by Warren Adler
"Don't you understand? Nobody cares. All these sons of bitches care about is manipulating other people to satisfy their own egos. To them you're nothing but a piece of meat. A whore. A toy to be played with. Is that what you want to be all your life? I've figured out a way to make you a person. To give you enough so you don't have to be anybody's slave. Can't you get that into your thick skull?" He paused, choking on the words, gasping in a sudden coughing fit. Her eyes still averted, she remained impassive.
"You wait," he continued, when he had stopped coughing. "Wait till that beautiful body starts to corrode and fall apart. It does that, you know. You'll be dry, shrunken, worthless. Those tits." He pinched her breasts. "Like wrinkled melons. Soon it won't be just people who fuck you over. Nature will take its course. It'll chew you up and spit you out like it does everybody. And what will you have left? What will you be? Nothing. For crying out loud, I'm trying to save your life. I'm trying to set you free." He paused again, lowering his voice. "Me as well. No more ass kissing. No more hypocrisy. Can't you see it? We'll be getting even. Fighting back. Don't worry about those assholes. Not one is worth the candle."
As he spoke, she had slowly turned away again. He felt impotent in his frustration. He wanted to lash out at her, pummel her into submission.
"All right," he said. "You stay here by yourself. There's nothing but lies here anyway. Fraud. Bullshit. You'll crawl back. Crawl like a fucking lizard, begging me to take you back. You push me too far, I'll wash my hands of you. Send you back to Hiram. How would you like that?" Behind his eyes a great wave of blood seemed to break, boiling with foam.
"You stay then," he shouted. "You stay. I can easily make this thing work without you."
Striding out of the apartment, he slammed the door behind him. In the car he slumped behind the wheel, enervated. Sitting in the cool, silent night, it was as though another wave broke inside of him, and his body was suddenly wracked by sobs, his entire being flooded with sorrow.
Dorothy, he thought silently as he peered at her lit window, I didn't know it would be like this either.
XIII
Fiona and Cates sat in the waiting room of Tate O'Haire's massive office in the Rayburn Building. Ironically, it was not far from Bruce Rosen's office. In the two years since she'd last seen him, she'd thought of him only occasionally. Another dead love. She had a strange talent for getting involved with the wrong man. Another sweaty-palmed politician gearing up for the next election, she sighed, observing O'Haire's intense young staff, puffed up with arrogance and self-importance.
Yet, it was because of Bruce that she was in O'Haire's office instead of that of Justice Strauss. Every experience teaches, she assured herself. Because of her relationship with Bruce, she knew more about congressmen, their fears and vulnerabilities.
"The name of the game is re-election," he had told her, and in so doing reflected the principal concern of his life.
"Some of them would sell their mother," she muttered to Cates, realizing that the bitterness of her affair with Bruce still lingered. She was assembling quite a rogue's gallery of her own.
It was their regular day off, making the risk of interrogation even more dangerous. It implied officially sanctioned police business, which, in the technical sense, was a lie.
"Are you sure?" Cates had asked when she told him she was going to see O'Haire.
"I'm not sure I'm sure."
What she was sure about was that there could be no turning back. As for Cates, he had made his decision. In the light of her experience with indecisiveness, that was something worth admiring in anyone.
"Martin. Strauss. O'Haire." An odd trio. They spoke them aloud, wrote them down, mulled them over, speculated.
What were O'Haire's fingerprints doing on the closet rail in Dorothy's apartment? The prints of Justice Strauss were easier to explain. "El Kinko" was the way they referred to him.
"She was a busy lady," Cates had said. "But was she a murder victim?"
"If she was," Fiona said, pausing to consider her own determined reaction, "I intend to prove it."
They had appeared at O'Haire's office without an appointment, a typical police investigatory ploy--catch them off guard if you can.
"Let me be the heavy," she'd said to Cates.
"Be my guest."
From Bruce, she learned they were a crafty lot, intimidating and arrogant under a thick patina of charm. She reasoned that their relationship wasn't a total loss, after all. When the receptionist tried to put them off, Fiona flashed her badge.
