by Warren Adler
Fiona looked out again at the cluster of reporters.
"No hotdogging," Cates said. She knew what he meant. The eggplant had made an ironclad rule. No one from homicide ever talks to the media. Except him.
They thanked the lady and moved out of the garage. Getting to their car was like running a gauntlet. And they ran it. The reporters and cameramen were on their heels, first cajoling, then cursing as Fiona and Cates locked the car doors.
"No shit," the eggplant said into the car radio after she had identified the corpse. He lowered his voice. "You're positive?"
"I met the lady," Fiona said. Briefly, she confronted the dilemma of her knowledge, then mentally postponed it.
"You do get around, FitzGerald."
She coughed into her fist and looked at Cates. "I'm locked in the car and surrounded by the animals of the media." She held the microphone pointing at the window.
"Hear?"
"You tell them anything?"
"Not me," she said in a mocking tone. "I obey the rules according to..." She paused deliberately. He knew what they called him behind his back.
"The eggplant," he chuckled.
"The thing is," she said, "if we don't say anything, they'll think we're hiding something, something big."
"Makes sense," the eggplant muttered.
"So what should we do?"
He was silent a moment. Of all his duties, he loved playing the star. Only he could be cast as Mr. Hot Dog and beware anyone who had the audacity to steal his limelight. Fiona noted that the media people had grown bored with their harassment and were heading toward the house.
"Tell them," he said, "that I'll be holding a press conference up here in say, three hours." He paused and cleared his throat. "We'll need a real positive ident before we send this one up."
"Looks like a strangulation," Fiona volunteered.
"I'll push Benton on this one. I want every fact to be letter perfect. Tell the world we're pros."
She knew he was already giving things a political spin in his mind. A diplomatic murder had cachet, took the pressure off the escalating killings in the crack wars.
"Shall we notify the Ambassador?" Fiona asked, knowing the answer.
"Do what you have to. Come in with enough time to brief me. I want to go out there smart as hell."
She waited for his ten-four, but it didn't come.
"Get your jollies poking around graves," he said. She caught the shorthand. He was making the connection. Then he signed off.
The media people were huddled in a circle around the woman and her baby. Television cameras, like small cannons, were focused on them. The baby had started to howl.
She banged the car's horn to get their attention. They came running and she opened the window a crack.
"Greene's running a press conference in three hours," Fiona snapped. A barrage of questions began and Fiona gunned the motor.
They drove around the corner and pulled up in front of the house where the yard had caved in. Planted in front of it was a For Sale sign. Haber and Weston, Real Estate.
Constructed mostly of wood with cupolas, gables and an outdoor porch, the house had an expansive Victorian feel, suggesting more leisurely times in a bygone age. It was well set back from the street with a fence of high hedges along its property lines that assured its seclusion and privacy. A car could easily be driven through the driveway and disappear behind the hedges, totally out of the field of vision of neighbors on either side.
Determining that the house was locked and, indeed, empty, they moved to the yard. A walkway of wide stone slabs led through the trees to the point where the ground had given way.
Fiona speculated that the body was dragged along the stone walkway to a point under the trees. A grave was dug, probably an easy job, owing to the softness of the ground because of the rain. Then the body was thrown into the hole and covered up. It was obvious that the cave-in had literally buried any useful clues and the rain had undoubtedly washed away others. They moved over the stone walkway searching for any indication that a body, a person, a shovel had come that way. Nothing. Here, too, the rain had done its job well.
"Good choice?" Cates mused.
"Except for the rain. Might have been here forever."
"Nothing is forever," Cates said.
Somehow Fiona detected in this remark the very essence of Cates' determination. Here was the black boy from Trinidad, with shiny ebony skin stretched over Caucasian features, speaking in the clipped accent of the island, as different from the native blacks who populated the MPD as she was, the white woman.
Like her, he thrived on obstacles and divining strategies to outflank them. Unlike many of his fellow detectives, he had a degree in criminology from Florida State, although he was careful not to flaunt it.
"Being philosophical today, Cates," Fiona said, mildly teasing, yet knowing that few remarks could penetrate Cates' uptight sensibility when he was immersed in a case. He was too focused for idle bantering and definitely not one for personal revelation.
Fiona knew very little about him. He was 30, had emigrated with his mother as a teenager. He still lived with her in an apartment in Northwest Washington. He had admitted, in a rare moment, that he had a girlfriend who was studying to be a doctor in a school in upstate New York. As far as she could tell, Cates was faithful to her. He was also obsessed with making good at his job, and as Fiona's junior, eager to learn anything she could impart.
