by Warren Adler
Barbara Rome came into the living room holding a bright silver tray, milk white cups and saucers and a matching coffee pot, which she placed on the cocktail table. Then she poured out the coffee with what seemed like elaborate ceremony.
From where she sat on the couch, Fiona could see the western landscape that she had seen earlier, but now it had far more significance. Orange-tinted in the late afternoon sun, the painting depicted a dry desert beauty and startling rock formations. In the cloudless grey sky a predatory bird circled, seeking prey.
“Nevada?” Fiona asked casually.
“Yes,” Barbara Rome said. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“You’re from there, aren’t you?”
No sign of caution. She was more relaxed than on their first visit.
“Just a western cowgirl,” she said lightly. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine,” Cates said.
“Fine for me, too,” Fiona said. “You go back often?”
“Every few months,” Mrs. Rome said. “Family business interests have to be looked after. I was an only child of a driven man.”
“Mines?” Fiona asked.
“That and real estate. Also cattle. My late father was a brilliant entrepreneur.”
“Gold mines?” Cates asked.
“Not quite like it sounds. It’s an old claim we’re still working. Believe it or not, I have a degree as a mining engineer. Father was one as well.” She turned in her seat and motioned with her head to a portrait of a forbidding man with a moustache that drooped at the ends. “Quite a man.”
“Mr. Rome off to the Hill?”
“Man gets up with the roosters,” she said, smiling. “Now what can I do for you? Charles tells me that this Frankie thing might be settled once and for all.” She clucked her tongue. “But I’ll never understand it. A woman like that taking her own life.”
“She didn’t,” Fiona said quietly, her eyes probing those of Barbara Rome. Her only reaction was a slightly speeded-up blinking action. She lifted her cup and saucer.
“But I thought . . .”
“So did we,” Fiona said cutting a glance at Cates.
“Are you saying . . .” Mrs. Rome began, then trailed off.
“Frankie McGuire was murdered. It is beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
Barbara Rome still held the cup and saucer, but a clattering had begun as her fingers began to shake. Suddenly, both the cup and saucer fell on the cocktail table. The cup broke and the oriental rug got the full brunt of the coffee.
“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Rome squealed. She ran into the kitchen and was out seconds later with a roll of absorbent paper, a sponge and some cleansing compound. Down on her knees, she began to blot up the stain.
Only then, seeing her on her knees zealously sopping up the coffee stain, did the thought seep out of her subconscious. Greg had advertised his neatness as a great plus for their relationship. Nothing ever out of place. Everything shipshape and clean. This woman was obviously a fanatic about that, obsessively compulsive. Of course, Fiona thought, and suddenly an answer to a mystery had arrived on the wings of Greg’s remembered voice.
Mrs. Rome frantically worked to remove the stain. After a full ten minutes of rubbing and applying cleaning materials, the stain appeared to be defeated. Then she went back to the kitchen with the cleaning materials and reappeared soon after and sat down again.
“Now what is this nonsense about Frankie being murdered?” she asked, making an effort to appear calm.
“It’s not nonsense, Mrs. Rome,” Fiona said gently, pausing for a moment. “As you well know.”
The woman was sitting on her hands now, but a tremor in her jaw gave away her inner agitation.
“I . . . I shouldn’t be talking to you. I . . .”
Barbara Rome was trying desperately to gather her forces. Sensing this vulnerability, Fiona pushed ahead. Show no mercy, give no quarter, she told herself, feeding the blue flame of anger. She glanced toward Cates. Now, she told him with her eyes. He signaled his understanding with a nod.
“Mrs. Rome,” Fiona said. “It was no secret to you that your husband and Mrs. McGuire were having an affair. Am I right?”
“What!” It was an effort at indignation. The woman tried to stand, then sat down again.
“For a year,” Fiona said, her voice steady, carefully modulated and controlled. “. . . he would leave her bed for yours. You found out, Mrs. Rome. And when you did . . .” Fiona allowed herself a long pause. “. . . you took action.”
