“What the hell was this all about?” Sweetman was studying a full-color magazine tear sheet. A tweed-suited Constance Burdette, beaming at the reader from her executive suite, was posed with one hand on a floor-to-ceiling map, a patchwork quilt of numbered oil exploration blocks superimposed in the North Sea—TOPIC—THE TOP PICK!
“That was about four years ago, Mr. Sweetman, her days in London.” Fisker set to work at 5:00 P.M. They finished at half-past three the following morning. Sweetman began to absorb the family names and relationships, at first; moving from the storybook childhood through the revolt against her family, to the failed first marriage. On the second run-through, Sweetman would break into Fisker’s commentary, questioning, confirming, etching this woman Connie into his brain, marking each event that would require investigation. “If she were still alive, she wouldn’t like you, Harold. You know too much about her—Okay, both parents deceased, no uncles, aunts—”
“Possibly one left of the older generation, an uncle who would be in his late eighties, on the mother’s side, reputed to be the clan loon, a nomad of the South Pacific. Last known address Port Moresby; we should know more tomorrow.”
“Enough, Christ; he wasn’t the hitman. We’ve got the widower husband—”
“Robert Burdette. Professor of Literature, City College—”
“Two kids, twins, right, Bruce and Evelyn . . . and two brothers: Thomas Starring, Towerpoint superstar, and kid brother Adrian. One living ex-husband, and . . . a string of ex- and current lovers running from the obscure of Europe—”
“Just London, as far as we have determined—”
“—from London to the White House.”
Fisker guided Sweetman back to the point of last interruption. He described Constance Burdette, the girl and young woman, as an exotic blend, exotic in the sense of chemistry, of physical beauty enveloping resilience and resourcefulness. As the family business of STARCO had grown during her childhood, her father had made a point, quite unusual for the time, of treating her as her brothers’ equal. Beyond that, there had been nothing really out of the ordinary—horses, ballet, boarding school, two schools in fact, summer trips to the family’s home in Nova Scotia, to France, an unexceptional first three years of college, and then the encounter with Victor L. O. Long, her first husband.
Fisker tapped at one of the montage photos with the eraser tip of his pencil, pointed to Connie and Victor at New Westminster, British Colombia, six months after their marriage. The print had appeared in For Her magazine’s biography just the month before. “Mr. Long was an instructor in literature and an unpublished playwright who was eleven years her senior, on exchange to Radcliffe from the University of Toronto. At the end of his first visit to the Nova Scotia residence, the young woman informed her parents that she was pregnant and that she and Victor were going to marry—a total uproar, parental prohibition, revolt, the flight across Canada, a civil ceremony in Vancouver—”
“No kid?”
“No kid. The For Her article didn’t dwell on the subject.” Fisker traced the flowering and the collapse of the marriage, the passion she lavished on Long, her discovery that he required more than her companionship, three different women within the first few months. She returned to the East Coast of the United States. Her family embraced her, helped her through the divorce, the death of her father, several months of barren depression. She was only twenty-two at that point.
“What do we have on Long?”
Fisker had anticipated him, taking his incoming message log and flipping through the teletype flimsies. “The RCMP has run a check. Long is in Australia, married to an Australian national, five children—”
“She must have tied him to the bed—”
“No criminal record, no travel outside of Australia. And, I have also confirmed there have been no appearances, telephone calls, correspondence since the divorce.”
The next years saw a 180-degree shift, with Connie plunging into her brother’s emerging Towerpoint empire: Five years as special assistant to President Thomas Starring, several more as assistant executive director for corporate planning, then the jump to vice president. Sweetman clamped shut the thick file. “According to you, Harold, as smooth as silk on the outside, a cactus lady with her colleagues—but, no vendettas or violence?”
“Not at that stage—now, there were half-a-dozen death threats each of the family members had received in their capacities with the corporation, at the time plans for the new coastal research center were announced. Each case has been carefully documented and closed. The protests were of an antiwar, environmental nature. Two people eventually went to jail. The threats stopped. The two are out now; the Bureau is running a check.”
