American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  He walked through the Post city room, feeling calm, relaxed, knowing that he had in his possession a story that they would have craved. Nodding to those whom he knew, he strode into Webster's office. The editor was on the phone and seemed annoyed by Jason's sudden intrusion.

  "What is it?" Webster asked after he'd hung up. He was on deadline. Galleys were spread out on his desk. Some of them had already been marked up.

  "I'm splitting," Jason said. "I just wanted you to know, to tell you to your face."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." Jason knew he wasn't sorry. He wondered if he even remembered his name.

  "I had a big story. The biggest ever for this turkey rag. But I'm not going to give it out. Not to you. Not to anybody."

  Webster seemed confused.

  "Whatever you say."

  It didn't seem to matter either way. The paper was fat now, and the editor was aging. Besides, Jason knew that Webster had long ago lost his cojones. Not that it mattered to him now. Not anymore. Whatever happened, he had proven something to himself. And that would have to be enough.

  "You were a good journalist," Webster said, with an accent on the "were." He had certainly said that many times.

  "I still am."

  "Sorry it didn't work out."

  "I'm not."

  He looked at Webster carefully. Once he had been God to him. But, like the others, he was only a man, flawed, corrupted by privilege and success. Jason knew what that meant. It was a license to manipulate others.

  It had been important to him to say it with just that intonation, in just those words. He had, after all, retired from the game on the one yard line and that took guts. They made the rules which they themselves did not obey. They paid lip service only to the fight against corruption, the public's right to know. It was a game for hypocrites. The good, the true, the innocent always lost. Hadn't he proved that?

  He turned and walked out.

  The train sped him to where Arthur waited in the deserted station, the irony not lost on him. There, his past would be buried. Dorothy's as well. He had held the power of public death over these men and he had chosen to give them life, because it was Dorothy's wish.

  "I can't," she had told him, and in the end he respected that. In a way, innocence had won, at least a Pyrrhic victory.

  He arrived at the station before Arthur, surprised that he was late. He paced the deserted station, listening for the train, watching the plastic rim for the flashing lights. When two trains passed, he began to grow anxious. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the persistent ring of a telephone. When it didn't stop, he knew it was for him. There was no one else around and he followed the sound to a booth in a little alcove. It was still ringing when he got there.

  "It's me," the voice said. He recognized it immediately.

  "And me," he answered. The voice was no longer mellow.

  "You're a fucking liar. The police. They're still on it. They visited Tate."

  "But there's nothing. Nothing. I would have known by now."

  "No money. No deal until we make sure."

  There was a long pause and this time Jason felt panic. He did not want to stay around this town a minute more than necessary.

  "Did they make accusations? Give any hints?"

  "No."

  "Well, that proves it. They're just fishing, just leaning on people. The same way they did with me."

  "With you? They visited you?"

  "Just routine. A lady detective and her partner. Nothing to worry about." Still, he didn't tell him about the pin.

  "And you didn't tell me? You bastard."

  "It wasn't important," Jason mumbled.

  "Not important," Arthur fumed. "It was the same two."

  "But how did they know about Tate?"

  "I don't know."

  "If that girl was murdered..." Arthur faltered. "...and they have some kind of evidence, there will be hell to pay. I'm innocent of that, whatever else I might be guilty of."

  "It's that woman detective. She's got some bug up her ass. I don't know why. But if they had something..."

  "Never mind. I'll find out. I've had enough of your bullshit."

  "I get my money or I use the tapes," Jason hissed. "And I'm set to leave the country tomorrow. I've got reservations on SwissAir."

  "I'll know by tomorrow," Arthur said.

  "What are you going to do?" Jason asked. It was impossible for him to shift gears now. He had already decided, had promised Dorothy in his heart.

  "I'll call you tomorrow."

  "I'm set to leave at ten tommorrow evening."

  "Long before then."

  "Look, dammit." Jason felt the perspiration running down his side. Things were getting out of control again, and he'd be damned if he was going to let someone like Arthur Fellows blow it for him now. "If there's no foul play, they have no right pressing people, accusing people, intimidating people."

