Senator Love (18 page)

IT NEVER failed to amaze Fiona how an important case
mobilized her inner resources as well as that of those around her, especially
the eggplant. Professionalism took precedence to pettiness. Even the masses of
hidden agendas that gnawed at the eggplant's innards like maggots were
repressed. Even his paranoia subsided and he no longer feared that he would not
be fully "apprahzed" as the investigation progressed. Everything was
put at the service of "the case."

They were, at this moment, plugged into a single
wavelength. There was also tacit agreement between them that they would protect
the Senator as long as it was feasible, meaning as long as it did not impinge
upon the investigation or bend police ethics beyond what was acceptable, legal
or promotion-friendly.

There was, however, one point about which all were in
agreement. At the next interview with the Senator the eggplant would have to be
present. The agreement might be subject to misinterpretation on the grounds of
appeasing the eggplant's hidden agenda for collecting future chits, which it
certainly did, but more important was the fact that the matter was now too nationally
sensitive to be pursued without the top rung of the police establishment
represented. The eggplant, whatever his strengths and weaknesses, was able to
short-circuit the Commissioner. He was plugged directly into his own power
source, the Mayor, who, in turn, had his own constituency and favor bank among
the political elite. As public servants, Fiona knew, they were vulnerable
without some political protection.

Bunkie Farrington was still suspect number one, despite his
protestations. But beyond gut instinct there was nothing to validate him as the
perpetrator.

They had, Fiona knew, individual murder scenarios spinning
in their minds, but it was too early for them to trade revelations. All agreed
that the connection between the murders of Betty Taylor and Helga Kessel was
inescapable, although a serial pattern had not totally emerged. Another body
killed and disposed of in the same manner would quickly have confirmed the
theory. That had not yet occurred.

The next morning the
Post
carried a follow-up story
on the Kessel murder, quoting the eggplant as saying that "the police were
still pursuing the robbery theory," which cut both ways and carefully
signaled to the Senator and the Ambassador that they were not yet off the hook.

But the first surprise of the day was a call from Bunkie
Farrington, who requested that they meet him at his townhouse "as soon as
possible." Fiona and Cates were there within an hour.

They followed him into his kitchen, a jungle of unwashed
dishes and general chaos. He appeared in the same physical state as the
kitchen. His eyes were puffy, his skin pasty, his hair matted. A sour effluvium
rose from his body. He poured oily coffee, which literally tasted fried, into
chipped mugs.

He also appeared to have suddenly, as of a few hours ago,
taken up smoking, which periodically sent him doubling-up into coughing fits.

"You people are making me a nervous wreck," he
said.

He indicated that they should sit down at the table. They
reluctantly accepted the invitation.

"Sorry for the mess." Bunkie said.

He shook his head and lit another cigarette, managing to
get through a puff without coughing.

"Damndest thing," he said. They waited through a
long pause. He squinted into the smoke, then looked up at them. "I found
out what happened to Harriet Farley."

Fiona and Cates exchanged glances. They had planned, of
course, to check it out themselves.

"Saves us the trouble," Cates said.

"Dead," he said flatly. "Killed in an
automobile accident. I called Herb Frank in Florida. He had hired Harriet for
the first Senatorial campaign. She was a beauty, six foot tall, one of those
athletic, perfectly proportioned amazons. Sam went nuts for her. Right in the
middle of the campaign. Three years ago. She had to go. Our opponent was
gathering dirt and there she was, bigger than life, a perfect target. It didn't
take a genius to see that Sam had reserved that for himself. And she was
getting real hooked."

"So you gave her your best Dear-John," Fiona
said.

"You make it sound like it's a crime. I did the best I
could. Gave her a month's severance." He shook his head. "You may not
believe this, but I felt real bad about Harriet. I really liked her, big
blue-eyed baby."

"Boss got first dibs," Fiona said with a sneer.

Bunkie shrugged, but his silence told her she had hit a raw
nerve.

"She was killed on a secondary road in the Middleburg
area."

"Was she drunk?"

"No evidence. I got the report from the Loudon County
Police. She was into horses, rode with the Hunts in Middleburg when she got a
chance. Anyway, this was one of those winding country roads."

"When was it?"

"Did you have to ask? Three days after I spoke to her.
Not a word in the Washington papers. Happened in broad daylight, too. Bang into
a tree. Police could find no reason for it. She wasn't drunk, wasn't drugged. No
sign of foul play. They simply shipped the body back to Oklahoma, where she was
from. We never know how the end comes. Damned shame. She was something."