“No,” she shouted, her voice tremulous. “I won’t stand for this.” She managed to rise unsteadily. There was a telephone on a table nearby and she managed to reach it. With shaking hands, she picked up the phone, punching in the numbers with clumsy fingers. She had to do it three times to get it right. Fiona and Cates watched, but made no move to stop her.
“Mr. Rome,” she said into the phone. Her voice was wispy, agitated, but she seemed to be recovering her poise. “This minute. Dammit. I don’t care. Interrupt him then.” Her facade was collapsing and her inherent bitchery could no longer be hidden. As she waited, she put her hand over the instrument.
“You had better leave this minute. Both of you. I’ll see to it that you’re charged for this. You’ll never hear the end of it as long as you live.” Her voice trembled with anger as she lashed out. She was a woman well-versed in intimidation. The crust of charming superiority had been shattered. Fiona and Cates stood their ground.
“Charles. These people are here again,” she said into the phone. “That woman detective and that black man. They are saying crazy things. All sorts of crazy things.” Her voice rose on a wave of hysteria. “I want them out of here this minute. I want you back here. Now. Do you understand? Now.” Her face had become pasty under her make-up. “And I want these people charged. You can’t imagine what they’ve been saying.” She looked suddenly at Fiona and said to Charles, “Here tell her yourself.” She then thrust the phone into Fiona’s hand.
“You filthy bitch,” Rome shouted into the phone. “I’ll have your ass for this. You gave me your word . . .”
Fiona replaced the instrument quietly in its cradle.
“We’ll wait for him,” Fiona said.
“Not I,” Barbara Rome said. “I’m getting dressed and I’m getting out of here.” She started to leave the room. Cates blocked her way.
“A little calm, Mrs. Rome,” he said.
“You do have a choice,” Fiona said. “We can pull you in for Murder One now. Or you can wait until your husband arrives.”
Her determination seemed to seep out of her. Her shoulders hunched and her body wavered as if it had been hit by a heavy gust of wind.
“I’m not saying anything to either of you,” she muttered. She groped her way to the couch and sat down. Hands folded tightly, she lowered her head slightly and stared at them.
Fiona had seen it before. She had stiffened herself for stonewalling. A cornered suspect wants to appear to retreat from reality, except that it was not that simple a task to stop the ears from hearing.
Fiona moved toward the couch and stood over her, feeling the pressure of time. The impending presence of Charles Rome would stiffen her resolve. She had to be broken before Rome arrived.
“You’ve got to face it, Mrs. Rome,” Fiona began.
She waited. The woman showed no sign of answering and Fiona continued.
“You planned it to perfection. You had access to the cyanide and you knew the way you were going to get it. No sweat there. Mrs. McGuire had stolen your husband. You confronted him. He confessed. Worse, he told you she was pregnant by him, something you were never able to achieve together.”
She shook her head, unclasped her hands and brought them to her ears. Fiona reached out and pryed them apart. Still holding them, Fiona continued.
“He wanted to divorce you and marry her.”
Her ploy hadn’t worked. Fiona was reaching her, driving the message home.
“He was getting ready to d
ump you, Mrs. Rome, have what he always dreamed about. His own child, which you couldn’t provide him with.”
She felt the impetus of relentlessness. She felt no mercy, thinking only of Frankie McGuire and her baby.
“No. No!” Mrs. Rome cried.
“You asked for time. Planned and plotted. In Nevada you got the cyanide. Then you chose your moment. That evening, with your husband at his staff meeting, you went down to Mrs. McGuire’s apartment. She was already in bed. You had a real heart-to-heart, probably consented to the divorce, sealed it all with a toast.”
“I won’t listen to this,” the woman protested, struggling to put her hands back over her ears. Fiona felt her strength. She shook her head when Cates stepped forward to assist her.
“You murdered her. In cold blood. To protect yourself and your marriage.”
Again the woman shook her head vigorously. Fiona looked toward Cates, who stood by now, watching patiently, nodding approval. Still the woman hadn’t broken.
