Immaculate Deception

by Warren Adler

  “But that still doesn’t explain the complete absence of any physical clues.”

  “I’ve thought about that, sergeant. All I can say is that Frankie was enormously clever and resourceful. She probably figured it all out. Wiped away anything that might implicate me or anyone else. As for not leaving a note. Maybe an explanation was too painful. And how was she to realize that an autopsy would be performed? Maybe she wanted her life to speak for itself. She was quite independent. Her work was her life. Her children were grown and on their way. Her husband had chosen another woman. She wouldn’t have dared leave me a note. I understand that. If you knew her you would, too. As for her choice of poison. She’d find a way to get it.”

  In a strange way, Fiona was also relieved. Deep down, she suspected, she had chosen to attack this man because of what had occurred with Greg, as if he were a surrogate for extracting revenge.

  “In a way,” Rome said clearing his throat, “you might say I did murder Frankie. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.” Again tears welled in his eyes and he could no longer speak.

  “I want you to know, Mr. Rome,” she said with deep conviction, choosing her words carefully, adopting a clearly official tone. “I will respect this confidence. I’m really sorry to have intruded. Unfortunately, it’s the nature of my work. I did, however, go beyond the bounds of propriety, for which I apologize.”

  He reached out and took her hand.

  “I forgive you, FitzGerald . . . is it Fiona?”

  She nodded.

  “I was less than forthcoming myself. Every once in a while, I guess, people need to cleanse themselves. I guess you helped me choose the moment.”

  She thought again of her father who had also chosen his moment.

  “Maybe I have been wrong,” Fiona said, feeling the warmth and pressure of his hand’s response. “Frankie McGuire may have committed suicide after all.”

  24

  May Carter’s voice boomed into the squad room from the Eggplant’s office.

  “Lardass bitch,” Briggs muttered. He sat at a desk near the door to the Eggplant’s office and was hunting and pecking his way through paperwork. Fiona had just arrived after her meeting with Congressman Rome. She felt unburdened and relieved. But was she convinced? Away from the power of Rome’s personality, nagging doubts surfaced again. Why no fingerprints? Why perfume and face cream before retiring? Was she to believe Beatrice about Frankie’s state of mind? Or Rome’s version?

  But her agonizing also had another dimension. Could she bring herself to reveal what Charlie Rome had confessed? And what was she to tell the Eggplant about her reasons for choosing suicide? Would he accept her conclusion, one professional to another? Perhaps, considering his own wavering, he might welcome her reinforcement. Certainly Cates would. And the mayor and members of Congress. Everyone involved, except maybe May Carter. Justice would be done.

  May Carter’s intrusion was an irritation. Fiona did not wish to postpone presenting her conclusions any longer than she had to.

  “I say cover-up, captain,” May Carter’s voice boomed. “Nothing will convince me otherwise. You people have been less than diligent. I have reason to believe that Frankie McGuire was murdered by a very clever hit man contracted by those opposed to our movement. People who believe in killing are not discriminating. For their Godless immoral cause they will stop at nothing. I demand that this office be mobilized to break this case.”

  Her words rang clearly in the squad room as they sailed through the thin inside walls of the Eggplant’s office.

  “There is absolutely no evidence to . . .” the Eggplant’s words trailed off as he lowered his voice. But whatever strategy he might have used to placate her hadn’t worked and she was soon at it again.

  “I came here to warn you that I fully intend to go to the media on this one. Your mayor has great faith in your department’s ability, captain. ‘Satisfy yourself,’ he told me. ‘Speak to Captain Greene.’ Well, here I am, and all I get is more lip service.”

  “Can of worms, the whole goddamned case,” Briggs said. “And what does the little white princess think?”

  “Shut up and play with your Johnson,” she rebuked, straining to hear the conversation in the Eggplant’s office. They had apparently reached a civilized decibel level.

  “I’ve given you the motive. Mrs. McGuire was simply getting too powerful for them. I tell you this woman was murdered for that reason. Murdered. Not a suicide. Murder. Pure and simple. Bloody calculating murder.”