"We'll check it, you know," Cates said.

"I hope so." He punched out a half-smoked
cigarette, then lighted another with a match, and puffed in a drag. He blew it
out without inhaling.

Fiona studied him. In this business nothing was ever as it
seemed. Could the killer have deliberately thrown them off the scent? Serial
killers were crafty devils who, for the most part, understood their aberration.
It was Bunkie, after all, who had identified Harriet and Judy. They could have
been merely two among many, two whose history belied the serial pattern. This
did not rule out others who became entangled in the Senator's amorous
escapades. A twinge of curiosity invaded her. Involuntary sexual images
surfaced in her mind. With an admonishment to herself, she brushed them away
and came back to Bunkie.

Indeed, if one were to carry suspicion to the outer limits,
she reasoned that Bunkie could be covering for the Senator himself. It was the
kind of thought one filed away for future reference.

"By my count," Fiona said, "you administered
three Dear-Johns." She didn't count Judy Peters.

"All dead ladies," Cates snapped.

"Christ. Sounds awful," Bunkie muttered.
"Remember, though, Harriet had an accident."

"Maybe," Cates said.

"Come on, guys. That's a big leap of faith,"
Bunkie countered. "And Judy Peters gave Sam the boot."

"You would have gotten around to her,
Farrington," Fiona said.

"I guess so," Bunkie mumbled.

"Were there any others?" Cates pushed.

He took the question with resignation.

"That again?" he sighed.

"And again," Fiona said.

"I'm not counting the transients," Bunkie said.
"You'd need a computer. I've only considered serious threats to his
career."

"Just four?" Fiona asked.

"I don't have eyes in back of my head." He lit
another cigarette, inhaled, hacked then said, "He's a bull loose in a cow
pasture. What can I say?"

"Ever recommend a psychiatrist?" Fiona asked.

"In this business?" he shot back.

Cates looked at her, not understanding.

"It's a public antishrink prejudice," Fiona
explained. "Shows a politician's clay feet."

"You've got to admit, Farrington," Cates said,
"the evidence is compelling. They get serious, then they die. Except for
Judy Peters."

"It wasn't me," Bunkie said. "And certainly
not Sam. He may be a terror in the sack, but at heart he's a pussycat."

"Okay then. We're open to suggestions," Fiona
said.

"I haven't any. It's too weird," Bunkie said.
"I can't figure it out. Why?"

"Easy enough for us," Fiona said. "Had to be
someone who had a great deal to lose, personally or careerwise, by these
continuing affairs." She suddenly remembered Judy Peters, the one who had
gotten away. "Maybe Mrs. Langford." It was a stab in the dark, she
knew.

"Nell? No way."

"Why not?"

"She's on the team is why. But Sam is a good family
man. Loves the kids. Nell never rocks the boat."

"You mean all's well on the home front?" Fiona
asked.

"Believe it or not."

"She doesn't bug him, threaten to leave?"

"He keeps the other separate."

"With your help?"

"I try," Bunkie said with self-deprecating
sarcasm. "It seems I fucked it up."

They left him with that idea hanging in the air.

"We've talked to Judy," Fiona said.

"I figured," Bunkie said. "Proof positive.
She corroborated what I told you."

"More or less," Cates said.

"Jeez. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I'm trying to
help you, help clear the air." He puffed deeply, coughed, then, catching
his breath, spoke again. "What do you mean 'more or less'?"

"Who told Mrs. Langford about the Senator and
Judy?"

"Beats the shit out of me," Bunkie said. He
puffed again, coughed, bringing a fist up to his mouth.

"You never asked?"

Bunkie looked at them. His tongue flicked along his lips,
moistening them.

"I stayed out of that one. I didn't even tell Sam
about it."

"What
did
you tell him?" Fiona pressed.

"She cut out. Had enough. Good riddance."

"How did he take it?"

"Like all of them. He really liked the kid, but he got
over it."

"You think Mrs. Langford brought it up to him?"
Fiona asked.

"Probably not. I told you. She doesn't rock the boat.
The fact is we don't discuss his family life. I told you. The woman doesn't
exactly care for me."

"Maybe she's the one? That ever occur to you?"
Cates asked cautiously.

"Nell. A killer. You crazy."

"Why crazy? She could have set it all up
herself," Fiona suggested. Such an idea had both precedent and logic. A
rich jealous wife had the means and motive to put a private dick on the
Senator's tail. And worse. Hiring someone to ice the offending ladies was not
unknown in the annals of crime.

