by Warren Adler
“Then Beatrice arrived home,” Cates interjected.
“Probably raised quite a ruckus,” Fiona continued. “No shrinking violet that one. He was probably madder than hell. Enter Foy. He has gone to the apartment. He calls McGuire. Tells him what he has found.”
“And the shit hits the fan,” the Eggplant interpolated.
“His first thought has to be . . .” Cates said.
“That his bitch murdered his wife,” the Eggplant said.
“Something like that,” Fiona agreed with a frown of distaste. No point in challenging the epithets, she decided. This wasn’t the time to change the world.
“Or harassed her to suicide,” Cates said.
“Either way, McGuire chooses to stonewall.”
“Can you blame him?” Cates said.
“Not at all. Wouldn’t want to be in his place,” Fiona said. “The woman he loves . . . somehow causes the death of . . . the mother of his children.” Of course, such a supposition was the heart of the theory.
“Back to square one,” the Eggplant snapped. “Murder or suicide.”
“I said ‘somehow,’ ” Fiona qualified.
“Too many women. That’s the lesson here,” the Eggplant said, half-facetiously. Once again she ignored the macho female baiting.
“Not at all,” Fiona said coolly. “The lesson here is in the method. An emotional confrontation does not suggest a murder by poisoning. A knife, maybe or a bullet. Certainly the congresswoman would not be neatly tucked in bed with a glass of wine as she received her visitor.”
“There’s a big hole in the ice here,” the Eggplant said. “Too many damned glitches to pin a rap on our Boston lady. Why the absence of clues? No prints. No visible shootings. Too much premeditation here. Too little emotion visible.”
“Maybe that was the point.”
“I don’t get it,” the Eggplant said, turning to Cates who shrugged. The idea had not been discussed with him. It had just popped into her mind.
“Maybe she and McGuire were in it together. Maybe it was a set-up. The lady is expected. She comes up to Frankie’s apartment. They talk. All very civilized.”
“And she pops the poison into Frankie’s glass,” the Eggplant said.
“It does have a bizarre logic,” Fiona said.
“No way,” Cates interjected. “If anything, the woman’s presence, the confrontation, could have been a trigger for the suicide. The motive.”
“Death by aggravation,” the Eggplant sighed.
“That doesn’t explain the absence of evidence indicating that the woman was even in Frankie’s apartment,” Fiona argued. It all came back to that. No clues. Nada.
“One thing we do know,” the Eggplant said.
“What’s that?” Fiona asked.
“We’ve got to feed this little rat some cheese.”
She got the go-ahead the next morning. To keep the politicians out of it, the deal was worked out at the lowest possible authorized level. Thus, the Eggplant talked to his counterpart at Boston PD. The mayor had instructed him to put a routine face on it. He told the Boston homicide captain that they just needed a bit of informational material to wrap up the suicide. Had to talk with McGuire and Miss Dellarotta. There was absolutely no way to avoid it. The idea, subtly conveyed by the Eggplant, was to clean it up and put it away as quickly as possible. No tape recorders. No notes.
“Play it cool,” the Eggplant had warned her. “There’s bound to be paranoia so it will be rough.” They were alone in his office. He had made it a point to call her in while Cates was not available. The Eggplant seemed weary and more harassed than usual.
“I want you to know up front, FitzGerald, time is running out on us.”
“High noon?” Fiona snickered.
“The chorus is getting louder. Suicide. Suicide. They think they can just dump the thing into this nice little coffin and bury it forever.” He studied his hands, avoiding her eyes.
“Are you asking me to be less than objective?” Fiona said with a touch of mock belligerence. She knew better.
“I may rag you sometimes, FitzGerald, but I never once asked you to cop out.”
That part was true. His various strategies were sometimes convoluted but he had never pressured her to compromise herself. Whatever her private feelings about him, her distaste for his vanity, his sometimes calculated brown-nosing and his overt willingness to avoid blame at all costs, she knew him to have a hard core of integrity. Deep down. Sometimes very deep. This time he was taking the ultimate risk. Without a killer, they might force him to declare a suicide, which in turn would be challenged.