  Not bloody at all, Fiona told herself with rising indignation. She stood up and strode toward the Eggplant’s office.

  “I wouldn’t, FitzGerald,” Briggs said. “He’d be looking for a goat and you’d be walking right into goat heaven.”

  “He shouldn’t have to take her shit. Her theory’s off the wall.”

  Without another thought of the consequences, she ignored Brigg’s warning and strode into the office. Both faces turned to her. Immediately she noted the Eggplant’s relief at her sudden presence. May Carter’s face was beet red with anger.

  “You know Sergeant FitzGerald.” He waved his hand toward Fiona. “She’s one of the detectives on the case.”

  “We’ve met,” May Carter said, sniffing, as if Fiona gave off an unpleasant scent.

  He signaled for Fiona to sit down and she took a chair beside the woman. Her indignation was palpable.

  “Where are we on the McGuire case?” the Eggplant barked officiously.

  “Nowhere, that’s where,” May Carter harumphed. “Not that she hasn’t nosed around.” She turned to Fiona. “Understand you were in Boston,” she said smugly, to illustrate the extent of her knowledge.

  “Nice town,” Fiona said offering a smile of innocence.

  “She was murdered by them. Absolutely. There is simply no room for doubt.”

  “Mrs. Carter intends to go to the media with this case, tell them it’s the work of a hit man for the other side.”

  “The abortion killers,” May Carter snapped, lifting her chin pugnaciously. “Just another way of killing.” She was well practiced in the art of intimidation. The Eggplant looked very repressed. The effort to hold his temper had apparently taken every ounce of his willpower. Help me, his eyes pleaded.

  “Mrs. McGuire committed suicide,” Fiona said cutting a glance toward the Eggplant. Frown lines of confusion appeared on his forehead. In his gut, she knew, he didn’t buy it. She sensed his anger boiling just beneath the surface. Also, in the face of this persistent woman, his resignation.

  “So, you’re all in this together, are you?” May Carter said. “You’re all going to pay for this one day. What you should be doing is putting all those baby killers behind bars.”

  “The issue here is the death of Frankie McGuire,” Fiona said, suddenly heating up.

  “Exactly. And Frankie McGuire was murdered by a contract hit man hired by the baby killers.”

  “That is complete nonsense, Mrs. Carter,” Fiona said firmly without looking at the Eggplant who must have been mortified by her candor. After all, May Carter was a powerful and credible national figure who had threatened to go to the media with an explosive accusation. Obviously such an action was to be avoided at all costs. Fiona’s arrogant assertion, she knew, must be giving the Eggplant, notwithstanding his inherent disbelief in her assertion, nervous palpitations.

  “We shall see about that.” Mrs. Carter said, standing up.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter,” Fiona said. “You’re only going to embarrass yourself and your movement.”

  “You had better watch your step, lady,” Mrs. Carter snapped. She made no attempt to leave the office.

  “And I don’t appreciate your attempt to intimidate me. Or my superior.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” the Eggplant said.

  “No one murdered Frankie McGuire,” Fiona said slowly, emphasizing each word. “She committed suicide. There is no evidence to suggest otherwise.” She avoided a glance toward the E
ggplant.

  “That’s absurd. I knew the woman, perhaps as well as I know myself. She was not remotely suicidal.”

  “She had compelling reasons,” Fiona said flatly.

  Mrs. Carter sat down again, her chin lifted aggressively.

  “I doubt that.”

  “She is absolutely a suicide. Without a shadow of a doubt,” Fiona said, finally looking toward the Eggplant. Skepticism was written into the deepening lines of his forehead, emphasizing her own. Was she really? Fiona wondered, once again assailed by nagging doubts. But May Carter had goaded her into drawing this conclusion, although it did challenge Fiona’s comfort level.

  “I warn you, I don’t intend to accept that verdict and will do everything in my power to squelch it. I swear it.”

  “Are you certain then, Sergeant FitzGerald?” the Eggplant asked, in a tone that revealed a forced formality. It was clear that her sudden conclusion had left him confused. Worse, she was not certain that she harbored the conviction that could privately persuade him of its validity.