  "Who said you need rights for that?" Arthur said tersely. The phone went dead.

  It was wrong, Jason thought, jabbing the toe of his shoe against the wall. "And it isn't fair."

  He took the next train back to Washington and walked the few blocks to his apartment. Almost before he opened the door,he knew that someone was inside, waiting, but he couldn't stop himself. Absolution was a hard process. He opened the door.

  "I've been waiting for you," Cates said. "We got to talk."

  XIX

  Jason Martin hadn't arrived yet at Dr. Benton's house. The doctor had placed a stainless steel pot of coffee and some cups on his dining room table.

  "No," the eggplant said. "No coffee. Not for him. And draw the blinds."

  Fiona knew what that meant. Interrogation was a police art form and it had its conventions. Close off the outside world. Force the subject into a confrontation with himself. No stimulants. No comforts. Dole them out in tiny rewards.

  "Where's Cates?" Fiona asked, trying to ignore the eggplant's sullen mood.

  "He wasn't home," the eggplant said, raising his bloodshot eyes. "I'm gonna have his ass," he said, knowing that Cates's action could be, for him, the straw that broke the camel's back.

  "It seems so out of character." Fiona, too, was angry at Cates. Soon they would know just how much damage he'd done. The climate was very bad for a harassment action.

  "Let me see that xerox of the Curtis report," the eggplant snapped at Dr. Benton, who produced the report from an envelope that lay on his cluttered desk. He opened it and grumbled. "Women."

  He looked up at Fiona and shook his head. He had every right, Fiona thought, agreeing with him for the first time. We're the damnedest creatures. But it occurred to her that Martin, too, might have had something to hide or he wouldn't have agreed to meet outside of the office. Perhaps, too, the eggplant had already showed him his own vulnerability. For both, she knew, the objective of the talk would be a stand-off. No sense rocking any boats. Not now. Any hint of a coverup could be fatal. For this reason, Martin, wittingly or not, held in his hands the mallet to crush the eggplant's career with a single blow.

  Martin's ring was firm, a long press of the button, indicating confidence. She exchanged worried glances with the eggplant as Dr. Benton rose to answer the door. If Martin was startled by the drawn blinds, he said nothing. There was a bruise on one of his cheeks. So Cates had, indeed, been physical.

  "I'm Captain Greene," the eggplant said, holding out his hand. Martin took it mechanically and turned to Fiona. "We've met."

  He looked slightly thinner from when she had seen him last, more than a week ago. There was the same guarded look, suspicious and defensive. That seemed to be the mark of all journalists. And cops, she thought.

  Dr. Benton excused himself from the room as the eggplant sat down at the table, a signal for both her and Martin to follow. She noted that the eggplant was displaying a remarkably sure sense of authority. In the presence of superiors, he always seemed to be groveling.

  "I see you haven't found him yet," Martin said as he sat down. The
table before them was completely empty and she was thankful for having bolted down three cups of coffee beforehand.

  "He wasn't reachable," the eggplant said.

  "Well, he reached me all right," Martin said, fingering his bruise.

  "I'm sorry," the eggplant said. "As I explained on the phone, he did it on his own."

  If there was any hesitation on his arrival, it seemed dispelled now, as if Martin were certain that he had, indeed, the upper hand.

  "I've been seriously mishandled," he said. His belligerent undertone was unmistakable. As a trained journalist, he could be an actor as well. As he talked, Fiona continued to observe him. He kept his hands below the table, a sign perhaps that he was frightened, but his voice seemed strong. She wondered if he was sweating under his arms.

  "That's why we're here," the eggplant said, nodding. "To hear your grievance."

  He waited, making a church out of his fingers, like a priest listening piously. She wanted to burst out laughing.

  "First the two of them," Martin said, narrowing his eyes in Fiona's direction. "Then that crazy man last night. Capes?"

  "Cates," Fiona snapped. The eggplant rebuked her with a sharp look.