“I’ll buy that,” she said. Their eyes locked. “Are you still stone-walling them on the pregnancy issue?” she asked.
“It’s my only ace in the hole,” he sighed, sucking on his panatela. “We wrap this up, it’s academic. We find a killer, it would be out of our hands.”
“You’re hoping then that this Dellarotta is the lady.”
“With all my heart,” he said.
He nodded, smiled and took a deep drag on his panatela.
“I’ll do my best,” she told him.
Homicide solutions needed as much certainty as possible. Human life was at stake. A killer at large was dangerous enough, but a falsely accused killer, especially one that was ultimately convicted, was a homicide detective’s nightmare.
“A confession would do nicely, thank you,” the Eggplant muttered as she left his office.
“You know she has to be talked with,” Fiona said, her eyes darting between Curran and McGuire. She took the folded plane roster from her pocketbook, unfolded it and handed it to Curran. “It’s irrefutable. She was in Washington around the time of the congresswoman’s death.”
“That doesn’t mean that she was anywhere near Frankie’s apartment,” McGuire said.
They had checked, of course. They knew there were no prints or any other evidence linking Beatrice to Frankie’s place.
“Then what was she doing in Washington?” Fiona asked.
“I’ll admit this much,” McGuire said. “She did go to Washington with the intention of seeing Frankie, begging her to grant me a divorce, make our child legitimate.”
“Without your knowledge?” Fiona asked. Curran started to say something, but McGuire waved him silent.
“Do you seriously believe that I would have consented to let her go if I knew?”
“If it did the job . . .” Fiona began.
“Now that is uncalled for, sergeant,” Curran snapped.
“And I’m doing my job,” Fiona shot back.
“You have no evidence to suggest that Mr. McGuire had any knowledge of Miss Dellarotta’s trip,” Curran said with a glance toward McGuire.
“I don’t need any evidence to ask the question, chief,” she sucked in a deep breath. “And you know it.”
Again McGuire waved Curran silent. He turned toward Fiona and smiled unctuously. His objective, she knew, was to be persuasive, to send her away without any suspicious feelings about his girlfriend.
“You could understand why she would want to do this, FitzGerald,” McGuire said. “You being a woman.”
“And being a woman, I’d be more comfortable if she told me why herself.”
“She’s too damned upset by all this and is scared to death that you wouldn’t believe her. What happened was, she got off the plane, and couldn’t bring herself to humiliate herself. She’s a proud woman, you see. But Frankie really was being a shit about it. Really. It wasn’t a question of money. All Beatrice wanted was respectability. Was that so much to ask? Frankie’s change of heart was a great blow to Beatrice. I guess she had it in her mind to make a last ditch effort.”
“And you say she got cold feet?”
“He didn’t say that, FitzGerald,” Curran interjected. “He said that the lady simply changed her mind. Ladies do that. The congresswoman did it as well.”
“And men don’t?” She felt a sharp tug of anger. Irish macho was, to her, th
e most insidious of all. Too close to the bone.
“No offense meant to your sex, sergeant,” Curran said, quickly backtracking. He was, she could see, one for testing the waters.
“It still would be better hearing it from her,” Fiona pressed. She was determined not to give up on that point.
“Give her a break. Is it Fiona?” McGuire asked. He was trying his best to be ingratiating and she was beginning to buy his sincerity.
“It’s Fiona,” she said flatly.
“Good Irish name that,” McGuire said. Don’t overkill it, she thought. He looked at Curran. “Has a good ring, right, chief?” Curran grunted, his face without expression.
“I think the Scots favor it more,” Fiona said, unable to resist. McGuire did his best to ignore the remark.
“Like I said. She went to Washington, decided she couldn’t face Frankie, walked around, then took the plane back two hours later.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“He already said,” Curran interjected.