“You killed that woman, Mrs. Rome. Admit it. We know too much now. You’re finished.”
“Lies. It’s all lies,” she screamed.
The woman was stonewalling beyond her emotional strength. Soon her husband would arrive to buttress her resolve. Greg’s voice roared back.
“There were no fingerprints because you erased them, worked the apartment over, made it sparkle, cleaned every corner with your usual fanatic zeal.”
“Just wait. Charles will know what to do,” the woman said. “You can’t trick me.”
Fiona had been holding the woman’s arms apart and now she let go.
Human beings, Fiona had learned, worked in patterns with surprising aberrations from the norm. This was one of those cases. The woman was holding back. Nothing was working. Or, Fiona thought, was she failing to see something? an essential ingredient overlooked. She heard movement in the vicinity of the apartment’s front door. Only then did the idea occur to her.
“He told me you did it, Mrs. Rome,” Fiona said calmly, bending over the woman, talking calmly, gently. “And he’ll never forgive you. Never.”
Slowly Barbara Rome raised her head, her eyes spitting black hatred.
“He’s a damned liar.”
“He’s coming in now. Ask him.”
A pale and angry Charles Rome confronted her from the living room entrance. He was out of breath. Behind him was the Eggplant.
“Don’t tell them a damned thing, Barbara,” he shouted. He turned to the Eggplant, who looked harassed and angry.
“I demand they be relieved of their duties as of now,” Rome snapped. “They are harassing my wife.” He moved toward his wife and put his arm around her. She shrugged it away, looking at him fiercely.
“You got something to say?” the Eggplant said, directing his attention to Fiona and Cates. Although he had the demeanor of an angry man, his eyes told Fiona that he was dissembling, playacting.
“This man,” Fiona said calmly, taking her cue from the Eggplant’s attitude, “was Mrs. McGuire’s lover.”
“You gave your word, you lying bitch,” Rome said pointing a menacing finger at Fiona. Any pretense of control had vanished. Again he turned to the Eggplant. “Captain, I want them dismissed. I want their badges taken away and thrown into the Potomac.”
The Eggplant stared at him, but did not respond.
“I can have you chewed up and spit out as well, captain. I demand that you act. Or would you prefer I speak to the mayor?”
“I told her what you told me, Congressman Rome,” Fiona interjected pointedly.
“What did you tell her, Charles?” Mrs. Rome asked.
The congressman seemed suddenly trapped by competing forces, confused as to who to address next. He turned to the Eggplant.
“I want these people out of my home,” he shouted.
“What did you tell her, Charles?” Mrs. Rome persisted. Rome turned to her impatiently.
“I told her the truth,” Rome snapped.
“And what was that?” Mrs. Rome asked.
“That . . .” he began.
“That you killed her,” Fiona said directly to Mrs. Rome “You poisoned her with the cyanide that you brought from Nevada.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the Eggplant pressed. He was growing genuinely angry now. Above all, he hated to be in the dark, especially at a so-called moment of truth. She pressed forward.
“She brought the cyanide back from Nevada. She owns a mine there.”
“I don’t have to stand for this,” Rome said, rushing over to the telephone. “I’m calling the mayor instantly.” He picked up the phone.
“Send him my regards,” the Eggplant said.
Rome looked at him for a long moment, then put down the phone.
“Maybe we can settle this between us,” he muttered. His complexion had turned ashen.
“What did you tell her, Charles?” Mrs. Rome asked.
“I told you. I told her . . .” Again he lost his voice.
“The truth you said,” Mrs. Rome snapped.
“He told me you killed her,” Fiona said, knowing she was gambling her career. But she was certain now. Dead certain. The Eggplant’s glance shifted to Rome’s face.
“Can’t you see what she’s doing . . .” Rome said, his voice sputtering to silence.
“You told her that it was me?” Barbara Rome asked.
“Can’t you just . . .” Rome managed to reply, but he was being defensive now, treading water, on the verge of panic. “Don’t say another damned thing, Barbara. I want a lawyer immediately. I know my rights. We do not have to say anything. Nothing. Say nothing, Barbara.”