  "He shoved me around, as you can see. And I got kneed in other places, like a common criminal."

  "It's not police procedure to use violence. Did you give him any cause?" the eggplant asked.

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  The burst of arrogance seemed to bring the oil to the eggplant's skin, a sure sign of his growing inner turmoil.

  "Did he accuse you of anything?" He seemed to be proceeding with remarkable restraint.

  "Accuse me? He tried and sentenced me. Said I killed Dorothy Curtis. That's nonsense."

  He broke off abruptly and shook his head.

  "I think you're all trying to manufacture something out of whole cloth." The voice was more cautious now. "Look. I don't want to make trouble. I really don't. But I do know my rights and I completely understand the vulnerability of the police. First it was this lady." He jerked a thumb in Fiona's direction. "Her implications were quite clear. Then Cates roughing me up, demanding explanations that I couldn't give him. His accusations were wild. Wild. I think that man is unbalanced. Oh, he'll deny everything, I'm sure..."

  So he didn't know about the suspension, Fiona thought, taking a deep breath. She wondered if a simple apology might suffice and was sure the idea was running through the eggplant's mind.

  "If you've got any evidence..." Martin began, then he seemed to edit himself. "I can't believe she did that to herself," he said, very slowly, as if he were testing a frozen pond.

  "Suppose I told you..." the eggplant said, casting an odd glance at Fiona. Don't overkill it, she thought to herself. Just apologize and get it over with. All the jerk wants to know is that he's off the hook.

  The eggplant took a deep breath and lit a cigarette, leaving what he had begun hanging in the air between them, a deliberate red herring. She was totally confused.

  "How well did you know her?" the eggplant asked, still benign, although she could sense the wind-up within. What the hell was he doing? she wondered, her fingers digging into her palms.

  "I brought her here from Hiram. Started a new life for her. We lived together for awhile. Then she moved out. These things happen." He seemed to drift, losing control for a moment. "It didn't end badly. We were friends. Saw each other occasionally." She could see he wanted to stop, but couldn't. "She was a terrific lady." He shook his head and it seemed quite genuine. "I can't imagine her doing this."

  "Doing what?" the eggplant asked, suddenly focusing Martin's suspicion.

  "Now you. I don't understand any of this."

  "Did you know anything about her private life?"

  "When I was with her. Yes. But we haven't been together for months." She could see that he was growing more annoyed with his own inability to stop himself. Abruptly, he stood up.

  "I won't stand for this. If you've got something on your mind, then say it."

  "I was just asking you if you knew about her private life."

  "I know what you asked. I also know harassment when I see it."

  "Am I harassing him?" the eggplant asked Fiona. "This is a routine police investigation."

  "It's not routine."

  "Is this routine, FitzGerald?"

  "Just routine."

  She was surprised at her own reaction. Now she was being a lackey. But his interrogation fascinated her.

  "We know an awful lot about her activities," the eggplant said.

  "Like what?" Martin asked. Again, the cautious tone.

  She was sure Cates must have told him a great deal of what they knew. But it was still no crime.

  "Who she was seeing. Things like that," the eggplant said ambiguously, playing with fire. Now he was becoming part of it. She couldn't understand why. He's going crazy, she decided. Like Cates. Like her.

  "Who she saw was her business," Martin replied, but for the first time his throat had caught.

  "You know who she was seeing?" the eggplant asked, with sweet innocence.

  His eyes suddenly became frantic as he searched their faces.

  "I heard some pretty wild things last night."

  "Like what?"

  "That's not the point. That's not my business." A thin line of sweat had begun to form on his upper lip.

  "Important men like that?" the eggplant said quietly, letting another red herring hang in the air.

  "What has any of that got to do with me?"

  "That's just the point."

  "No, that's not the point," Martin exploded. He sat down and stood up again. "The point is that I've been harassed. And I don't like it. I'm also going to do something about it." He sat down again, sneering contemptuously at them. He was not very likeable, Fiona thought. Did Dorothy once love this man? She quickly dismissed the thought. It was exactly what had gotten them all into this fix in the first place. And there the eggplant sat, helping to dig their graves. Was he deliberately trying to abort their careers?

