by Warren Adler
"Here?" she asked.
"Yes."
Without hesitation, she responded. It was a test, he told himself. Right here in the shadow of the White House. In the face of danger. This would be the validation, he decided, a flaunting as well.
Lifting her, he felt her naked legs entwine themselves about his torso as his organ speared her and her tongue reached inside of him. He continued to watch the guardhouse as her body undulated, the novelty priming her pleasure while his own waited, testing his omnipotence, challenging his vulnerability.
He felt her orgasmic contractions and heard soft moans, wondering what would happen if she screamed out, alerting the guards. All would be over then. In his heart, did he want it to be over, leaving just the two of them ... under the stars in the soft night?
When his own release came he lifted himself on his toes, stretching himself taut, his head turned upward like a wolf baying at the moon.
"Are you happy, Jason?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"And not angry?"
For what, he wondered. He had never been angry with her. Only himself.
For a moment, nothing stirred. Life seemed suddenly suspended. No cars moved through the park. He had heard no horn sounds in the distance nor the roar of jets taking off and landing from National Airport across the river.
"In there," he said. "You were wonderful. For a moment I didn't feel worthy." He stroked her hair. He wondered if she would be able to face what was to come. Run, he urged her silently, as fast as you can. If he had shouted it out, would she have obeyed? He didn't want to know the answer.
They got into the car. She moved close to him, like an insect to a flame.
"You know something, Jason?"
His mind had drifted as he maneuvered the car out of the parking place. Finally, he responded.
"What?"
"It was easy," she said. "The men liked me. I mean, they were just like ordinary people."
"Didn't I tell you?" he said, smiling easily as he swung the car onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
VII
Fiona sat on the upholstered white chair, her hands caressing the satiny arms. The room faced west, but the setting sun's last rays had already disappeared behind the houses that lined the street. Logic, she knew, had not brought her here. Why couldn't she let the poor lady rest in peace?
She had let her own frustration get out of hand. She had, indeed, stepped beyond the bounds of police protocol, grilling Martin for no reason, superimposing morbid fantasies in which he was the villain. Her target, she knew, was Clint. It was the damnedest thing how thoughts of him stuck to the surface of her mind, tinging every thought.
She closed her eyes, probing the hushed silence, wondering if this was the place where the dead girl waited. Waited for whom? Had it become, like her own place, a cage?
Thinking of Clint, following his day's routine, she wondered if images of her surfaced in his mind, confusing him. Did it prompt longing? Emptiness? Or was he able to isolate the idea of her, their love, and put it away until he saw her again? She cursed her vulnerability. It was impossible to exorcise him. Her longing was acute, pervasive, uncontrollable.
Was the doomed Dorothy also the victim of this impossible terror? Had the loneliness become unbearable? Did she really bring on her own death?
Tell Ann, Clint, she begged in her heart. And come to me. Was this the whimpering plea of valiant, plucky Fiona FitzGerald, a woman who had stormed the male ramparts of the most macho organization in our society? It sickened her to see herself so helpless.
She got up and began to search the apartment again, peering into closets and drawers. They were not as neat as they had been earlier. She attributed this to Cates, who had poked around and found the little silver pin. Although he had obviously tried to put things back in order, he had not been as fastidious as the former occupant. It offended her to know that a man had disturbed this very private woman's world. She opened Dorothy's underwear drawer, where white satin panties had once been filed like index cards. It was a mess now.
Determined to right this male violation, she began to refold the garments in that special way that only women know. For some reason, she could not get it right. Something was wrong with the uniformity of the pile. It took her some time to discover that three of the satin panties were of different sizes from the rest. Removing them from the drawer, she stretched them, noting that they were at least three sizes larger than the others. There was also one bra much bigger than the others.
She began to rummage through the rest of the drawers. One, which she had assumed was filled with pantyhose, contained as well a collection of garter belts and, also neatly folded, a pile of stockings, the kind that only sheathed the legs up to the thighs. It was the kind her mother used to wear. A number of them were a larger size than the others, longer both in the length and the foot.
Was it possible that two women lived in this place? The excitement of discovery seemed to clock off her anguish. She felt professional again, like a bloodhound locked into the scent. Poking in the closets, she opened shoe boxes. The woman was a size six. After going through twenty boxes, she discovered, as she now suspected she would, a pair of white high-heeled shoes with open backs that were much larger. There were no others that size.
A thorough search of the closets failed to turn up any outsized dresses. An explanation eluded her. Perhaps the woman had an occasional visitor, a larger female, who had simply left some of her things around. She contemplated the collection, which she had lined up on the dresser: panties, bra, stockings, and one pair of high-heeled shoes. After a while, she put them back where she'd found them.
It had grown dark by then and she lit the bedroom lamps. Suddenly the sound of the telephone's ring pierced the silence.
The phone was persistent. When it had rung five or six times, she finally picked it up.
"Hello."