“You didn’t know Frankie,” McGuire volunteered. “She was tough. She would have chewed her up, turning it around on her. She had wanted to face her ever since Frankie changed her mind. I told her no. Absolutely no. She did this on her own. As it was, it turned out that Frankie wouldn’t see her. Damned bitch. But you couldn’t blame Bea for trying.”
“Who said anything about blame?” Fiona said. From their expressions and the way they exchanged sly glances, she could see they thought they were winning. She sucked in a deep breath and cleared her throat. “If that’s what she said, this business of not seeing Frankie. I just don’t believe her.”
Curran stood up and thrust a finger in front of her face.
“Now that’s out of line.”
“You men and your waving fingers.”
She had meant something else, of course, but she held back. No sense in inflaming them beyond reason. She needed to pack a real wallop, one that hit them rationally, not just emotionally.
“We have two theories, gentlemen. One is that she did indeed get in to see the congresswoman. We don’t know how.” She looked at McGuire. “She might have used your key.”
“Who told you I had a key?”
“Somehow she got past the desk man,” Fiona said, ignoring his question, “and got into Frankie’s apartment. There, she did confront the congresswoman. Frankie refused to reconsider her decision. Miss Dellarotta begged and cajoled. When finally Frankie was still unmoved, she appeared to backtrack, apologized, then consented to a cozy little drink. Then came the little episode of the cyanide.”
Curran, who had sat down again, rushed out of his chair once again.
“I can have you thrown right out of this city.”
“On what grounds?”
“I’ll find them.”
“Good. More grist for the mill. The media will eat it up.”
“Who said anything about the media?” McGuire’s complexion suddenly matched Curran’s.
“Pregnant mistress begs lover’s wife for divorce.”
“Is that a threat, sergeant?” Curran said coolly. He was not easily intimidated.
“Of course, it’s a threat. I strongly suggest you heed it.”
“Goddamned little bitch,” Curran muttered.
Suddenly Fiona stood up. She could feel the churning begin inside of her, the rising sense of indignation, the blood pumping in her temples. She was the same size as Curran and she looked straight into his eyes. There was no emotion there. The man was ice cold.
“This whole situation stinks of cover-up and corruption,” she said, slowly and pointedly. Curran’s response was merely to look at her, his expression a frozen wasteland. Considering how he had jumped up to protect McGuire, she had expected more emotion. Her insult had been calculated. It would have had a mule’s kick for any police chief in the country. But this one was beyond that, hard as nails, as cold as a bear’s cave.
“You got it wrong, Fiona,” McGuire said solemnly. “Bob Curran is above reproach. Everybody knows that. If we have any weaknesses up here we take care of our friends. The man’s a friend.”
“Then it looks funny,” Fiona said, unyielding, but believing him.
“I don’t care how it looks, sergeant,” Curran said. “The man’s had his share. No need for any more. If he believes Beatrice, then I believe her.”
She was, she knew a sucker for this kind of loyalty among friends. In a political context it was rarer than a heat wave in winter. It softened her and she sat down again.
“I promise you,” she said. “I’ll be fair with her. I will not upset her. But you both know, I have got to speak with her.”
McGuire lowered his eyes and looked at his hands. Curran looked at her, his features immobile. Suddenly McGuire raised his eyes.
“You be careful with her,” he said.
“Of course,” Fiona replied.
“It’s all right, Jack. We’ll see to it,” Curran continued to stare menacingly at Fiona.
McGuire got up and left the room. He was back in a few moments with Beatrice Dellarotta. The contrast between her and Frankie McGuire was dramatic. She had a hawkish dark Mediterranean face. Large brown eyes with dark circles under them, lips that curled into a cupid’s bow. Her jet black hair was long and shiny. She wore a blue silk flowing dressing gown, but it did not hide the fact that she was already showing her pregnancy.
