American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  "I have one good set and a partial," she told him, showing him the plastic envelopes. His eyes evaded them as he continued to search her face. She knew what he was looking for.

  "You're asking me to stick my neck out, Fi?" he asked, with exaggerated astonishment.

  "It's a professional favor."

  "What happened to your regular channels?"

  "Do I have to explain why?"

  "I'm not going to do it," he said, although she detected a kind of subtle temporizing. He had his own set of macho values, a shrewdness that belied his bland exterior. He had been one of Hoover's later young men and still clung to the amenities. A gallant knight, she had once dubbed him sarcastically.

  "I was entitled to a better explanation," Gribben persisted. He was determined not to let their old affair die.

  "It wasn't in the cards," she said gently. "At the time."

  The tacked on phrase was specious. She had no right to lead him on to a dead end. But it was too late. He had already caught her drift, and she made no move to correct the impression.

  "We had some good times, Fi. You have to admit that."

  She could barely remember what they had done together, except that one abysmal experience. "Yes, we did."

  "And could again."

  "All I want is an ident," Fiona said. A wry smile formed on Gribben's lips.

  "No," he said, shaking his head, eyes furtive, searching the cafeteria. "Besides, you guys at MPD are a bunch of idiots."

  "Look at our statistics," Fiona said, prompted to defend the department. She had to admit that they did often look like bungling idiots, but when they made a case it usually stuck."Yours are still not so hot."

  She remembered now how she had taunted him, how she had paraded FBI failures before him, citing their inability to get convictions. He had taken it as it was meant, a personal put-down, and she turned the knife to get at his smug FBI loyalty. Despite all the recent FBI earthquakes, most agents were loyal to a fault. For this reason, defensiveness made him vulnerable.

  "You can put them in. It's like a gum ball machine. Out will pop an ident and nobody's the wiser."

  Once he had explained how it could be done and she had tested him with near-perfect results. The full set, she knew, would create no problems. The partial could be risky.

  "I'm not just ready to go official. Not yet. My boss has his hands full with the black teenage killings. Besides, I'm not even sure there's a case here."

  "We're not friends anymore, Fi. Not lovers either."

  He had put too much stock in that at one time. Without it, they still might have been friends.

  "Hell, Tom, I'm not asking for the moon."

  She had, of course, miscalculated his reaction. Remembering, she supposed that ducking his calls had been cruel. Unfortunately, she hadn't let him down lightly and the bruised ego had not faded over time.

  "I don't owe you anything," he snapped, then suddenly grew nostalgic. "We had good times, Fi." He paused, showing the old hunger. "We could again." His implication was clearly stated.

  Alarms went off inside her head. They were always doing that--Dorothy's magnetic field persisted, leaving her floating in space, trapped in invisible parameters. Putting herself in jeopardy was not the issue. There was Cates, Flannagan, now Gribben. I did not die by my own hand. Dorothy's voice now seemed loud and clear in Fiona's mind. It could also be the beginning of a nervous breakdown, another inner voice added.

  "Come on, Tom, do it. For old time's sake."

  "So you admit it. We did have old times," he said, misinterpreting again.

  "The moon was in the wrong phase is all."

  Son of a bitch, she thought, smoldering ashes of resentment catching fire. It wasn't only Tom. It was all of them, the manipulative bastards.

  "Okay then. We'll try again," he said, obviously satisfied. In a pig's ass, she thought, casting herself loose from the last trace of professional ethics. Her anger accelerated, but she didn't let him see it.

  "Deal," she said, forcing the edges of her lips to curl into a smile.

  "I'll put them through. Then we'll have a drink and discuss the future. Fair enough?" He was absorbing all the disingenuous signs like a sponge. She put her hand over his big fist, knowing he would think of it as a caress.

  By the time she arrived at the office, she had worked up a full head of steam. She saw herself as the beleaguered female, a lone rangeress, patrolling the swamp of the male ego. She'd fight them at their own game, with their own weapons and win. I'm coming, Dorothy baby, she thought to herself.