She heard the click simultaneously. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, she looked at it for a long time. So somebody still thinks she's alive. Fiona had been in the apartment for hours and the phone had never rung before. What did it mean? Again she thought of Clint--a single love, a single source of agony.
A tinkle of metal alerted her. Someone seemed to be picking the lock. As a reflex, she quickly doused the lights. A key was turning in the lock. Flattening herself against the bedroom door, instinctively unbuttoning her holster and slipping out her gun, she waited. The door squeaked open. Footsteps moved into the apartment. The movement was cautious, tentative. A burst of light illumined the corridor. The intruder moved forward, less cautious. Through the crack in the doorjamb, she saw the figure of a man. A light flashed on overhead and she stepped into his path, sliding her piece back into its holster.
"Goddamn," she hissed. It was Cates, his startled eyes round as saucers.
"You scared the shit out of me," he said, obviously glad to see her.
"I hope so."
For a moment, they glared at each other.
"I was sure you'd be here," he said haltingly. "The key was missing from the files. Besides, you were acting strangely." After the interrogation of Martin, they had investigated two naturals. She had been unusually distant, tight-lipped and morose. Cates had done most of the talking. She remembered leaving the office in a fog, heading straight to Dorothy's apartment.
"I called your place first," he said, regarding her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm not sure. I made an ass of myself with Martin. If he's smart, he'll complain. He has good grounds."
"This thing bugs you," he said flatly. "I saw it from the beginning."
"Look who's talking. Who found that pin?" But it was a lame sortie. Leave it alone, she begged herself. It was time to bow out.
"I explained that," he said. "I was just trying to see what I missed and you saw. I mean," he stammered, "to me, it was a simple case of suicide. I came back last night to understand it ... why you were still uncertain."
"I'm not anymore."
"Now
I'm totally confused." He paused. "I may not have your experienced instincts, but..."
"The hell with it."
He scratched his head, more as a symbol than an itch.
"I don't understand."
"Let's just shelve it. Too many naturals. Haven't had a good murder mystery for a long time. I guess I tried to manufacture one."
"Then you're satisfied?"
"Yes."
"I'm not," he said tentatively.
"Shit." It was out of control. All her fault. And Clint's.
Cates drew in his breath. "In the kitchen," he said, leading her there. He opened the refrigerator, which was empty except for a few beer cans. Reaching behind the beer, he brought out three small cans and held them up. She inspected the labels.
"Foreign," she said.
"Beluga caviar. Russian."
"What's so strange about that?"
He pointed to the label.
"Written in Czech."
She looked at the labels, not comprehending.
"I wrote down the words," he said. "It bothered me all day. I didn't want to raise ... Hell, we had enough going down. After I did the naturals, I called around to all the gourmet shops. They sell Beluga, but not this. This is Czech. Direct. Sold only in Czechoslovakia. They change the labels."
"So?" She was determined to be noncommittal.
"So she got these as a gift from a Czech national. Maybe a diplomat." He squinted at her. "Come on, Fiona. You see what I mean?" He showed a brief annoyance, then became diffident. She knew exactly what he was driving at.
"Look what we got. A miniature silver bar, studded with the rank of four star general. Cans of Beluga caviar sold only in Czechoslovakia. Rent paid three months in advance. A suspicious reaction from a newspaperman. Martin, you know, used to be a top investigative reporter..." And oversized clothes, she silently added to the list. And a single telephone call.
"All right," she said, leaning against the refrigerator.
"Am I fantasizing?" he asked.
"That's your job," she snapped. He lowered his eyes and fingered the small cans.
"I was all set to drop it after this afternoon," he said. "I felt funny after this Martin bit. You were acting..."
"Stupid."
"Maybe." He paused. "Then this other thing occurred to me."
"Now we're both in the manufacturing business."
"Why be different?" he smiled, slyly. She felt her resolve breaking down. "What did you find?"
Was she that transparent? She filled him in about the oversized underwear and the phone call.
"But where is there evidence of murder?" she asked. "We first need a victim. It's the usual chronology."
"At least it's on our own time and we're not costing anybody anything."
They closed the apartment door behind them and walked out into the quiet, darkened street.
"Lift?"
"Sure." She slipped into his car beside him.
"You don't think we're going bananas."
"An occupational hazard."
"I think she's trying to tell us things."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Fiona cautioned. It was uncanny the way he was picking up her own thoughts.
He stopped the car in front of her apartment house. Before she could open the door, he reached out and offered his hand.
"Partners?" he said.
Her hesitation was brief. It was something she needed as well. "Partners," she said, grasping his hand, returning his grateful pressure.
She could hear the phone ringing inside the apartment. Fumbling with the key, panicked that it would stop, she finally made it to the phone, slightly breathless.
"I was worried," Clint said.
"Worried?"
"I tried the apartment all night."
Her heart lurched. Had he told Ann? But the joy quickly dissipated when she heard party noises in the background.