It was unraveling now. Fiona, the Eggplant and Cates had seen it before. Conspirators falling out. There was nothing for it but to let it happen.
“He was the one,” Mrs. Rome said, her eyes narrowing with hatred.
“I told you to shut your fucking mouth,” Rome screamed, lashing out with his fist, hitting her full force on her nose. The force of it threw her off balance and she fell against the bookcase and slipped to the floor bringing a shower of books with her. He started after her, but Cates caught him before he could strike her again and held him in a hammerlock. He squirmed and shouted obscenities, but Cates held him fast.
Mrs. Rome began to bleed from the nose.
“You dirty bastard,” she cried, the blood trickling over her mouth onto her spotless clothes. “He did it. He was the one. It was all his idea.”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Rome shouted.
“Cuff the son of a bitch,” the Eggplant said. No sooner ordered than Cates had his cuffs on Rome, who had been forced to his knees.
“You bastards. I am a member of the Congress of the United States,” he screamed.
“God help the Republic,” Cates said. He lifted Rome’s arms behind him until the pain quieted him down.
Still bleeding, but paying no attention to the blood trickling down to her chin, Barbara Rome stared at her husband with abject hatred. She had struggled up to her feet and was now looking down at her husband.
“I caught him,” she said between clenched teeth.
“She’s crazy,” Rome whimpered. Then he looked up at her and found his strength. “Filthy rich cunt.”
She sneered at him, spitting a wad of bloody mucus in his face.
“My turn now, you animal,” she shouted, then turned to the Eggplant, growing strangely calm.
“I followed him one morning. Wasn’t the first time he had been with other women. But Frankie. Of all people, Frankie. Our so-called friend. And making her pregnant after all those years . . .” She paused to clear her throat of blood. “He begged me to help him, get him off the hook. He made promises, you see. Promises. He made lots of promises. All I did was get the cyanide. Everything else was his idea. No way people would find out. He was sure of that. It was he that laced the wine the morning before. Sure I had to give him one more chance. You see, he knew she always took a wine nightcap in bed. Oh,
he knew all her intimate secrets. It was disgusting. But I stood by him, believed his promises.” She turned to Fiona. “You’re right about one thing, I did clean the place. I believe in cleanliness.” The condition of her face and dressing gown was an ironic contradiction. “I must have done a helluva good job. He had it all planned out. Of course, he was at a staff meeting at the time. His alibi was airtight.”
“You goddamned fool,” Rome shouted through his pain. “We had it made. Perfect. I never told her you did it. They tricked you.”
She paused, then turned to him.
“My father warned me about you,” she said. “He told me you were too ambitious, would stop at nothing to gain your ends, that you would use me.” She nodded, as if to herself. “Well, you used me alright.”
“Used you,” Rome sneered. “Spoiled bitch.” He shook his head. “What choice did I have? She was going to expose us, ruin us both.”
Fiona felt nothing but disgust for this ruthless poseur.
“What about all that sentimental horseshit, Rome?” Fiona asked. “The stuff you handed me yesterday about being so proud of having this child of your own?”
“He told you that?” Mrs. Rome sneered. “All that bastard was ever interested in was power. Power over everybody.” She smiled suddenly. “Well I unloaded your wagons, didn’t I, Charlie?”
Justice triumphant, Fiona sighed. Amazing how much scum bubbled to the top.
“Read ‘em their rights and bring ‘em in,” the Eggplant said. While they did that, he used the phone in the den. They could not hear what he was saying. After awhile, he came back into the room.
“Hizzoner,” the Eggplant said. “He was real pissed this morning.” He looked at Rome. “That one raised hell, made the mayor rush me down here. Threatened he’d take my badge if I didn’t move my ass.”
“And now?”
“I just told him where he could put it,” the Eggplant said, his face breaking suddenly into a broad grin. “He said he was going to spend the day practicing his pucker.”
