Immaculate Deception

by Warren Adler

  “We hadn’t meant . . .” Fiona began, but it was quickly apparent that Mrs. Rome was not through. There was great toughness, Fiona observed, behind the persistent smile.

  “Yes, you had. Frankly, I don’t know what demons possessed poor Frankie. We did not see her as deeply troubled or unhappy in any way. I suppose in politics you learn to dissimulate. Perhaps she was so good at it that we never saw the truth.” Mrs. Rome’s attention seemed to falter, drift away. It became clear that the interview was over.

  “Well, you’ve been very kind to talk with us again, Mrs. Rome,” Cates said. It seemed a signal for the woman to rise. They also rose and followed her through the apartment to the front door.

  “If I can be of any assistance, officers, please don’t hesitate to visit or call.” She held out her hand to Cates, then Fiona, shaking them in turn with a strong politician’s grasp.

  “Don’t say it,” Fiona snapped as they walked to elevators.

  “I won’t.”

  “She’s living in a fantasy world,” Fiona said, thinking of her mother. “Typical smiley-smiley. Political helpmate. Woman behind the man bullshit.” Frustration had knotted her guts.

  “All beside the point, Fi. Still no hits, no runs.”

  “Only errors,” she sighed.

  They moved down the corridor and Cates pushed the elevator button. As they waited they heard banging noises in the shaft and when none of the two elevators arrived after an inordinately long wait, they decided to walk down. They proceeded to the door marked exit which was next to the Rome apartment and started down the stairs.

  But when they descended down two levels, Fiona stopped suddenly and ran back up the stairs. She opened the exit door and found herself in the corridor where Mrs. McGuire’s apartment was located.

  “What is it?” Cates said puffing obediently behind her.

  She avoided an answer as she repeated the process of opening and closing the exit door. It operated smoothly making no sound. She stood for a while just inside the landing, contemplating an idea that was emerging clearly in her mind.

  “You’re not thinking that?” Cates said.

  “It’s entirely possible,” Fiona said, tapping her teeth with the longish nail of her forefinger.

  “You’re reaching.”

  “Think so? A quick run down the stairs. One flight. If he had a key, he’d be in her apartment in seconds with no one the wiser.”

  “Dangerous theory,” Cates said.

  “Worth pursuing,” Fiona said. Again she opened the exit door and studied the empty corridor.

  “Especially if you’re looking for another line of work.”

  “A politician is a born opportunist,” Fiona said. She closed the exit door and looked upward to the floor above. “And this is an opportunity.”

  21

  “You’re leading me straight down the garden path to hell, FitzGerald,” the Eggplant said half-mockingly. It wasn’t exactly what he had bargained for. “Mrs. Rome could be the unwitting beard,” Fiona said, spinning out yet another scenario. “He had proximity, that’s for sure. Clever rascal, Rome. You can bet he’d find a way to get together with the lady without being seen.”

  “Talk about circumstantial,” Cates said.

  “Still the stubborn opponent,” Fiona sighed.

  “I’m not saying it couldn’t happen,” Cates said. “All I’m sayng is that you haven’t placed the man in the apartment.”

  “He found a way. He’s a politician. Man like that always finds a way.”

  “Maybe,” Cates agreed. “He’d have to be a really cagey bastard to evade the all-seeing Mrs. Rome.”

  “She certainly has a narrow view,” Fiona said.

  “Man with a hawkeye like her for a wife doesn’t have too many options.”

  “Love always finds a way,” Fiona said.

  “We’re talking here of place,” Cates said. “Geography.”

  “They could have gotten it on up there,” the Eggplant said pointing with his panatela in the general direction of Capitol Hill. “Horniness and power. Goes hand in hand in this town.”

  “No way. For Rome that would be geographically unacceptable,” Fiona said. “Be like doing it in public. Too image-conscious. Too much staff around. Too many eyes and ears. Not foolproof enough for him. And her. No. If it was Rome, this would be strictly a closet thing. Their biggest consideration was obviously safety and discretion. If it did happen, they sneaked around.”