  "...and I'll tell you why I'm pissed. Really pissed." Again, he edited himself. It was completely transparent.

  "Yes," the eggplant said.

  "I'm just going to take action. This is ridiculous. It's worse than that." His eyes narrowed as if a new thought had struck him suddenly. "You're trying to cook something up that doesn't exist. There's a lot more here than meets the eye."

  "Yes, there is."

  "I'm not going to be a party to it. And I won't be a victim. I don't know what you've got, but it has nothing to do with me." He stopped, caught his breath, then drilled a stare into the eggplant. "Are you saying that she was murdered?" But he didn't wait for an answer. "Because if you're saying that..." again he hesitated, grimaced and suddenly started to cough. The veins expanded on his forehead and neck. They watched as he attempted to recover.

  "It's impossible," he whispered.

  "That she was murdered?" The eggplant pressed him now. Fiona was completely confused, digging her fingers deeper into her palms, but still she was fascinated. The eggplant was dissecting the poor man. Poor man? When had he gained her sympathy? I know why you're torturing him, she decided. You got your hooks into a honky.

  "She wasn't. She could have been. They..." He checked himself. "I..." For some reason, not apparent to her, he seemed trapped. He was sweating profusely and his nose had begun to run.

  "You..." the eggplant said increasing the pressure, coaxing him.

  "I saw her."

  "You saw her?" Fiona asked. The eggplant threw her a contemptuous look, stilling her with his hand.

  "Saw her what?"

  He seemed to have begun to shrivel, like burning paper.

  "Saw her jump," he squealed, like a man breaking suddenly. Was it possible? Had he pushed her? Had her instincts been right? Her knees began to shake and she had to press them together to stop them. The eggplant reacted like a mad dog, who had picked up the smell of blood.

  "What time?"<
br />
  The man was helpless, his lips moved but nothing came out.

  "What time?" the eggplant shot back.

  "I'm not sure."

  "Where were you? In a car? On the bridge? Why didn't you stop her?"

  "I couldn't. She had started to run. I don't remember." He desperately tried to calm himself. "Yes. I ran after her. I couldn't catch up."

  "She was wearing track shoes? She was in goddamned high heels." The eggplant had risen and put one of his haunches on the table for balance, bending over the man, pressing. What was he doing? Manufacturing a killer? She was horrified, frightened.

  The eggplant called to Dr. Benton, who came in from the kitchen.

  "What time? Tell the medical examiner here. He knows pretty near exactly the moment of death. Tell him, goddammit. Tell him." He screamed at the man, who was utterly confused now.

  "I don't remember," he said helplessly.

  "And you never called anyone. Just let her lay there."

  "I was afraid."

  "Bullshit."

  She wanted to stop him, but her courage had failed. It was as though all the eggplant's pain, his frustration, all the vitriol and bile he had stored in him had suddenly erupted. There was absolutely no evidence of a crime, unless he confessed to pushing her. The idea chilled her. Then he said it.

  "You pushed her over, you lousy little turd. You walked her to the bridge and pushed her over. Just like that. In cold blood."

  "No," he shouted. "I loved her."

  "You don't love anyone, you shitass son of a bitch."

  Pushed her. Walked her in the rain in her cocktail dress and pushed her. Impossible, Fiona thought. Even in her panic, her police mind speculated. He could have driven her, but she wouldn't have gotten out on the bridge without a struggle. There had been no sign of a pre-fall struggle.

  "A crime of passion pure and simple," the eggplant snapped. "You came in, saw her with one of her bigshot boyfriends. Maybe the congressman. Or the Supreme Court justice. Or the general. Or the Czech. Or that shit from the White House..." He was stabbing wildly, saliva flecking his lips, the tendons in his neck stretching to the breaking point.

  "All right," the man said. "I did it. I killed her."