"Never." Bunkie said. She could tell that the
thought might have crossed his mind. Even if he was the perpetrator the idea
had good possibilities in terms of shifting suspicion away from himself. She
pressed him further.

"Never say never," Fiona said.

He blew a gust of breath through his lips, making an
obscene sound.

"Cops always ask the question, 'Who profits?'"
Cates said.

"Bimbos killed, career saved," Fiona added.

"That goes for all of us," he acknowledged.
"He goes down. We go down."

If he had any admirable qualities at all, it was absolute
loyalty to the cause.

"So you don't really know if Mrs. Langford ever
brought up the matter of Judy Peters?"

"And I didn't ask," Bunkie reiterated.

"You expect us to believe that bullshit?" Cates
snapped.

"I deal in the irregular. Not the regular. Problem
with Sam, he only goes wrong when he gives pussy an identity, recognizes the
whole woman."

Odd, Fiona thought, how being a cop made her sometimes
appear asexual at times, especially to macho assholes like Bunkie. Worse, he
was so insensitive, he couldn't even acknowledge his statement as a gaffe. The
man had a real problem with the gender. Not so the great swordsman Senator. He
knew the way to a woman's heart, all right. And apparently every other part, as
well, including what went on in their collective heads.

"So you say Nell Langford is innocent?" Fiona
asked. They were going round and round now, getting nowhere.

"I do."

"And the Senator?"

"No way."

"Monte Pappas?"

"You're kidding. Not a chance."

"Ambassador Kessel?"

He shook his head.

"Leaves you," Fiona said, watching as he
attempted to inhale a cloud of smoke. They left him in the kitchen, hacking
away.

NELL LANGFORD sat in the sunny living room of her spacious
Spring Valley home showing all the confidence that was not apparent when Fiona
saw her last at the dance. Through large floor-to-ceiling windows, they could
see brightly colored swings, a seesaw and sliding pond planted on the grass. A
high cedar fence surrounded the yard and a large dog lay sleeping under a tree.

The neat living room was expensively decorated with lush
fabrics. Framed Currier and Ives prints, obviously of collectible quality, hung
on the walls. There were also nests of family portraits intermingled with
silver-framed political photographs on every available flat surface.

True or not, the ambience offered the feel of deep family
roots, symbols of what modern politicians were now calling "values."
Dropped from the sky without a historical context for the Senator, one might
infer from his home that he was a faithful and devoted family man, a loving
husband and father. Knowing what she knew, Fiona felt offended by the
hypocrisy. Even Sam's little Nell could not escape responsibility for the
charade.

Nell Langford was wearing black slacks and a white
turtleneck sweater, which showed the lines of a well-endowed female body. The
gown she wore at the Mount Vernon dance had muted those lines.

Fiona and Cates had, by design, imposed themselves on her,
flashing their badges. If Nell recognized Fiona from the Mount Vernon dance,
she gave no sign. It was clear that she had not expected them, had not been
forewarned by Bunkie or the Senator. This was good. They had been counting on
the element of surprise.

"It's that important, Mrs. Langford," Fiona had
pressed, much like a door-to-door salesman about to put his foot in the door.
Nell had hesitated, her eyes searching their faces. Her instincts, Fiona
observed, from the flash of anxiety that passed across her face, were certainly
correct. An enemy was at the door.

"Just routine," Cates said pleasantly, in a poor
version of a dissimulating movie cop. She could tell that Nell Langford was not
fooled.

It had to be done, of course. There was no avoiding it. If
Nell refused, they would have to threaten. She seemed to be weighing the
alternatives. Nor could Fiona detect any signs of guilt or innocence, only the
palpable fear of the unexpected. The wife of a potential Presidential candidate
had to be cautious. In that context anything remotely controversial was to be
avoided. Nell chose to speak with them.

Leading them into the living room, Nell was cautious and
not unpleasant. Also not hospitable. Her consent had been strictly business and
no frills were to be expected.

"You have a lovely house, Mrs. Langford," Fiona
said with sincere admiration.

"Thank you," Nell replied coldly.

"Like an oasis," Fiona pressed.

"We worked quite hard to create it," Nell said
with an air of haughty dismissal. "Now what can I do for you?" She
was, Fiona felt, being deliberately patronizing, but she could not completely
hide her wariness.

"It's about the murder of Helga Kessel," Fiona
began. No small-talk now, she had decided. Plunge right in. Despite a desire to
be objective, she could not chase a feeling of irritation based on Nell's not
remembering her from the Mount Vernon party. So she wasn't important enough to
remember, was she?