  “There’s a contradiction there,” Cates said. “There are no foolproof ways to sneak around. Not in this town.”

  “That would depend on logistics,” Fiona said. “I may have solved that problem.”

  “Flanagan’s boys are brushing the place,” the Eggplant said. “We’ll soon see.”

  “It would still be circumstantial,” Cates said.

  “Every great journey begins with but a single step,” Fiona said.

  “That still doesn’t explain how he evaded Mrs. Cyclops.”

  “Well, for one, how about mornings? She said he got up at the crack of dawn. Pecks the little lady on the cheek, then pops down to Frankie and hops in for a roll in the hay. They’d spend an hour or so, then down he’d go to the garage and off to work.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been there, FitzGerald,” the Eggplant said. Fiona blushed. For a brief time a few years ago, she’d had a morning lover, a man cheating on his wife. Of course, she hadn’t known that fact. Although his habit of meeting her in the morning did strike her as peculiar. He said he worked for the CIA and his work kept him busy until late into the evening. She had checked that out. He did work for the CIA. Despite that he could not ultimately hide the fact of his marriage and that ended that. Nevertheless, from this point of view, it was a discreet, safe plan. The fact was, he never did get caught by his wife.

  “Or he could have stopped by on his way home,” Fiona said continuing her speculation. “Through the garage, up the elevator. If it was safe he’d get off on Frankie’s floor. If not he would proceed to his own and dash down the stairs. Most likely, he would use the stairs to get back up. Chances are he wouldn’t see anyone on the stairs. Wouldn’t be a place for much traffic.” Actually, she liked her morning theory better.

  “Naturally, he had a key,” the Eggplant said.

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “Then why no clues in the McGuire apartment?” Cates interjected.

  “We could always get a warrant to search the Rome apartment,” Fiona suggested. “Might turn up something.”

  “Now there’s one that would wake the dogs,” the Eggplant said. She watched him suck the end of his panatela saturating it with saliva.

  “Part of the procedure for any ordinary suspect,” Fiona protested.

  “Are you suggesting that the old Eggplant is a chicken?” He tried relighting the panatela without success.

  “Just figuring out ways to make a case here,” Fiona said. The Eggplant shrugged and studied her.

  “My father was a house painter. When I was a kid I worked for him. It’s the only other skill I have. I do what you suggest, I start Monday with a brush and bucket.”

  “Just raising one small voice for justice,” Fiona said.

  The panatela was too wet to smoke and he discarded it in an ashtray and lit up another, sucked in the smoke, and blew it out in rings. His attitude, she sensed, was surprisingly philosophical.

  “Justice, is it? You got movies of Rome in the sack with Frankie? Rome slipping the cyanide into the wineglass? Rome wiping off the prints and stealing upstairs to his nice cozy nest? You got that, FitzGerald, then I’m first in line on your parade.”

  “All I’m saying is that we have to start somewhere,” Fiona muttered. “It’s not our job to let him get away with it.”

  “Maybe we got here the makings of the perfect crime,” the Eggplant sighed. It wouldn’t, of course, be the first time. She had encountered a number of situations where someone who had with absolute certainty committed a murder bu
t could not be brought to trial for lack of sufficient evidence. It was one of the main frustrations of all homicide detectives.

  “No crime is perfect,” Fiona countered. “Every solution depends on the diligence and commitment of people like us,” she said with lofty assurance. “I truly believe that this thing is bustable.”

  “Might bust us, too,” the Eggplant muttered.

  He was remarkably sanguine. In other circumstances he would have insisted that she lean heavily on a suspect, play with his head to extract a confession. He was holding back now. It was too risky. They needed more, much more.

  “Maybe we could dig up the body, do a DNA print,” Fiona said.

  “Still experimental. Maybe someday,” the Eggplant said wistfully.