  "What's with you?" Cates asked. It was time, as well, to set him straight.

  "We have to talk." As her partner, he had a right to know. Sitting in the car, she filled him in on what Benton had said and what she had done with Gribben. There were other things she intended to do, but held back, waiting for his reaction.

  "What can I say?" he shrugged. "No victim. No hint of murder."

  "And I don't know where it will end. You're more vulnerable than I am. He'll say you've been pussy-whipped and haul your ass out of homicide with a reprimand sheet as long as your arm."

  "It's something to consider."

  "I can get you out anytime you say."

  "I know." He hesitated. "But I feel that maybe I'll be missing something. I hate to stop anything in the middle."

  "I'm giving it to you straight, kemo sabe," she said, watching him mull it over. "It'll mean double duty for the next week or so. And we're going to fall behind in the regular work. Also, we can scare up a hornet's next. Harassment. Entrapment. The whole list."

  "Why can't we just go to the eggplant and have him sanction it?"

  "When we have enough, we'll shove it down his throat."

  He stroked his chin and contemplated his position.

  "Before you get my decision, Fi, I have only one question." It was not a simple decision for him, putting his career on the line. She, after all, had the protection of her status as a double minority. Bracing herself, she knew what was coming.

  "Why?" he asked.

  He was not entitled to that knowledge. Their professional alliance did not change the essential situation. Nature had put him in the enemy camp.

  "Because it's there," she said facetiously. He laughed, but did not press the question. Maybe there was a level of subtle communication between them after all, she thought, quickly dismissing the idea. Such things watered down resolve.

  "Okay," he said, resigned to not getting a complete answer. "We're partners, and I'll go along with you, no matter what." So he was hooked on that myth. She hoped he wouldn't regret it.

  They spent the day tracking leads on the teenage killings, as usual, without anything significant to report. But her mind was on Dorothy and the identification of the prints.

  Back in the office, she settled behind her desk and began typing out the reports of their investigation. On another level, she felt quite proud of herself. Thoughts of Clint had receded into the background. Her concentration had returned, allowing her to devote the remainder of her time to Dorothy. I'm coming, she told herself again, ripping the report from her typewriter.

  The mood in the office was still tense. She could hear the eggplant ranting and raving at someone behind his closed door.

  "The mayor's down on him now," one of her former partners muttered. He was sitting beside her, struggling with his own report. She looked up, catching a view of his ruddy complexion. It was obvious he was hitting the booze pretty hard these days, trying to tough it out until retirement.

  "They need a goat," he burped, moving closer, his breath foul with last night's drinking. "He's perfect for it. Fits him like a glove."

  "Poor bastard."

  "We bring him one more potentially open case, he'll shit."

  Cates looked up and frowned.

  "Drink?" Cates asked after they had filed their reports in their case sackets. She consented, welcoming the idea which rescued her from the prospect of going back to an empty apartment.
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  They went to the F. O. P., the Fraternal Order of Police, club. He ordered double Scotches and brought them to a corner table, a big bowl of popcorn between them.

  "Sooner or later, I suppose I'll understand it," he said after a long sip of his drink.

  She was sitting with her back to the wall, watching the line of cops. Most of them wore sport shirts and uniform pants. Everyone, according to regulations, was armed. It always reminded her of a bar in a movie western and more than once some cop had gone for his piece in an argument. That kind of altercation was quickly hushed up.

  "Understand what?"

  He scooped up a handful of popcorn, chewing one kernel at a time.

  "Why I'm going along with this."

  "Don't get too analytical."

  "I'm really depending on you. Trusting your instincts."

  Trust! They had these holy rules about only trusting one's partner, an idea that might have been true before they began to mix things up. She had never quite trusted any of her male partners and they had, she was sure, never quite trusted her.

  "You know what they say," he laughed, ribbing her. "Never trust a woman."

  "I'm a woman."