Fiona, her expression deliberately stern, focused hostile
eyes in Nell's direction. She wanted her to feel under scrutiny, intimidated.
It was quite clear that Nell, for her part, had marshaled all her forces to
resist them.

It struck her suddenly that this same attitude marked all
the others. Like turtles, they had ducked their heads into a protective crust.
Kessel, Bunkie, the Senator. Now Nell. And although there were elements of a
conspiracy, they all seemed to be holding back pieces of the puzzle for their
own purposes.

"Poor woman," Nell said. "But she had no
business walking around wearing all that expensive jewelry."

"Did you know her well?" Fiona asked.

"Does anyone in Washington really know anyone well?
She was on the circuit. I was at a dance with her just a few days ago. At Mount
Vernon."

Still, she showed no recognition that she had ever met
Fiona. Nor was Fiona moved to remind her.

"How well did the Senator know her?" Fiona asked.
The question was direct, with no attempt to deflect its real meaning.

Nell caught the message. Her eyes unlocked themselves from
Fiona's and turned to look through the windows. The grass's sudden reflection
turned her hazel eyes a luminous green. Her recovery took place in a flicker as
she turned toward Fiona again.

"No more than I did," Nell said with a feeble
attempt at a smile. A frown line broke on her forehead, giving away an
increasing anxiety. She didn't know about the affair, Fiona decided. Not for
sure. Behind the facade, she is steeling herself for the blow. It might have
occurred to her, of course. Fiona had seen the suspicion in her eyes the night
of the dance, when the Senator and Helga cavorted on the dance floor together.

Satisfied that the message had been received, Fiona was
ready for a combination punch.

"Is the name Judith Peters familiar to you, Mrs.
Langford?"

Nell's eyes narrowed as she appeared to search her memory
for a recollection.

"Go back eight years," Fiona urged, knowing it
was a gamble, that Nell might not have made the call after all.

Part of the reality of the political life was the
"play dumb" role assigned to wives and children of politicians.
Nothing was to be revealed about a politician's private life without first
passing through an image-making screening process. Was Nell playing this role
with flawless precision? Fiona studied her intensely, waiting for the dice to
fall.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "It escapes
me."

"Shall I refresh your memory?" Fiona asked
cautiously. She glanced at Cates, who gave her a quick supportive blink. In for
a penny, in for a pound, she thought.

"You called this woman..." Fiona began, halting
deliberately to check the impression she was making. Nell's face was
expressionless.

"Did I?"

Never volunteer. That was the axiom of the stonewaller.
Apparently Nell was quite good at it. Okay, lady, you asked for it, Fiona
decided.

"She was having an affair with your husband, Mrs.
Langford. You called her and told her to back off."

Only the slightest tremor in her cheek gave her away. But
it was there. Loud and clear.

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I could explain it better if you cooperated,"
Fiona rebuked. At that moment, Nell's mind had to be filled with options. She
could throw them out. She could call her husband for his immediate advice. Or
she could tough it out, hoping that whatever was happening would not spill over
to hurt her husband's, and her, aspirations.

The question behind the question, of course, was her
culpability, if any. With undoubtedly a great effort of will, Nell managed to
keep her features composed, although the little nerve in her cheek offered a
tiny betrayal.

"If I remember correctly I merely responded to a
rumor. I was a newlywed. I had not yet learned that a public figure was a prime
target for any crazy with the price of a telephone call."

Well put, Fiona thought. A half-confession.

"So you did call this woman?"

"For which I was soundly admonished," Nell said,
offering a tight smile.

"I take it your husband denied it."

"We were married six months and I was pregnant. It was
an ugly rumor and I overreacted. My husband, as you can see, is a very
attractive man, an easy prey for designing females." Her hand went up to
her single strand of pearls and the tiny tremor in her cheek subsided.

"So he did deny it?"

"I would not ever put him in such a position. I have
since learned to discount such rumors."

"Have there been others?"

"Countless." She smiled, still playing with her
pearls. "We are, you see, a very close family. A political family must
expect those things." She turned her eyes full-glare on Fiona, telescoping
that she was determined to show her superior credentials. "You have to be
there to fully understand. Families of major figures in the political world are
subject to these stresses. We grow used to them. It is very difficult to
transfer this experience to others." She meant Fiona, of course. As for
Cates, he might have been a piece of furniture for all the attention she paid
to him.

It was time to throw the bomb, Fiona thought. The woman's
attitude made it easy to do.