  The telephone rang. The Eggplant answered it, barked out some order, then hung up.

  “You get him to confess, FitzGerald, we got us a case,” he said, as if he had read her mind. He smiled and watched a smoke ring rise to the ceiling.

  “He’s too damned shrewd to let me take him,” Fiona said. “He’s an expert in manipulation. He’ll see through me in a minute.”

  “With due respect,” Cates said, clearing his throat, a tic signaling a coming profundity. He looked at Fiona. “I’m not saying it didn’t happen exactly as you suggested. Or variation thereof.”

  “Well, thanks for the seal of approval.”

  “Don’t misunderstand, Fi. I really do believe that Rome could have been the woman’s lover. But killer. That’s a whole different ball of wax. Still nothing I’ve seen or heard rings that bell. All I’ve been getting is a motive for suicide. Nothing more.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Motive for suicide, is it?” Fiona asked. “Old Rome refused to divorce the lovely Barbara. Maybe he even suggests the “A” word. Because of that, she does herself with cyanide. That it?”

  “Something like that,” Cates said.

  “Soap opera bullshit,” Fiona shot back. She felt a bubble of anger expand in her chest. “She was an independent strong-minded woman. She was perfectly capable of accepting the reality of the child.” She looked at both of them pointedly, pugnaciously. She thought suddenly of Greg and her own situation. “Married or not, dammit.”

  Her burst of anger seemed to surprise Cates and the Eggplant.

  “Cates has a point, FitzGerald,” the Eggplant said, calmly.

  “The only point he has is on his head,” Fiona said, fuming.

  “What we are seeking here,” the Eggplant said, ignoring their verbal joust, “is a possible cover story for an ungraceful exit. We declare suicide. Name no names. Case closed.”

  “You’re kidding,” Fiona said, startled.

  “It’s a perfectly logical option,” he muttered.

  “Politically speaking,” Fiona said.

  “In the absence of evidence, as good a resolution as any you’ve offered,” the Eggplant said. She couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.

  “You were the only one who pushed the murder theory. I arrived later on that one. And him . . .” She looked at Cates who met her gaze head on. “. . . he’s still at the station.”

  “I’m only going on what we have at the moment,” the Eggplant said. “The man gave us one week, remember. Far be it from me to dampen your enthusiasm.” Was he mocking her? Or goading her on? She was getting mixed signals. Maybe he was setting her up, letting her go out on a limb on her own.

  “Gentlemen,” Fiona said standing up. “We have a problem here. Neither of you know shit about women.”

  “I won’t deny that one,” the Eggplant said, obviously being patronizing. She could imagine his interpretation. This was the last line of defense for the harassed female. When in doubt blame the boys for not understanding the girls. She felt suddenly like a cliché, an object of ridicule.

  Cates avoided her eyes.

  At that moment the telephone rang. The Eggplant answered it, looked at her and mimed “Flanagan.”

  “Are you sure?” the Eggplant asked. He shook his head, grunted into the phone and hung up.

  “Sorry, FitzGerald. No good prints near the exit doors, on the railings or walls.”

  She was disappointed. But it didn’t shake her theory. Not one bit.

  “It was, I will admit, an intriguing idea,” the Eggplant said, his voice trailing off.

  “He gave us a week,” she stammered. “I want the time.” She looked at Cates who shrugged.

  “You got it,” the Eggplant said. “Only I want . . .”

  “To be apprahzed,” she said mimicking the way he said it.

  He nodded and puffed a line of smoke rings in her direction.

  22

  She had been sitting in the den for two hours nursing the day’s many inflicted wounds. The ashes of anger still smoldered, but high emotion had receded. What difference did it make? She had finally concluded. No skin off my tail.

  Try as she did, all protestations ended in defeat. That woman was murdered. Of that she was now certain, dead certain. Never mind that it was purely intuitive. Never mind that she had superimposed her own highly individualized emotions on the lady’s motivation.