"Police business."
She glared at the young girl, who looked bug-eyed at the shield. "Confidential."
"I'll check," she said, leaving the room. "Have a seat..." Returning quickly, she said, "The congressman will be with you in a moment."
The wait would give him time to carve out a position, create a public posture. It also gave Fiona time to hone her own approach. Above all, she had to hold herself back from making any overt accusations. In a way, he had the advantage. She was dueling in the dark.
O'Haire was a large, florid-faced man in his early fifties, bulky and well-groomed with a fresh boutonnière in the lapel of his pinstriped suit. Shanty, she decided immediately, using her ingrained ethnic instinct. Takes one to know one. His eyes were steel gray and although his lips smiled, his eyes inspected.
"An O'Haire can never refuse a FitzGerald," he said, leaning back in his chair. His stubby fingers played with a ballpoint pen. "What's your pleasure?" Noting her dominance, he had dismissed Cates, who sat impassively beside her.
"I'm investigating a death," she began, her throat suddenly dry. She cleared it with a cough.
"The great leveler," he said. There was the barest hint of an affected brogue. She studied him carefully. She had deliberately said death, not suicide. She took out her notebook.
"Just routine," she said, looking at Cates, whose chocolate complexion had lost its gloss. "A woman. A young woman. She went under the name of Dorothy Curtis."
"Dorothy Curtis." O'Haire lifted his eyes as if the name might be engraved on the ceiling. "No," he said, showing not the slightest difference in attitude.
"Early twenties. Worked in the makeup department of Saks. Lived on Cathedral Avenue."
Still no reaction. Fiona's stomach tightened. The whole exercise was meant to connect them. It wasn't going the way she had expected. He was too impassive, too slick, a good actor. She stole a glance at Cates, who turned away, looking at the pictures on the wall.
"You didn't know her?" she asked.
"She might have worked for me."
He straightened in his chair and pressed a buzzer before she could stop him. "We'll see." A middle-aged woman came in. "What was her name again?" he asked, turning to Fiona.
"Curtis. Dorothy Curtis."
The middle-aged woman looked thoughtful, obviously searching her memory. An old warhorse, Fiona thought, used to such ploys. Usually these women knew more about their bosses than they did about themselves.
"Not familiar." Her face brightened. "We had a Bob Curtis once."
"Wrong sex," Fiona said pointedly, looking at O'Haire.
"Thank you, Mrs. Armbruster," O'Haire said, dismissing her, making it clear that if Mrs. Armbruster didn't know then no one would. When she left, he settled back in his chair and began to play with the pen again, challenging her. He was a cool number, Fiona thought, thinking of Bruce. They were all cool numbers. But this one was a lying bastard.
"Is there anything more?" O'Haire asked pleasantly. He was playing with her now, feigning profound disinterest. What he was doing was waiting for her to unreel information, although he betrayed none of the curiosity that must have been eating at him.
"Well, I guess that's it then," Fiona said, slapping her notebook shut. Two can play that game. She had often used it in her interrogations. Setting bait. Dangling it on the hook before the startled fish.
"Anytime I can help the MPD," he said, standing up, thrusting out his hand. She felt his st
ubby cold fingers. This one, she decided, was used to power, used to winning. Cates rose as well, but O'Haire didn't offer his hand. She turned her back and started for the door, calling his bluff.
"I hope you have better luck elsewhere," he said, forcing her to turn. He was still smiling, but his fingers had whitened as he gripped the rim of the desk.
"It could have been a mistake," she said, watching his eyes now. Had she caught the glint of fear? "Probably was." She turned again and reached for the doorknob.
"A death, you said." His words tumbled out. There it was, she thought. She had the bastard.
"That's about the only thing we're sure of," she said, turning again. Beside her, Cates shifted nervously.
"I don't understand." Despite what seemed like a valiant effort, his smile collapsed.
Easy, she told herself, excited now by his unwitting confirmation.
"We found her in the ravine under the Ellington Bridge."