"Then I take it you did not suspect that your husband
was having an affair with Helga Kessel."

Her eyes went into a repetitive nervous blink and her
fingers, instead of caressing the pearls, began to pull on them.

"That is quite absurd," she managed to say. But
she was having some difficulty keeping her cool.

"Not only is it not absurd. It is a fact. The
Ambassador knew. Farrington knew. I know. My partner here knows. The point to
be made is that Helga Kessel was murdered by someone, person or persons
unknown. We do not believe robbery was the motive."

"What, then?" she asked, her voice quivering.

She apparently had chosen to skirt the issue. Obviously she
was still denying it to herself. But the turmoil within her was apparent.

"Jealousy, perhaps," Fiona said pointedly.

"There, you see? Even you suspect another crazy. Now
do you get my point?"

It was a valiant effort to take a mental detour.

"We make no conclusions," Fiona said. "Helga
was strangled in the same fashion as another woman, years earlier."

"Now you're losing me," Nell said, reaching for a
haughty air. But her nervous tension kept her from achieving it.

"This was fourteen years ago."

"I hadn't even met him then," Nell interjected.

"We know that."

Since the serial aspect had been discounted, they could
speculate that the two murders were unconnected, although it stretched
credulity. The present murderer could have simply come up with the same modus
operandi by coincidence.

"The point here is that both women were having affairs
with your husband."

"He was somebody else's husband fourteen years
ago," Nell protested. She was lashing out now. A slight flush broke out on
the cheeks of her well-scrubbed skin.

"But you do see the connection. Why we have to ask you
these questions. Believe me, Mrs. Langford, we are not here to harass
you."

"This is a very good imitation of it," she said
testily. "My husband, I can assure you, will be quite upset about this
confrontation."

True to form for these types, Fiona thought. She had
expected the threat earlier.

"Mrs. Langford," Fiona said, adopting a
deliberately weary tone. "We are trying to protect your husband's
reputation and career. But the inescapable fact is that we cannot turn away
from the obvious. There are only a few motives that make any sense. One of them
is jealousy."

"Are you suggesting..." Nell began. She shook her
head, trying hard to control any display of anger.

"We're investigating. Not suggesting. We're doing what
needs to be done. If you knew about this affair you had every reason to get rid
of this woman."

"This could be actionable, you know," Nell said
frostily, still stonewalling. Again, Fiona ignored the threat.

"Neither your husband, yourself, Ambassador Kessel nor
Bunkie Farrington is off the hook. You all had your reasons."

"How utterly despicable of you..." She could not
go on. Her voice broke. To her credit, the anger never quite got the best of
her. When she got control of her voice again she said, "Are you accusing
me of murdering this woman?"

"Did you?" Fiona asked.

"You're not serious?"

"Dead serious," Fiona said from between clenched
teeth.

"My husband will be appalled."

Off the high-horse, lady, Fiona thought.

"You're not getting this message, Mrs. Langford,"
Cates said suddenly. He had been patient. Perhaps he was tired of being
ignored, treated as if he weren't there. The woman turned to face him.

"What message, Officer?" she asked coyly, as if
she were poised to intimidate him.

"A woman your husband was seeing has just been
murdered. You can't ignore either fact. Would it be better if we invited your
husband to attend this interrogation and put the question to him directly?"

"He has already admitted it and Bunkie Farrington has
confirmed," Fiona added.

"Bunkie." she said coldly. "That man makes
my skin crawl."

"Well, we all agree on something," Fiona said.
The hint of alliance was not appreciated by Nell.

"That mutual feeling changes nothing," Cates
said, clearly assuming the role of bad cop. In this case, badder cop. "Can
you account for your time on Tuesday, day and night?"

She started to protest, obviously thought better of it,
then paused as if to recall the time frame. Then she nodded.

"Of course I can. And you will find it can easily be
confirmed." They assumed as much, but did not pursue it. Time for that
later. The psychological aspects seemed more to the point at the moment. It was
time to increase the pressure.

"I'll ask you again, Mrs. Langford. Did you know about
your husband and Helga Kessel?" Fiona pressed. Surprisingly, she was
beginning to show some admiration for Nell. She was fighting it all the way,
refusing to be drawn in, although defeat in this regard was inevitable.

"I never asked," she said after a long pause.

"Why not? Didn't it matter?"

"There would be only one way to be sure," she
said. "To observe for myself. Everything else would be hearsay."

"Photographs, too?"

"They could be altered."