  “Yes. I am.” I think, she thought.

  “I have a question for you, FitzGerald,” Mrs. Carter said. It seemed like an attempt to be ingratiating. Fiona knew better. The woman was setting her up.

  “Do you believe in abortion?”

  “That’s a loaded question, Mrs. Carter,” Fiona said. It had come as a bolt from nowhere, completely unexpected. Fiona hesitated as she drew deeply from her recent experience. She needed time to recover herself, regain the momentum.

  “Why is that so relevant to this discussion?” Fiona asked.

  “It’s important to know where you stand,” Mrs. Carter said.

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Fiona said belligerently.

  Mrs. Carter nodded, as if illustrating her superior wisdom. She turned toward the Eggplant.

  “You don’t need a compass to know where she stands,” Mrs. Carter harumphed, turning to stare at Fiona. “Of course it’s my business. What happens in our society is everybody’s business. More important, the creation of human beings is God’s business.”

  She was, Fiona realized, launching into a polemical diatribe, whipping up the inner passion of the zealot. Again she glanced at the Eggplant, who looked upward at the ceiling in a gesture of frustration.

  Fiona held herself in check. No point in arguing with a fanatic. Besides, her personal turmoil over the matter with Greg had reminded her about her own inner consensus, which had surfaced yet again, like a sea lion that must rise periodically out of the deep for air. For her, every issue, personal and public, required this inner consent and the litmus test of its personal validity was how it affected her own independence. Selfish but necessary in a hostile world, she had decided.

  When Mrs. Carter had concluded, Fiona looked at her and said, “In your opinion, then, abortion is nothing more than murder.”

  She turned to the Eggplant.

  “Good Lord, this woman is thick-headed.” She looked back at Fiona. “What the devil do you think I was just talking about.”

  “And life begins at the very moment of conception?” Fiona asked.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “And if you had conceived a child you would never, ever make an effort to abort that child?” Fiona pressed.

  “Are you hallucinating?” Mrs. Carter frowned.

  “I take it the answer is no. Under no circumstance?”

  “Don’t you think this is a rather pointless exercise?”

  Again, Fiona looked at the Eggplant. A thin smile had erupted on his face and she caught his barely perceptible nod of consent.

  “And Frankie McGuire shared this attitude?”

  “With her soul,” Mrs. Carter said angrily.

  “All abortion is murder, right?”

  “Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Abortion is murder. Pure and simple.”

  The interrogation had developed a rhythm. Point counterpoint.

  “After conception, a woman’s will means nothing, her choice is out of her hands?”

  “In the face of that miracle it has become God’s choice. God’s will.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And violating that will is a sin. In lay terms, it’s nothing more than murder?” Fiona felt the fire rise in her gut. She sensed that Mrs. Carter was now operating out of both rote and morbid curiosity, wondering where Fiona was leading her. The woman’s eyes had fixed on hers, steady and demanding. She was prepared to give no ground, a female Horatio astride the bridge, daring the enemy, to pass.

  “Frankie McGuire committed an abortion on herself,” Fiona said, her own glance unwavering. Mrs. Carter blinked in confusion. “How does that grab you?” Fiona said between compressed lips.

  May Carter glanced at the Eggplant who met her stare with his own. But Fiona gave her no chance to gather her defenses.

  “For her it was the only way out. She was carrying a baby by a man other than her husband.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Mrs. Carter said. “It’s a trick.”

  “Medically confirmed,” Fiona said crisply. Then, unable to resist. “Perhaps also the work of a new type of hit man.”

  Mrs. Carter’s face flushed. Her eyes seemed like glowing coals.

  “Why wasn’t I told?” she asked, her voice tremulous, her surety broken.

  “Because, Mrs. Carter . . .” Fiona began, resisting the temptation to seek the Eggplant’s signal of approval. “It was none of your goddamned business.”

  Mrs. Carter started to rise from her chair, but apparently the revelation had sapped her energy.

