up
suspicions. This often happened in her work. Words as a stalking horse for the
subconscious. Then suddenly revelation.

They slept, then awoke, drank more Champagne, made love.
She set the pace, slowly this time around, although when the ecstatic moment
came, she heard the sound of her voice. A cry of joy. A shout. In a
metaphysical sense, she was certain it was a welcoming celebration of creation.

"Got a real screamer on my hands," he told her
when they had quieted, resting like two spoons, he in back with his hard arm
around her, his hand fitted to her breast.

"That ain't the half of it," she sighed, dying to
tell him what she had experienced, what she was absolutely certain had
occurred. She wrestled with the guilt of it for a time, then slipped into
sleep.

When she awoke at first light, he was still in a dead
sleep. She let him. He deserved the rest. Instead, she inspected him with the
care of someone who had a vested interest. She noted how well-made his hands
and feet were, the fingers long and tapering, the legs curved and shapely. His
hair, too, was shiny and healthy, his chin strong, his arms hard and powerful.
She imagined genetic combinations, a girl with his eyes and hair and straight
strong body with her high-pitched breasts and smooth white Irish coleen
unfreckled skin and straight nose, slightly elongated like his. She imagined a
boy made just like him with her eyes and well-shaped ears and her fine hair and
good cheekbones, not that his weren't gorgeous on their own. She hoped, too,
that, if it was a boy, Greg's male parts would be replicated.

After awhile, she began working out practical, but
necessary, scenarios. She would have to break up with him at some point, long
before her time, and she would take her maternity leave somewhere far from
Washington, some place difficult to find in case he ever wanted to work out an
exact birthdate. Alright, there was a degree of dissimulation here, but we were
playing with a child's life. Not that he would ever acknowledge that he was the
father. The point was that even if he did not know, she would not let him down.
Above all, she vowed, she would be a good and loving mother.

He was still sleeping when she left the suite. She kissed
him gently and left a note in lipstick on the bathroom mirror.

"More later. Rest up."