Senator Love (24 page)

Bare from the waist up, they moved toward each other.
Slowly they undressed each other, taking off what remained. She studied him in
the faint light. He was a fine-looking man, slender and still boyish. His erect
penis was as smooth and white as ivory and she bent down to kiss it.

She felt a delicious trembling begin within her. Reaching
out, he helped her up and held her tight against him. His kiss was deep, his
hands strong, as they lifted her buttocks, placing her body at the edge of a
dresser for support. Then he entered her and she gasped as she surrendered to
the pleasure.

Later, if he would have asked her, "Did the earth move
for you?" she would have answered proudly in the affirmative. Three times
it moved. She could not bring herself to ask such a question, but she knew he,
too, had transcended some previous barrier. It was something sensed, something
sure.

As before, after a much more tender farewell than they had
experienced before, he left her. She looked at her watch. They had overstayed
by more than a half hour. She showered and dressed in ten minutes, then dashed
down to her car.

Through the rearview mirror, she could see Cates' car
waiting by the curb. Starting the car, she moved slowly out of the lot. She
unlocked the glove compartment and removed the walkie-talkie. But she did not
raise it to her mouth.

Another car had begun to follow her. Through the mirror she
could see the driver.

Frances was following her now. Only her.

FRANCES' CALL came early Sunday morning. It seemed so banal
a gesture for such a potentially ominous event. Cates had moved into Fiona's
house, occupying the room next to the master bedroom, which had been hers when
she was growing up. They were connected with an open radio, and there was no
way that Fiona could be approached without Cates hearing.

On Friday they had gone to work as usual. Sam had called
her early.

In their conversation, the communication between them was
less in the words they spoke than in their tone and the pauses between them.
The very idea that they were protecting their secret exhilarated her and the
sound of his voice was undeniably exciting.

"You have got to be careful," he told her. He
had, of course, been informed that Frances had followed her home. Was the
message of his concern subject to another, more personal, interpretation? Like
he needed her to be careful because he needed her. Dammit, put a lid on that
one, she rebuked herself.

Rather than return to headquarters after leaving the hotel,
Fiona had chosen to drive home on the theory that, if Frances was to act
swiftly, she would hardly make a move in or near police headquarters.

Frances' car stayed at a respectable distance. Cates had
pulled in behind her. But when Fiona pulled into her driveway, Frances
proceeded past it. Cates had continued to follow her car, which took a series
of right turns, then headed back down Wisconsin Avenue to her home in
Georgetown.

"She's sniffed the bait and her appetite's up,"
the eggplant commented after hearing the report.

"Live bait," Fiona replied, like the boy
whistling in the cemetery. Am I scared? she asked herself. Bet your ass.

"That extra forty minutes had us concerned,"
Cates pointed out. Fiona repressed the urge to kick his shins. Did he know? she
wondered, searching for a logical explanation.

"We thought it might send a tougher message, prod her
to believe that this one was really hot, heavy and serious. It cost me another
fifty thou in gin losses." She could not suppress a girlish giggle. Liar,
liar, she railed at herself. She took a quick reading of their expressions.
Nothing untoward. They were either hiding it or buying it.

She felt no guilt. Nor any sense of violation of
professional ethics. Time had to be killed anyway. What better way? Dirty lady,
she admonished herself. The fact was that the memory of those moments with Sam,
both psychic and physical, still lingered deliciously.

She could not remember a more powerful experience. And yet
his history mitigated against his being as moved as her. The reality was that
she had been one among many. Not, as she might have fantasized, that special
one, the perfect one, the searched-for one. Or, perhaps, the unspoken
assumption that this would be the one and only time had forced their passion to
a penultimate explosion of feeling. In her heart, she longed for more. It was,
she knew, a greedy, selfish, stupid idea, unprofessional and risky. And it led
to a malevolent wish ... that Frances would be cautious, string things out,
keep the ploy working. Now there was a conflict of interest.

With only limited success, she tried to brush away such
thoughts. Next, would she be contemplating the meaning of love? Oh God. Not
that.

"Still, she might not act for weeks," the eggplant
said. Her heart lurched. Could she handle weeks without slipping over the edge?
Edge of what?