“Then, our husband Robert Burdette entered.”
“Yes, he had written her, before they had met, on college letterhead, inviting her to address one of his seminars, no obvious explanation. We do know the event rekindled her academic interests, a gap that apparently had begun to disturb her. She removed herself from the day-to-day Towerpoint operations, moved to the board of directors and launched a self-appointed sabbatical year, graduating cum laude and absorbing Professor Burdette . . .”
“Then she had to cut Adrian off at the pass.”
“Yes, a quick, harsh tangle in which she emerged as senior vice president. He was capable. She was far quicker, by now a master of each of the Towerpoint divisions. More importantly, she now had a grip on Wall Street and the money market—her new degree. When the clash came, Adrian could talk Towerpoint. She could talk Towerpoint, the Big Board, foreign bond issues, commodities, spot metals, market position—and relate them to the family empire.”
The two men took a break from their work. The smell of fried meat and coffee filtered through the rooms of the cell, before Fisker again took up the thread of the victim’s life. The next ten-to-twelve years had seen planning for major expansion of Towerpoint International, the operations in the North and Irish Seas, the creation of Towerpoint Petroleum International Corporation (TOPIC), headquartered in London with Connie as its first president.
“Elegant town house isn’t it?” Fisker had followed Sweetman’s eyes to the color photograph of the Burdette’s London mansion. As soon as she had unpacked, she cleaned out half the British employees from the TOPIC start-up. The firings produced several weeks of sensational journalism, branded her, really, and made for three of four hard enemies—”
“The Yard come through?”
“Their report is being transmitted tomorrow.”
“Give them a hard look; flag anything important.”
“That is in train, Mr. Sweetman. She obviously knew what she was doing. TOPIC’s profits leapt; operations expanded. Then, in her third year, an off-shore rig was lost, capsized, in the North Sea with loss of life. There was labor trouble in the east of England, a barrage of work actions and protests. Until we have the Yard’s report, I won’t know whether these translated into specific threats against her. She chose this tempestuous moment to make the first of her public appearances with two new male companions.”
“Husband Robert was benched?”
“Not formally, not divorced or even separated, simply encouraged to return to his courses while she ran the London end.”
“We have Timothy North, art collector, and the rising congressman, now president.”
“The three of them began to make appearances from time to time at concerts, exhibitions, the best restaurants and midnight clubs, with North lavishing attention on both . . .”
Sweetman rubbed his eyes. “Too late for a soap opera, Harold. I know the rest of the file—campaign trail, victory, Geneva, pow! She must have kept a diary?”
“Three volumes have been made available to us by her family; the fourth is in Geneva with her effects.”
Sweetman pushed out of his chair and began to pace. “In this performance of yours, Harold, and damned good, too, you haven’t mentioned a single goddamned threat. Aside from that coastal research exercise, n
o political or criminal violence, no attempted sabotage, kidnappings, letter bombs, or property destruction against this woman who’s just been blown apart. Is that right? We’re sure?”
“No surer than I have indicated.”
“It all says U.S. ambassador—international—political assassination. It’s too easy, but no one’s making political hay. That doesn’t track, Fisker. We’re not looking at nuts, lunatics—not the way they cut her down. What are we looking at Harold, some sort of new strain?” Without waiting for a reply, Sweetman snatched up another folder. “What about Chairman Tommie and his wife? Yeah, Tina, the actress, right? She’s taken a few swipes at Burdette in the press.”
“Mr. Starring is en route back to Europe tonight, apparently rejoining his wife on a company ship in Malta.”
“I’d better grab them personally. Christ, Fisker, my head keeps saying European hard core, but my guts—keep digging. This London file. She was all over the map. Let me know what the Yard tells us—they’ll be holding some of it back. Get a couple of hours sleep. We’ll need a firm location on Starring. Meeting him is the first step, Malta or wherever; then I’ll hook up with Pierce.