  She said it too fast and he looked at her strangely.

  "You're a cop. Like me." She wondered if he was trying to convince himself.

  "You're a man," she snapped. She wanted to tell him that, despite all of society's new contrivances, there remained that unbridgeable gulf between them. Never the twain shall meet. No, she decided, he could never understand about Dorothy.

  He shook his head and smiled.

  "We're just people then," he said.

  "We're different. That's the truth of it. I'm the alien here. I've muscled into a man's business." She couldn't stop now. "Look at the statistics. Who commits most of the real crimes? A woman sees things differently. A woman thinks in a different way. A woman reacts differently. A woman..." she hesitated. "A woman loves differently." Again, she thought of the dead woman. "Man is the killer." Her vehemence surprised her. She looked at him and saw that he was, understandably, confused by her outburst.

  "Shit," Cates said. "I'll still take my chances."

  "That's just macho talking, Cates."

  "Maybe," he said seriously. She could feel his eyes probing her face. "Why don't you ever call me by my first name?"

  "I didn't know you had one."

  "Timothy."

  "Okay, Tim."

  "Not Tim. Timothy."

  "Okay, Timothy."

  Despite herself and her long harangue, she felt him getting closer, burrowing in. She knew she was crossing a Rubicon.

  "Tell you what," she said suddenly. "Let's order some Chinese and go up to my place."

  His hesitation told her that the sudden suggestion of intimacy startled him. Hell, it startled her, too--maybe what she needed most now was friendship.

  Or maybe she was just reluctant to go back to her apartment alone.

  He went off to the China Palace on Ninth Street while she subwayed home.

  "Damn," she said, exasperated, as she opened the door to her apartment. Clint was sitting in the dark, slumped in a chair, his feet sprawled in front of him. Apparently he had been sleeping and the sudden light made him shield his eyes in a kind of sloppy salute.

  "I was waiting..." Clint said, clearing his throat. He looked forlorn and empty. Feel no pity, she urged herself.

  "This is childish," she said.

  "I know. I wanted to explain."

  "You don't have to, Clint." She was determined to be firm, and went into the kitchen, bringing out plates.

  "I'm caught between a rock and a hard place," he said.

  "So are we all."

  "There's something I wanted to say. Something you deserve to know." He crossed his legs in front of him. Must he? she thought silently. She was running out of activities to invent. Finally, she sat down opposite him. Confession time. How she hated that, remembering her childhood and all those Hail Marys.

  "I told her," he said, taking in a gulp of deep breath to renew his strength.

  "Jesus," she snapped. "Do I have to go through that?"

  "I told her about us."

  She stood up.

  "I don't want to hear this."

  "You know what she said?"

  His tone was ominous, and she knew in advance it was something she definitely did not want to hear.

  "She said I hadn't fooled her for a minute. That she knew all along."

  "Knew it was me?"

  "That, too. She followed me once, in the morning. Can you imagine that? She knew all along."

  "Dear Ann," Fiona said. "A good little actress."

  "I thought I was going to really hurt her. I went through this elaborate preliminary and she knew all along. I couldn't believe it. She lived with that."

  "Such martyrdom," she said, unable to hold back her sarcasm.

  "I begged her," he began, then faltered.

  "Must I listen," Fiona said.

  "She said she was content with the present arrangement. I mean that's a pretty wrenching experience for a man of my generation, still obsessed with doing the honorable thing."

  "Clint," she said. "Leave it alone."

  "She said that someday she'd let me have a divorce. After the last kid leaves the house."

  "It's none of my business."

  "I wanted you to know, Fiona," he said, valiantly trying to hold himself together. "I love you. I want..."

  "Stop it please...

  He was obviously hurt, on the verge of some inner hysteria. Was this his way of lashing back? "Are you trying to hurt me?" she asked gently.

  "Hurt you?" he sighed. "I'm not in control, Fiona. I even owe my job to her. Maybe..." he paused, "I'm testing if you really love me."