"I don't know if the Senator will sit still for
that," she had replied.

"Considering the potential downside for him, I doubt
it too," the eggplant had pointed out. "He's liable to say, 'Look,
I've been a good soldier. I've given my conscience a good ride. Done my duty as
an honest citizen. Gimme a break.'"

"I think she'll act fast," Cates interjected.
"She's motivated. Nobody unmotivated hangs around hotels. I'd say she's
agitated, ready and plotting her move."

"Looks like it," the eggplant said. "Sure
you don't need more backup?"

"Either I'm a real target or I'm not," she had
managed to say with some authority. "She spots backup, the ballgame is
over."

The object had always been to foil her in the act, force
her to confess. They were all betting that the confrontation would induce an
overwhelming need to tell all. Criminologists were divided on the premise.
Human behavior was too complex for slide-rule verisimilitude.

To record such a confession, if it came, they had fit her
with a trick brassiere with a mini-tape recorder attached. It was laughable,
but practical, Miranda notwithstanding. The woman had to be stopped one way or
another.

"Wearing it?" the eggplant asked.

Fiona nodded and the eggplant showed a thin smile.

"No 'talk to my tits' jokes," she warned.

"Would I joke about something so serious?" the
eggplant had commented, unable to suppress a broader smile.

Actually such jokes would have lightened the load. It
wasn't only the fear of Frances. She had the courage to face that. It was the
other that troubled her more, the female trap. Wanting it to be meaningful.
There was no solace for it, except to curse her gender.

"I'm going along, but I still don't like it," the
eggplant said yet again.

"I'm ready," she told him firmly.

"Talk about macho."

With Cates, she had practiced how to resist a garrote
attack from the rear and had polished up her karate. She did not fear a
one-on-one physical attack, especially by another female. On the other hand,
the woman could use another method, a gun, poison, explosives. Here again, they
were betting that the same MO would be used, strangulation by a strong, soft
object like a scarf.

Frances' telephone call was a surprise. They had figured on
a more surreptitious method, a sneak job. Frances would suddenly appear behind
her, flip the garrote around her neck and squeeze. Fiona would overpower her.
Cates would come running to her aid. Defeated, the woman would sing her sad song.
Finis.

"This is Frances Langford," the voice said after
Fiona had identified herself. They had been drinking coffee in the kitchen.
Cates had run to the extension in the den.

"Oh yes," Fiona had replied.

"I guess you know who I am?"

"Yes, I do."

"We've met casually," Frances said. For a moment,
she seemed tentative, pausing. "We saw each other at the OAS a couple of
weeks ago." Her voice was pleasant and chatty. Saw each other indeed,
Fiona thought, remembering her face peering above the balustrade.

"We probably did," Fiona said cautiously.

"You know we did."

Now it was Fiona's turn to pause. She was genuinely
confused.

"I saw you and Sam. Then you looked up and saw
me."

"That was you?" Fiona said, trying to generate
surprise, knowing she wasn't convincing.

"I know you must think I'm crazy. I've actually been
following Sam and you. I mean, I know where you go."

"Really, Mrs. Langford," Fiona replied, reaching
for indignation.

"I have to see you," Frances said. "I just
can't wait any longer."

"What for?"

"I don't want to say over the phone. But it's very
important. Very."

"When do you suggest?"

"Today. As soon as possible."

"Where?"

"You know the Four Seasons in Georgetown?"

"Yes."

"Noon okay?"

Fiona looked at the digital clock on the microwave.

"I'll be there."

Still, she did not hang up. Fiona could hear her breathing.

"And, Miss FitzGerald."

"Yes."

"Be very careful."

Cates rushed back to the kitchen after the call.

"How do you read this?" he asked.

"Obviously a ploy," Fiona said.

"A public place. Witnesses. She's taking risks she may
not have taken with the others. Why?"

Cates shrugged.

"She must know you're a cop."

"I have to assume she knows everything."

They called the eggplant at home and told him what had
happened.

"Think she knows we're tailing her? Setting her
up?" he asked after they told him about the call.