Curran stood up when she came in. McGuire was surprisingly attentive, dancing around her, leading her to the leather chair, his touch and look reassuring. His devotion seemed truly without guile.
Fiona had also risen, accepting McGuire’s introduction respectfully. She took the woman’s hand, which was warm and responded to the pressure of greeting. McGuire pulled over another straight-backed wooden chair and sat next to the woman. Reaching out, he took her hand. It was, indeed, a tableaux of great affection.
“Believe me Miss Dellarotta, I . . .”
“McGuire,” Beatrice interrupted, barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said, somewhat confused.
“We were married three days ago,” the new Mrs. McGuire said. It would have been less than a week after Frankie died.
“I didn’t want it to happen this way,” McGuire said. “But as you can see . . .” He waved his hand toward Beatrice.
“I’ll be thirty-seven next month,” Beatrice said, clearing her throat. Fiona reacted, of course, thinking of herself. She looked deeply into the woman’s dark eyes. I know, she said to her silently, reminded of what she hoped might be happening to her.
“I understand,” Fiona said sincerely.
“I wanted this child to enter the church with dignity.” She looked toward McGuire, lifted his hand and kissed it. “We know how it looks. But what is one to do. It could have been . . .” She checked her words, swallowed, her eyes moistening. Fiona waited until she found her voice again. “God’s will,” she whispered. “That’s the only way to explain it. I certainly did not want to see her dead.”
McGuire patted her hand.
“Of course not, sweetheart.”
Again she swallowed, took out a tiny handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown and dabbed at her eyes.
“I did go to Washington. I was angry and hurt. It wasn’t as if I was the other woman in its worst sense. Jack had already left her bed. It was over when we met.” She took a deep breath to calm herself and wrapped her arms around her swollen belly and smiled. “He just jumped.”
McGuire reached out and touched her belly, concentrating.
“There it is again.”
“It’s a miracle. A wonderful miracle.”
Fiona nodded, but was too emotional to speak. In a few months, she hoped, she too might feel that miracle. A shiver trilled up her spine.
“As soon as I landed I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I lost my courage. I could not bring myself to suffer the indignity of begging this woman . . .”
“I told her that,” McGuire said
.
“I took a cab. But as soon as we crossed the river I asked him to let me out. I walked around a little, had a cup of coffee. Then I walked some more and finally I took a cab back to the airport and went back to Boston.”
When she had finished she looked at McGuire, as a child might do to a parent after a public recitation. He responsed by nodding and patting her hand. Up to then, despite the presence of Curran, she had assumed that their overly protective stance was a kind of natural paranoia.
Fiona could understand McGuire’s unwillingness to upset his pregnant sweetheart, keep her out of harm’s way, exposing intimacies that both of them would have preferred to remain private. On that basis, she could accept Curran’s presence.
But there was something in Beatrice’s tone and manner which put her on alert, triggered her suspicion. She looked at Curran who caught her gaze and kept it. He had the look of a predator. She could detect not the slightest fear and uncertainty. Something is definitely wrong here, she decided.
“And you never set foot in Mrs. McGuire’s apartment?”
“That’s what she just told you, sergeant,” Curran said.
“Do you remember where the taxi dropped you off?” Fiona asked gently.
Beatrice hesitated, then looked at McGuire. She seemed suddenly uncomfortable.
“I was so agitated . . .” Beatrice began.
“It was a strange city,” McGuire added.
“Do you remember where you had coffee? What did the place look like?”
“Just an ordinary coffee shop,” Beatrice shrugged.
“In what sense ordinary. Small. A counter. Do you remember what kind of person served you. Black? White?”
She saw both men exchange glances. Curran nodded as if to say: Don’t worry. I’m here.
“Really, I draw a blank. I . . . I was so over-wrought, you see.”
“Do you remember anything about the taxi ride? Did you pass any familiar landmarks, any monument. Could you see the Capitol dome, the Washington Monument?”
“I saw that. Yes I saw that,” she said. McGuire still held her hand.