  “I can’t believe it. Not Frankie.”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Carter,” the Eggplant intervened. His task now, Fiona assumed, was for him to defuse the situation.

  “Who was the man?” she asked.

  Fiona felt her stomach tighten as she exchanged glances with the Eggplant.

  “We don’t know,” the Eggplant said.

  “It’s not the issue,” Fiona interjected. “We are now certain her death was suicide.”

  “But it’s so out of character . . .” Mrs. Carter sighed. “Besides, we all would have stood by her. Surely, she knew that.”

  No point in belaboring the issue, Fiona thought, keeping her silence, letting Mrs. Carter work it out in her own mind. The fantasy of the “hit man” was obviously over. Also, the opportunity for making political capital out of Frankie’s death. No sanctity of life argument would stand muster now.

  After a long silence, Mrs. Carter rose slowly out of her chair.

  “Guess it took the wind out of my sails.” she said, making every effort to achieve a dignified exit.

  The Eggplant stood up behind his desk.

  “Our object here is to dispose of this case as rapidly as possible.” He lowered his eyes. “Without in any way damaging Mrs. McGuire’s reputation.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Carter said with a nod. “I suppose we couldn’t ask any more than that.”

  She started toward the door, turned, and faced Fiona.

  “We’re going to win, you know,” she said, her bluster restored, then she turned and left the office.

  25

  “Not bad,” the Eggplant said after Mrs. Carter had left.

  “For a woman,” Fiona replied. She had, indeed, experienced a tiny moment of elation. But that had quickly receded as she faced the prospect of having to justify her shaky conclusion about Mrs. McGuire’s death.

  Out of respect for the visitor, the Eggplant had let his panatela die. He lifted it out of the ashtray and fired it to life. Gobs of smoke swirled out of his mouth and nose as he assumed his favorite feet-on-the-desk position.

  “No way out now,” he said.

  “None intended.”

  The Eggplant blew some more smoke.

  “We had a week. You surprised me.”

  Fiona forced herself to lift her eyes toward his. She wondered if he saw her lack of confidence.

  “Why prolong the agony?” he said, watching h
er. “We were spinning our wheels, wasting manpower.”

  “The issue here was murder or suicide,” she said. “Not conception.” She averted her eyes now. “We haven’t come up with a single clue, not the slightest warm lead.” She paused. It wasn’t working. Her earlier conviction was evaporating. She hadn’t thought it through and it was showing. “But we could still continue . . .” Her voice trailed off. After that little discussion with May Carter, she had boxed the MPD into a bit of a hole. Under the Eggplant’s gaze, she felt transparent.

  “I guess I need hip boots to wade through all this bullshit,” the Eggplant said calmly blowing smoke rings. His expression needed no interpreter. Storm clouds were gathering. “You found out who the father was?”

  “Yes,” she said meeting his gaze.

  He waited, sucking in more smoke, blowing it out.

  “I gave my word,” she said sheepishly.

  “You giving words now,” he mocked. “You got no authorization to give words.”

  “I know.”

  She felt him studying her. It wasn’t supposed to work this way. Then suddenly, instead of an eruption, he smiled.

  “Sheet.” He shook his head. “In the face of that bitch, what choice had you. In a way, I guess you saved our ass. Press would have crapped all over us. Everything would come out in the wash. Yeah, sergeant. I guess you had no choice.”

  “At least, I couldn’t think of any,” she admitted.

  “You spoke to the man, right?”

  She nodded.

  “He sold you.”

  She nodded again.

  “No way he could have done it?”

  “I . . .” She hesitated. She hadn’t actually checked his alibi, his assertion that he had been at a meeting until late. And she had believed his story totally. With her gut. In her heart. Emotionally, she had gone the whole nine yards.

  “Don’t say it,” she said.

  “Say what.”

  “Just like a woman.”

  They were talking in shorthand, nor did it surprise her how much was being communicated between them.

  “That chip just hangs there,” the Eggplant sighed. “Just Mr. Big Black Macho sitting here playing with his Johnson.” He shook his head, then sat up and shot her an angry look.