"I had to go with Ann to the senator's reception. I'm here now." She held the phone away from her ear and took a deep breath. All the earlier anguish rushed back.
"You?" he asked.
"Just the usual."
"Miss me?"
"Of course."
"I love you," he said. The three magic words, she snickered. She wanted to scream out her anger. Tell her, goddammit.
"I ache for you, baby," he sighed. "Leave the chain off the hook."
It was a signal between them. It meant he would be in her bed before seven. Fresh from his and Ann's.
"I will, Clint."
Her eyes filled with helpless tears.
"I'll count the minutes. Got to go. Love you."
No one should have to endure this, she told herself, sitting in the dark. Was it that way for you, Dorothy? she asked, palming her ears, shutting out any sound of a potential answer.
VIII
While Dorothy was working, he listened to the tape of the answering machine in the apartment. It was sufficient justification for his earlier discomfort. As he had suspected, she had been too indiscriminate in her zeal and had dredged up unlikely candidates. Of the three messages, he noted that one had been scared off by her recording.
The recordings indicated that he had to amplify his strategy, invest more time and money. He bought her additional dresses, and together they began a furious round of cocktail parties, diplomatic receptions, pre-dinner cocktail hours, whatever event seemed likely to attract Washington's powerful elite. Obediently, she proffered her card to senators, representatives, diplomats, and high administration types. Not that he recognized all of them. Sometimes he had to ask fellow guests, always eager to oblige, as if knowing who was important somehow increased their own status.
Is the man newsworthy? As always, that was his principal criterion, although there were others. He naturally looked for married men, although single men were equally vulnerable. But those who reached the pinnacle of power were careful to preserve the married state. Even when they divorced, they quickly remarried. Marriage, they'd all learned, was good for their careers. He marveled at how simple it was for a beautiful woman to make contact with a powerful man. Youth and physical beauty transcended all barriers and the promise of availability was a powerful ice-breaker. Under all the discreet politeness and articulation, under the finery and finesse, there was a pervasive predatory instinct. People searched and scrutinized each other like eagles alert for prey. Whether the prize was power or profit, the event itself formed the boundaries of the jungle and everyone hunted for their own reasons.
The new strategy brought its rewards, vindicating his tenacity. The calls she was now getting pleased him.
Dorothy basked in his admiration, relating her own effectiveness and self-image directly to his reactions.
"I did good?" she asked, after she told him who called. He had carefully briefed her on how to respond. He had also drummed into her some basic caveats: Never be seen with them in public. Tell as little about herself as possible. Put them completely at their ease. Never talk to one about any of the others. Remember as much as possible about what they said and keep them coming back to the apartment. He was truly confident she could do that.
When she grew curious, he offered vague explanations that satisfied her, at least for the moment.
"It's who you know that counts," he told her. "And what better way to get to know important people than this?"
"Are they really important?"
"Very."
"And will me knowing them help you very much?"
"You, too, Dorothy."
"How?"
"Having friends in important places is the name of the game. It's called Vitamin P."
"Vitamin P?"
"Pussy Power," he added playfully.
She giggled. Sometimes what she was doing troubled her and he had difficulty dispelling her blues.
"And you're not jealous?"
"No. Because I know that what we're doing is strictly business."
"Business?"
"That's what it all adds up t
o, Dot."
"Then I guess that's okay. As long as nobody hurts anybody. They're really very nice."
"Hurt anybody? Where did you get that idea?"
"Sometimes I feel, you know, funny. Like it's wrong." She would pucker her lips and her brow would wrinkle.
"Wrong?" He looked at her sternly. "Just do it, Dot. If anything's wrong I'll make it right. I promise you. I know you don't fully understand, but trust me. Do you trust me, Dot?"
"You know I do."
"Then don't worry about it. Everything will work out for us. Just trust me."
"Sure, Jason. I'll do anything you want. Anything."
"Just this, baby. Just this."
Soon she was juggling three men around, a schedule that required careful coordination since he had decided that it would make sense for her to continue at her job. To be unemployed implied that she was a prostitute, a role that would seriously diminish the ultimate story.
He was overjoyed at the two others who had fallen into the net: Senator Charles Hurley, majority whip of the Senate and a close friend of the President, and Army Chief of Staff Edward Templeton, a four star general. Arthur Fellows continued his weekly visits.
Fearful that the debriefings would become a chore for her that would induce boredom or forgetfulness, he encouraged an air of lightness, of fun. Often, she dissolved in giggles as she described some sexual variation.
"He makes me paint my tits with lipstick and he likes me to paint his thing with little squiggles."
"Squiggles?"
"Like wormy little circles."
She was referring to General Templeton, who had other special preferences as well. Like watching them doing it in the mirror. And talking baby talk.
"It's fun," she said, imitating the general. "Sometimes he spanks me like a bad little girl."
"But what does he talk about?" It was always a persistent refrain.