“After he and I work Geneva over, I’ve got to check out the TOPIC operation. I’ll need the London files. Lay the groundwork; fill me in with one of your ‘Shattered Flags.’ And look”—Sweetman went over to Fisker, engulfed him with a great arm around the shoulders—“tell Lancaster after I go that he can have my bunk down here. He disappeared into the lounge, returned, still laughing, with a can of beer. “Do that, Fisker?”
“Mr. Sweetman, the director has loaned you his bed.”
Chapter 8
At 2:00 P.M., June 4, Hanspeter Sweetman was admitted to Suite 401 of the Hotel Excelsior by a plainclothes security officer. Tina Starring was standing on the balcony, her back to him, watching the goings and comings of a balmy afternoon on Rome’s Vittorio Veneto.
He spotted another woman in one of the bedrooms off the drawing room, in black and white, hotel staff by the looks of her, on the telephone. “Si, si. E urgentissimo! Si, si cabbiara lo stile, si Excelsior tre e mezzo. Grazie, grazie.” She saw the visitor, hung up, and scooted to the balcony.
“Mr. Sweetman. I do apologize. You’re from the embassy? Do sit down.” She looked into his eyes, gave him a long, soft smile and led the way to a cluster of sofas. She sat down and tucked one leg beneath her. “It’s just across the street, isn’t it—the embassy?”
“I’m in from Washington, Mrs. Starring, working on the Burdette case.”
“Oh my God, yes.” She bent forward to retrieve her cigarettes and holder.
“I want to thank you and Mr. Starring for seeing me, good to catch you while you are in Rome, makes it a lot easier.” He took in her beauty as he spoke, the body, the face, the blonde he had only known from the print and television, sitting four feet away, barefooted, in a black, longsleeved cotton shirt and silver slacks.
“Mr. Starring? Oh, I’m afraid you’ll have to scusi Tommie, Mr. Sweetman.” She gave him the full beam of her smile, tossed her hair before lighting her cigarette. “We’ve just flown in, too, from Malta, after a late, very liquid evening”—she clicked her tongue, shook her head in disapproval—“and there was a lovely gold-and-white invitation from the Quirinale Palace, propped against those beautiful flowers. Tommie is lunching with the brother of the president of the republic.
“I was indisposed, and will remain so until the hairdresser has exorcised the demons of Malta’s sea air. You really do have a better solution, don’t you, Mr. Sweetman? Oh, don’t think I’m being rude—just fuzzy. I know Tommie will want to see you.” She turned slightly, caught the maid’s eye. “I’m going to have a very long, cold, revitalizing gin and tonic; will you join me?”
“Sure, gin ’n’ tonic’s great.”
“That’s great. You’re great. Tommie’s secretary, Muriel Sullivan, is also here somewhere in the hotel, Mr. Sweetman. She will make the arrangements for you with Tommie. Now—you wanted to talk to me about Connie?” She halted the glass on its rise from the tray to look across the rim at him, then said, “Salute,” before taking her first sip. Her blond hair fell away from her neck as she tilted her head back, eyes closed, feeling the cool drink, searching for the words she would use with this investigator. “She was murdered by terrorists, wasn’t she? It’s so cruel, just when she had made so brilliant an achievement.”
“Mrs. Starring, are you aware of anyone who ever threatened Ambassador Burdette, held a grudge against her, was outspoken against her?”
“Oh, I was all of those from time to time, but don’t think of me as a suspect. Connie and I were not friends. She really was . . . quite insensitive, at a very difficult moment in my life, but that’s . . . that’s that. She did not approve of her elder brother’s second marriage. They were even there, as on so many other points. Tommie didn’t approve of either of hers.” Tina’s mouth pointed into a small smile; a layer was falling away. Her words began to flow more comfortably, no longer of rivalry, but of history. “I don’t know how much you know about my late sister-in-law, but she was an exceedingly capable, aggressive person, very destructive of other people. She made enemies quite easily.”
“Who are you thinking of, Mrs. Starring?”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m talking about closet foes, not homicidal enemies—men and women she had injured, damaged, swept aside—who suffered their bitterness and their defeats quietly. I could give you a hundred names if you really wanted me to.”
“You’re saying that you are unaware of any explicit threats?”