"No indication," Fiona said crisply. "But we
can't be sure. Not yet."

"Sounds weird," the eggplant said.

"Cunning," Fiona corrected. "She has
something up her sleeve, that's for sure."

"Cates."

"Yes, Chief."

"Like glue. Understand?"

"Perfectly."

"And you, FitzGerald. Be careful."

He hung up. Funny, Fiona thought. That's what Frances said
to me.

THE FOUR Seasons in Georgetown boasted a cocktail lounge
that had the look and feel of a huge reception room in a European luxury hotel.
Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to gardens that were carefully constructed to
give the illusion of a great expanse lying beyond the immediate view. Deep
upholstered chairs and couches were strategically placed for both comfort and
privacy. The decor was impeccable. A pianist in black tie played popular tunes
on a shiny black baby grand.

Frances was already there. She had chosen an out-of-the-way
spot in a far corner. She was, Fiona noted, carefully groomed, wearing a beige
suit that set off brown eyes flecked with yellow. Blonde hair fell gently to
her shoulders, and, while her appearance was very youthful from a distance,
closer up tiny nests of smile-wrinkles around her eyes and lips gave hints of
an ominously accelerated aging process. Long, tapered fingers played with a
double string of what looked like genuine baroque pearls.

She appeared open and friendly, with a real estate
salesman's flair for ingratiation. Her handshake was firm, strong as a man's.

Studying her as the waitress poured coffee from a silver
urn into delicate cups, Fiona could not detect any sense of the viciousness and
evil that motivated those crimes which the woman had allegedly perpetrated.
Were they wrong? Fiona wondered. Yet her experience had taught her that the
most ruthless murderers often seemed docile and benign.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Frances said.
Only then, as she spoke, did the sunny mood conveyed by her appearance change
abruptly. When she bent to raise her coffee cup, Fiona did a quick take,
catching Cates just as he opened a newspaper at his seat at the other end of
the room.

"Your invitation was more like a summons."

"I know. I'm sorry. But I'm deeply troubled."

"You are?"

She took a deep sip and put down her coffee cup.

"I've been following you, Miss FitzGerald,"
Frances said. "Spying on you. On one level I'm terribly ashamed."

"And on the other?"

Fiona tried to mask her confusion with a show of sarcastic
indignation.

"I'm frightened for you," Frances said flatly.
"And I only hope I can sell this idea as good as I sell real estate."
Her gaze revolved around the room. Was it genuine fear Fiona saw in her eyes?

"What idea?"

Frances continued to play with her pearls.

"I think..." Frances hesitated, then sucked in a
deep breath, offering an expression that one might make when one is about to
ingest some foul-tasting medicine. "...I think you're exposing yourself to
extreme danger. Someone is going to attempt to kill you."

"There's a happy thought," Fiona said with a
deliberate air of skepticism. She would resist the idea, make Frances push
harder.

"I know I sound off-the-wall. But hear me out before
you make any judgements. The essential point is that you're having an affair
with my ex-husband."

Should she stand up? Make some obvious gesture of
indignation? No, she decided. She might not be able to pull it off.

"You said it up front. You've been spying on me."

"I had to be sure."

"Sure that we were having an affair?"

"Sure that it was the real thing."

"How in the name of hell could you determine
that?"

"I can't really. I'm making an assumption based on
experience and intuition."

"And of course, it's none of your business."

"You're right."

"Then why all the interest?"

"I could say it's because I want to see justice done,
but that would be corny. Let's call it a sisterly thing then. An alliance of
the gender."

There was, after all, something compelling about such a
female call to arms. Fiona shrugged and said nothing, her silence an
encouragement for Frances to continue.

"Fourteen years ago, he was having an affair with a
young black woman, Betty Taylor. She was never heard from again. Ever since
then, I've been, well ... uncomfortable. We were still married then and I found
out. Caught them actually in the throes of passion. Quite embarrassing all
around. He was up for his first Senate seat. He wasn't exactly contrite, but he
was realistic. I made a bargain with him. If he stopped the affair, I would
stay with him through the campaign. Oh, the marriage was over. I knew that. And
I kept my end of the bargain."