  "And you expect me to fall at your feet, beg you to come back?" She moved her head from side to side. "Uh uh." What she really wanted to tell him was that indecisive little boys disgusted her. "It's your trap. Not mine. I'm out." She hoped she sounded deliberately cruel. He had no right. Not now.

  At that moment, the door buzzer rang.

  "It's Cates, my partner. We're having Chinese food. Care to join us?"

  He seemed startled and she realized suddenly that he seriously believed his confession would bring them together again. The buzzer became insistent. When she opened the door, Cates walked in holding two brown paper bags.

  "Still hot," he said. Clint stood up awkwardly and put out his hand.

  "This is Clinton Chase. I asked him to join us. Timothy Cates."

  "Really, I can't. I've got to get going," he said, fiddling with his keychain. She directed Cates to the kitchen.

  "I'm sorry," Clint said, handing her the key.

  "So am I." A sob caught in her throat. Cates came back into the room.

  "Believe me. I bought enough for four. I always over-order this stuff."

  "Thanks," Clint said. "But I really..." His voice caught as he hurried through the door. Behind her, Cates clattered plates, feigning normality. As the sob burst, she leaned against the wall in the little entrance alcove. She struggled to pull herself together, thankful that there was someone in the room, another human being. Hurrying into the bathroom, she splashed water on her face, observing herself in the mirror. Life has hardened you, little Fiona, she told her image as she pulled herself together, taking a secret pride in her strength.

  "Look at that," Cates said pleasantly, pointing to the neatly set dining room table, taking pains to avoid any reference to what he had just seen.

  "You like soap operas?" she said, sitting down.

  "It's none of my business."

  "Damned straight," she said, reaching for one of the concoctions, wondering if she could generate an appetite.

  Before she could take a bite, the apartment buzzer rang again.

  "Maybe I should go," Cates said.

  "No. Stay."

  Perhaps Clint had left something, she thought.

  "I'll hide in the bath
room," Cates said, disappearing quickly. This is a farce, she thought, as she went to the door, expecting to find Clint. Instead it was Tom Gribben. He came in without a word, tight-lipped, his face flushed. A nerve palpitated in his neck; the anger was obvious.

  "I can't believe you'd do it deliberately."

  "Do what?"

  He paced the room like a tiger. From his pocket he withdrew the plastic fingerprint envelopes and tossed them on the couch.

  "This," he said. "I stuck my neck out, very nearly got my head chopped off." Taking a bottle of Scotch from the little glass pushcart that she used as a bar, he poured a heavy shot into a glass and drank it swiftly. "I wouldn't even trust the damned phones. I was lucky. I think. I had a buddy working the computers. He nearly shit when they coughed up those names." He looked at her and shook his head. "When you take advantage, you take advantage."

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Tom."

  "Them." He pointed to the prints. "Don't tell me where you got them. I don't want to know. I want to forget about the whole thing."

  "Whose were they?" she asked, expectant now, the illusive professionalism returning.

  "You owe me, baby," Tom said, eyes narrowing.

  "Who, for Christ sake?" She was growing impatient.

  "The good set belongs to Tate O'Haire, majority whip of the House. The fucking House of Representatives."

  She sucked in a deep breath. It whistled through her teeth.

  "And the other is a goddamned associate justice of the Supreme Court. Orson Strauss." He shook his head and poured himself another drink. She sat down on the couch stunned. A moment later he was next to her.

  "I don't want to hear about it," he said. "All I know is you nearly got me into a bind. I'm not even sure whether or not I've had it. Who knows if I can trust my buddy?" He looked at her. "Or trust anybody?"

  "I didn't know."

  "It's heavy, Fi. Whatever it is."

  He put his drink down on the floor and turned toward her. "I really stuck my neck out for you, baby." He started to stroke her arm. She felt little goosebumps spread toward her shoulder.

  "Are you sure about the names?"

  "Listen. Me you gotta trust."

  "I didn't question that."