  Frankie McGuire was tough, strong, independent and courageous. She had chosen career over family. She was a fighter. Nothing that Fiona had heard about her indicated that she would deliberately take her own life. Certainly not the fact that she was pregnant. Especially that.

  But that conclusion could not manufacture evidence of foul play. Cates wasn’t much help either. All his research had only buttressed his own view of the suicide argument. She was furious with him, but she couldn’t blame him.

  She heard Greg’s car rolling up the gravel driveway. She had forgotten. Also her mental state was such that she was not up to any more confrontations. She wished she could send him home.

  It was too late, of course. She opened the door for him and he immediately embraced her and, despite her reluctance of a few moments ago, was glad he had come. She responded to his kiss.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” he said.

  She led him to the den and he sprawled beside her on the couch. A fire was burning happily in the fireplace.

  “I told you,” he joked between kisses. “We had to talk.”

  “This is talking,” she said.

  “Not right away. I never said first thing,” he whispered. By then, it was already too late to turn back.

  “It’s a fine way to greet somebody,” she said insinuating her body under his.

  “Very friendly,” he said.

  They were silent for a long time as the embrace accelerated to culmination.

  “I love you,” he whispered, as they cooled down, remaining intertwined. “It’s important for me to say that to you, Fi. I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you. I never want to be without you. Never.”

  She did not respond and after awhile, she got up and put on her robe and went off to the bathroom. When she came back she poured out two Scotch and waters and handed him one.

  “I can’t get you out of my mind, Fi,” he told her after he had sipped some of his Scotch. She had sat down beside him and he took her hand and kissed it.

  “Just what does that mean?” she asked.

  He took a deeper sip of his Scotch, then looked at her through his long black lashes. His face was conventionally handsome, high cheekbones, strong chin, eyes that could pierce the veil of any woman’s indifference.

  “It means,” he said, after studying her for a long moment. “That I want us to live together.”

  That again, she thought, wondering if, under all those layers of fear and caution that she had contrived, she really loved him. Yes, she liked being with him, adored and appreciated his sensuality. In that way, he was delicious. If that was love then she loved him deeply. He could make her swoon with pleasure.

  But there were barriers, principle among which was his marital status. Then there were her own instincts about his reliability, his morality, his value system. His choice of clien
ts, for example, was a measure of his corruptibility, despite his protestations that he was only a professional advocate. Didn’t that mean that he was a hypocrite? Easily bought and sold to the highest bidder.

  And yet she had chosen him to be the father of her child. Corruption, after all, was an environmental malady. Not something passed on by the genes. Now, after their lovemaking, there were soft moments when she grew more reflective, more open to possibilities. In his arms, she felt warm, secure, protected against the afflictions of the day. He put his arms around her shoulders, hugged her closer. She nestled herself in the crook of his arm. Gently, he caressed a breast while she rubbed an inner thigh. Easy, intimate, sensual, she thought. Rejecting such pleasures suddenly seemed unthinkable. Yet, she persisted.

  “I’ve tried living with someone before. It hasn’t worked yet.”

  She thought briefly of Bruce Rosen, saw his grey curly hair, remembered its touch. It was all she wished to remember about him with fondness. That, too, was a matter of reality over fantasy. Reality had, thankfully, been the victor.

  “So have I,” he mused. “Wrong combinations is all.” He gently squeezed her breast. “Not us. We’re peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I hate peanut butter,” she countered.

  “But you do like jelly?” he asked.

  “You were referring to the combination,” she said, hoping he would understand the symbolism.

  “Seriously, Fi,” he began. “We have got to face this.”

  Please, she begged him in her heart. No confrontations. Not now. Not yet. She maneuvered herself out of his arms and sat up stiffly. Then she drank half of her Scotch, feeling its shock as it hit her stomach.

  “You can’t evade it,” he pressed.

  “It’s the timing,” she countered.

  “Timing? What’s that got to do with it?”