“None that ring out. You see, we might run into each other in New York, in London. We were not together that often, Mr. Sweetman; our careers were usually on different sides of the Atlantic. She ridiculed mine, told Tommie that he had married a sex object with a little girl’s mind trapped in a worthless, make-believe world. Goodness. We didn’t speak for two or three years after that. She broke the ice with a long, intelligent, thoughtful letter tinged with apology. I had my agent reply.
“A few months later, I sent her tickets, a box, to one of my performances, my biggest Broadway opening. Her secretary sent an acknowledgement”—Tina laughed softly, resettled herself on the sofa—“saying that the tickets had been given to some deserving younger employees, My, my . . .
“The closest to a threat that I can recall, Mr. Sweetman”—his thumb flipped open the cover of a small notebook he had been holding in his left hand, causing her to hesitate—“was from Arthur Jenssen.” She watched him write. “A double ‘s’—N-S-S-E-N. God; it must have been ten years ago in New York. He had learned that Connie was engineering his removal from the board, one of those situations where he was up for reelection, you know.” The circular gesture of her hand left a corkscrew of smoke between them. “He cornered her in an alcove, yelled, told her she’d rue the day, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Jenssen of the Alabama division?”
“Yes—you have been investigating—told her to stay away. Tommie told me this; I wasn’t eavesdropping . . . told her that shipyards were dangerous places. I have never followed the Towerpoint business, Mr. Sweetman. But . . . I was aware at the time, and that meant that Jenssen was aware, of the plans to bring in a new man. It was Connie’s idea to cut him off completely, even deny him his consolation prize on the board.”
“Where is he now, Mrs. Starring?”
“Oh, I have no idea. Someone told me that he was breeding boxers, dogs.” She leaned across, touched his arm. “He’s retired, well-off, of course, quite old, not your murderer.
“Really, I am sorry—and, I’m relieved that I can’t be more helpful.” Her shoulders hunched in a shudder that rippled through her body. She caught his eyes watching the movement of her breasts. “In a way, Connie was right in her criticism of me . . . living, imperfect people, not money . . . not power, are my life. It hurts me to talk about flaws. There isn’t time. I cringe at death, block it out, a can of blac
k paint hurled against a delicate, wondrous canvas.” She paused, her lips apart, her eyes questioning him. “You are an admirable man . . . in the service of the United States. Your business is death, something that I can understand but not accept. Do our rules permit me at ask you a question?”
“Damn right, go ahead.” He put the empty glass down.
“Are you armed? Do you carry a gun?”
His right leg was crossed above his left. One hand rested on the polished mahogany boot disappearing beneath the trouser leg concealing the pistol lodged in its holster. “I carry a gun.”
“I won’t ask if you have ever killed. Obviously, you can kill, swiftly. The man outside the door is armed. He can kill—the squeeze of a finger, the blink of an eye; a growing stem is cut, life gone. Shouldn’t there be fewer guns, a better way to deal with each other as living, imperfect beings? Tommie doesn’t agree with me . . . but, we are seeing violence run amok, finding it harder and harder to distinguish between civilization and savagery. I have always been so struck, Mr. Sweetman, by the British bobbies—unarmed, unique really, aren’t they, willing so bravely to shape their protection of the British people on the principle of civilization, not savagery, life not death?”
“More Brits are armed than you’d like to think, a necessity unless you move to Masada. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Mrs. Starring, just a couple of more points.”
“Connie and the president?”
“No.” The simple negative. She relaxed. The light shifted and softened in the suite with the back and forth of the questions and answers in the lengthening afternoon. “You mentioned being with your sister-in-law in London. Those were controversial years for her?”
“Dear, dear man, that was Connie at her zenith, her most notorious. She was in the news more that I was, but, really, I didn’t follow it. I have left the lucrative, boring affairs of Towerpoint and Towerpointees in Tommie’s very capable hands—so much so, that I presently am studying Arabic—Ar-r-abic!” Her professional voice played with the word; Sweetman’s pen had stopped.
A Death in Geneva Page 11