"Did he?"

She remembered Sam's explanation, comparing versions now.
So far everything fit with what Sam had told her.

"Perhaps too well," Frances said.

"What do you mean?"

"The woman disappeared."

Fiona's heart lurched.

"How do you know?"

"Because I tried to contact her."

"When?"

"Must have been a couple of weeks after the incident.
Sam told me that it was over by then. That was his part of the bargain. But you
see, I felt badly about the poor girl. Can you understand that?"

"Yes. I think I can understand," Fiona said,
nodding her head.

"She was probably a sweet but very naive young woman
and I had embarrassed her. I felt uncomfortable about that. I really felt a
sense of compassion for her. More than that."

"The sister thing."

A tiny smile belied any bitterness. Fiona could not detect
a single false note.

"Her telephone was disconnected and she had moved out
of her apartment. Even the people on the Committee were in the dark about her.
She had simply upped and left."

"Disappeared?"

"There's no other explanation," Frances said.
"I even called her mother in West Virginia. I told her I was a friend of
Betty's from Washington. The poor woman was beside herself. I used to call from
time to time, to see if Betty had contacted her, then, what with one thing and
another, I stopped calling."

"What do you think happened to her?"

Her whole body seemed to mobilize itself. She lifted her
chin, focused her eyes, straightened her back.

"I think she was done away with. Murdered."

"By your ex-husband? By Sam?"

She shook her head.

"Sam couldn't kill anyone. Especially a woman."

"Then who?"

"Let me continue," Frances said. "A few
years later, Sam had made it to the Senate. We were long divorced, but I would
see him from time to time. Observe him, actually. I know. None of my business.
But he had married Nell by then. Anyway, I read in the paper that a woman
staffer, Harriet Farley, was killed in an automobile accident."

"What did that mean?"

"I checked it out. A woman driving alone, dead sober,
on a lonely road in Virginia suddenly wraps herself around a tree."

"That's pretty circumstantial," Fiona said.

"Who would know better than a homicide
detective?" So she does know lots more about me, Fiona thought. Frances
plunged ahead with her story. "It just didn't sit well. I couldn't prove
it. But I would bet that this Harriet Farley was having an affair with
Sam."

"You think foul play did her in?"

Frances nodded.

"I suspected it then. I know it now."

She paused.

"The murder of Helga Kessel has convinced me."

"But the woman was robbed," Fiona said
cautiously.

"The papers said that this is the police contention,
Miss FitzGerald. I also know that's the way you met Sam." She studied
Fiona and smiled. "You are a lovely looking woman, Miss FitzGerald,
although, I must say, a very unlikely detective. But I bet you must hear that
frequently."

"So you've added all this up in your mind. Three
murders."

"I believe it sincerely."

"And no evidence."

"No."

She hesitated, then spoke again. "Believe me. For your
sake, I hope I'm wrong. But I've decided to speak out regardless of what you
might think of me."

"And who do you think is the culprit?"

"I have nothing to hang it on. No hard facts or
evidence to impart. I know in my gut. That's all I can give you."

Fiona knew what was coming and she was busy concocting
alternate scenarios.

"Bunkie Farrington," Frances said. "This man
is diseased. He is corroded by ambition. He would stop at nothing."

Fiona saw the flash of anger, the effort to keep it under
control. It seemed perfectly appropriate to the moment. Was this woman such a
superb actress? Was her own theory faltering? Could she be right?

"We are not fools, Mrs. Langford," Fiona said.
"We considered all that."

"I've always felt there was more to it," Frances
sighed. "More than just protecting Sam's career. I remember this boy when
he first came with Sam. A young, pretty boy just out of Yale. He took immediate
possession."

"You seem to be implying something beyond
ambition," Fiona said.

"Oh, I've always felt that. It's a breed very common
in politics, a kind of a homosexual psychopath that hides his real motive under
the guise of ambition."

"And Sam?"

"There's a theory that philandering men need to keep
proving their manhood to themselves."

Suddenly, she felt Frances' scrutiny become more intense.
She knew she was blushing to her hair roots and it was playing havoc with her
objectivity.