"A suicide?" The bit was in his mouth now.
She deliberately hung her hesitation in the room like a tinsel mobile to tinkle in the breeze.
"Maybe." It was a bloated maybe, pregnant with possibilities.
"I see," he said. "Are you talking to others? Other congressmen? Mrs. Armbruster can check around. See who she worked for."
He was snapping voraciously at the bait, obviously wondering if he had been singled out. It was the one bit of information she was determined to withhold. Not yet, she cautioned herself.
"That won't be necessary," she said pointedly, opening the door now. She did not look back.
Sipping coffee at Sherry's, she was feeling proud of herself. A mighty man was dangling in her rope. All she had to do was tighten the noose and ... and what?
"Smooth as silk, that one," she said. "But I got to his gut. He definitely won't have a good night."
"No. I guess not," Cates said morosely. He was obviously troubled.
"You saw it. He's scared out of his wits."
"Yeah," he said, avoiding her eyes.
"Now all we have to do is wait."
"Wait?"
"I know those bastards. He's hiding something and he thinks we know what it is. He can't live with that. No politician can."
"So what will he do?"
She hadn't moved that far ahead.
"He's guilty of something," she said, ignoring the question. "He was in Dorothy's apartment. We know that. We also know that somebody wiped away evidence. Or tried to."
"The justice?" He said it by rote, forcing his interest. Was he simply another weak man, she wondered, getting cold feet?
"We're pretty sure of that one. He thought he had cleaned up all his garbage. Imagine. A damned Supreme Court justice. We'll get to him as well." She felt her heart pound. "They think they can get away with anything."
"Like murdering Dorothy?"
"Maybe. We've got one hell of a motive. Fear of exposure. That's the big enchilada. I've seen it. When it comes to that, nothing stands in their way."
"You think Dorothy threatened to expose them? That it?"
What other weapon did she have? she thought. How dare he question that? She thought of Dorothy, waiting. Always waiting. A thing to be used at their whim, always ready at their beck and call. She knew what that meant.
"We'll flush them out," she said, her excitement at the prospect growing.
"I'm sorry, Fiona, but I just can't see them as killers."
"They are. I know they are." She felt the wave of hysteria begin and hid her trembling hands under the table. "One way or another."
Cates shook his head, lifting his eyes to observe her.
"But where is the crime?" he asked softly.
She let her mind cool. It must sound reasoned, calm, squeezed of emotion.
"It's there. I know it is."
"How do you know?"
She felt the condescension. He was talking to her as if she were a child. He was a man. How could he know?
"They use people," she said. "They think nobody can touch them. They think they own everything."
"It's getting heavy, Fiona. I'm sorry. We still have to prove a crime."
"We will."
"How?"
"I know what I'm doing. If you want out, say so."
"It's getting out of hand, Fiona. You're pushing too hard. It's not..." He hesitated, his reluctance palpable. He can't possibly understand, she thought. "...professional."
"Well then..." She got up indignantly, glaring at him. Continuing to sit, he looked at her and shook his head.
"You're foreclosing on other possibilities. She could have been a part-time hooker."
"Hookers aren't jumpers. They don't suffer. They just do business." He can't know what I know, she thought as she turned to walk away. He came after her.
"It's that guy," he said, following her into the street. "That Clint. I'm not stupid, Fiona. I could see it."
"Fuck you."
"He's made you crazy, right? It's not just the jumper. Dammit, Fiona. Can't you see that I'm worried about you?"
She continued to walk away, leaving him behind. Worry about yourself, buster, she muttered. I know I'm right. I'd stake my life on it. My life--the image scared her. Clint, I need you now, she cried, walking swiftly. At a telephone booth, she stopped and dialed Dr. Benton's number. His smooth voice soothed her, offering the promise of solace.
"I need to see you, Dr. Benton. I'm coming right over."
"Of course," he said quietly.
Taking a cab, she was at his home in Northeast Washington quicker than expected. He was still in his robe. As she sat down in his neat, book-lined living room, with its pictures and memorabilia of his dead wife, she realized that it had been a long time since she had gone there. Up until now Clint had filled all her needs, making her whole.