"Are you saying—" Fiona began.

"Sam and Bunkie? I'd vote no to anything overt. As for
Sam knowing and willing to manipulate Bunkie, that's another matter." She
had let go of her pearls. Now she took them up again.

"Heavy stuff," Fiona said. She turned it over in
her mind, rebuking herself for blocking out the obvious. And yet, hadn't they
"rousted" Bunkie, put him through their gauntlet without success?

"I feel better now," Frances said. She signaled
for the waiter. "I can use a drink. You?"

The waiter came over.

"A bloody Mary," Frances said, looking at Fiona.

"Same," Fiona said. Again, she stole a glance at
Cates, who was watching her peripherally now. Then she looked at Frances, who
exuded credibility, a hundred and eighty degrees from where she had been in her
mind. Still, Fiona had made no move to test the woman, largely because she had
not been able to think of anything that might trip her up.

"Forewarned is forearmed," Frances said.
"It's not like you would be out there in the cold. You're police people.
You know how to handle these things."

"He couldn't know about Sam and me. No way." This
had to be a hard fact. He had been deliberately taken out of the loop. The trap
was set for Frances, not for Bunkie. Had they been playing to the wrong
gallery?

"I know he's out of town. I checked. I figure that he
may not know with who, but he surely knows something is up. There's a real gap
in Sam's schedule on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the middle of the day. No way to
hide that. He'll find out. Count on it."

There was a test, Fiona thought. A test of something. She
had a question ready.

"Did you know that Sam kept some of his business to
himself?"

"Maybe that's what he thought. Believe me, Bunkie
finds out. He'll find out about you and Sam and put two and two together."

"He might think it's just another roll in the hay. Not
worthy of much attention."

"Not Bunkie. Bunkie would know."

"But we've kept him out-of-town," Fiona said,
wondering if she had gone too far.

"Out-of-town for Bunkie does not mean out-of-mind.
Besides, he'll be back. He'll know. He has his methods."

"Wouldn't he question it. So—soon after Helga?"
Fiona asked, then wished she hadn't. Was she asking for herself? Or
professionally?

Frances shrugged. "Ask yourself that question."

The message, because Fiona had shrouded it in obfuscation,
was reaching her obliquely. In her heart lay the answer to that. But to
confront it would mean that she was expecting more from Sam than was given.
Jesus, this was getting out of hand.

The drinks came, concoctions containing a large flowering
stalk of celery. Frances reached for the stalk and bit off a piece. The act was
purposeful, primitive, and it arrested Fiona's attention for the moment,
further confusing her.

Fiona removed her stalk and took a deep sip. It was spicy,
a little hot for a Washington-inspired bloody Mary.

"You ever bring this up with Sam?" Fiona asked.

"Absolutely not," Frances said, her eyes
squinting over the rim of the glass. "He'd think I was being
vindictive." She paused and put her glass down. "About Bunkie."

"And what if he did? What would it matter? You've been
divorced all these years."

"It matters," Frances muttered. "I can't
bear the thought of what has happened to those women. He must not be allowed to
get away with it." Her intense gaze suddenly focused on Fiona. "Not
again."

"Meaning me."

"I could never live with myself if I didn't have this
conversation."

"Why didn't you have this talk with Helga
Kessel?"

She nodded her head, picked up her drink again and sipped,
obviously taking the time to frame an answer. Surely she knew now that her
credibility was under scrutiny, although she showed no signs of vacillation
from her position.

"Don't you see? I was never certain. True, I made
assumptions. But I was alone in my theory. After a while I began to believe
that I might be fantasizing. Betty Taylor could have run away, disappeared for
her own reasons. Harriet could have died from a real automobile accident.
Besides, years had passed. I did despise Bunkie. In many ways I blame him for
the disintegration of our marriage. But, you see, I couldn't be sure if my idea
wasn't being colored by my feelings about him. Also, I had nothing to go on.
Not until the death of Helga Kessel put it together for me."

The possibility that Frances Langford was concocting these
stories for her own ends had not vanished, but her logic seemed impeccable and
her face reflected an uncanny sincerity.