"A woman alone is an unnatural state," she said, after he had brought coffee and cookies. Oreos. They had had a good laugh over that on other occasions. His were always the light ones with chocolate inside.
"Anybody alone is an unnatural state," he replied, glancing at a picture of his wife.
She reached out and he took her hand.
"Maybe I've got the cop's malady. Overidentifying with a victim."
"The girl? The suicide?"
"It's not suicide," she said quickly.
"Not suicide?"
The hysteria began again and she took a deep gulp of air to calm herself.
She looked at him and shook her head. "Put on your white collar, Dr. Benton." He remained quiet and squeezed her hand.
"I'm out of control. I saw her as me. Dumb me, maybe trapped like her. I can't believe I let it happen, falling for a married man ... Anyway, I forced the issue. I mean this case. Like it was me, with no place to turn." He started to speak. "Don't say anything. I'm fighting it. It's worse than giving up cigarettes, I can tell you that. It is the most horrendous emotion, this love thing. It debilitates the brain, crowds out reason. Makes your body turn to goo. And inside I'm screaming with unrequited whatever. Jesus. Don't I sound freaky?" Breathing deeply again, she leaned her head on the back of the chair.
"A little hysterical maybe."
"Too bad I have to uncork it on you."
"Who knows, maybe someday it'll be me bottled up."
"You? Never. You got it out of your system." She waved toward his wife's picture.
"One woman. One love. No pain in it though. Only joy. Except once..." Lowering his eyes, he swallowed, and she lifted his hand and kissed it.
"When He wants you, He gets you. The least He could have done was coordinate it," Dr. Benton said.
"I'm making you morbid."
"Maudlin. Not morbid," he responded cheerfully.
"One bad thing leads to another," she said. "Clint led to Dorothy."
"Dorothy?"
"The jumper. My reaction to her. It galled me to see her lying there. A beautiful girl all busted and broken. Men did that." She paused. "See, there I go again."
"Men?"
; "Three." She thought of the cans of caviar. "Maybe even four. At least two are among the mighty."
She told him about the fingerprints, Gribben, the identification, her visit to O'Haire. He listened patiently as the room darkened. When he turned on the lights finally, she felt emptied of anguish, calmer. Her hysteria had gone.
"Maybe I should leave it alone," she said, getting up and stretching.
"I'm going to the office a little later today. Care to go out for dinner?"
"Best offer today," she answered cheerfully.
A telephone rang and he went off to the kitchen to answer it. When he came back, he looked troubled.
"I'll bring in some fried chicken," he said.
"I thought..."
"That was your favorite man. Captain Greene. Your eggplant. He was fuming. Says you should stay put until he gets here."
"How did he know I was here?"
"He's not as dumb as you think."
XIV
Back in his Capitol Hill apartment, Jason poured himself half a tumbler of Scotch and tried to sort out his tangled emotions. He wished he had a meeting to cover--anything to take his mind off the earlier scene. It was impossible for Dorothy to sustain that kind of rebellion, he reasoned. Nothing more than an adolescent tantrum. She was being deliberately self-destructive.
He finished his drink and glanced at the door. She would crawl back. What he had to do was assemble himself, plan a response. When an hour passed and the level of Scotch in the bottle had considerably diminished, he began to pace the room, stopping periodically to look at the telephone. She would call. She would be frightened, contrite. She would beg him to forgive her.
What were those men that she should worry so much about them? Garbage, the lot of them. Where did she get the idea that they thought of her as a person? In a moment the telephone would ring or she'd be coming through that door, needing him. Only him. He was her protector, her savior. And after it was over, after the deals, the talk shows, the promotions, after the dollars had changed hands, he'd take her away. Travel. See the world. Just the two of them.
When the telephone rang, he took a deep breath, relieved at last of the burden of uncertainty. Let it ring, he told himself. Two. Three. Four. He counted them out. On the sixth ring, he picked it up, smiling into the receiver. Vindication was sweet.