"Not philosophical, Fi," Cates replied. "The fact is that in due course everything is revealed."
"Depends how long we live."
Cates nodded, refusing to take up the cudgel, lapsing into silence.
THEY DROVE to the Austrian Embassy and Fiona opened the door.
"I've got to do this alone," she told Cates.
"Is that wise?" Cates asked. Despite his deference, she knew he was questioning her motives.
"I know the man," she responded.
"Sometimes that could inhibit objectivity," Cates responded.
"That's a pretty rigid evaluation, Cates."
Cates shrugged, obviously avoiding any confrontation.
As she left the car, she chose to turn away quickly, unwilling to confront his expression nor her own motives. Call it a postponement, she assured herself. Was there enough evidence yet to scuttle a man's career?"
The receptionist was surprised when she was let in immediately. The Ambassador, impeccable in a dark blue suit and discreet striped tie that hung in a Windsor knot from a starched collar, came out from behind a carved oak desk and greeted her in perfect diplomatic fashion.
He ushered her to a seat in a conversational setting in one part of the spacious office.
"Can I get you anything?" Ambassador Kessel asked. She could tell from the elaborate way he had chosen to illustrate his exterior calmness that he suspected her mission. He seemed different from the anxious person she had been with just yesterday, more polished, but calmer, as if he had already sensed her mission. She studied him carefully for signs and possibilities.
He had, after all, given her a picture of their marriage that was deliberately planted to illustrate his indifference to his wife's unfaithfulness. Perhaps all that had been merely a ploy to set up a future denial on his part. Nevertheless, she did not wish to appear callous and indifferent.
"I think I've found her," she said, her words hesitant, hoping by her somber mood and delivery to telescope the message.
"She's dead," he whispered, swallowing deeply. He had gone pale and clasped his hands between his knees. He lowered his head to hide his eyes and shook it from side to side.
"How?" he asked. It seemed a genuine effort for him to expel this single word.
"Strangulation, I think. The Medical Examiner is checking as we speak." She then explained the circumstances of the discovery. Each revelation seemed a physical blow. "Why Helga?" he asked in a voice now muffled by grief.
"That's exactly what we're trying to ascertain, Mr. Ambassador."
&nb
sp; "She loved life, perhaps too much," he sighed.
Although the color had not come back into his face, he seemed to have gotten himself fully under control. She noted that the knuckles of his clasped hands were white. Suddenly he looked around the office. He seemed furtive, then he leaned over and spoke in a whisper.
"Will it be awful?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I mean the aftermath." A nerve palpitated in his jaw.
"I'm not sure." His meaning seemed clear to her, but she could tell that her response hadn't satisfied him. "I'm afraid there will be a great deal of media coverage and wild speculation. There's no escaping that. You are, after all, the Austrian Ambassador. And she was a beautiful woman."
"I understand." He nodded to buttress his reaction.
"My boss is holding a press conference. They will be crawling all over this place, looking for stories, pictures, anything. I would suggest you keep as far away from them as you can."
"Will he tell them everything?"
"He doesn't know everything," she said pointedly. Then, after a long pause, she asked gently, "Do I?"
"I don't know what to say. It is all beyond belief."
He sucked in some air through pursed lips, then expelled it in a gesture of disgust.
"Can it be avoided?" he asked tentatively. "The other aspect?"
"Depends," she said, wanting to be sure he understood fully. "If it's not connected."
"Do you think it is?"
"I hope not."
She was sincere, even hopeful, but dubious. The image of Monte's apprehensive face flickered in her mind. She chased it away, although she determined that she would be the one to break it to him.
"These things have a way of spilling over everything."
He cocked his head and unclasped his hands, as if to illustrate his surrender to events.
"You're absolutely certain it was her?" he asked.
"Unfortunately I have to take you in to confirm it."
He put his hands in front of his face. His shoulders shook, although no noise escaped his lips. His grief seemed genuine, but she forced herself to suspend judgement. She had been fooled before.
11
MONTE, LOOKING wary and very nervous, slid into one of Sherry's torn naugahyde booths. Fiona watched him across the chipped formica table. Of course, he knew that something devastatingly important was happening. No question about it. He was a man prepared for the worst. She introduced Cates and the two men shook hands.
"He has to be in it now," Fiona explained. "He's my partner." Monte shrugged, obviously a man waiting to hear the worst.
EARLIER, SHE had told Cates of her involvement with Monte, leaving the implications for him to deal with.
"We dated," she told him, watching his eyes dance away from hers.
"It happens." He shrugged. But she knew there was more going on behind the response.
"Some might say it's a conflict," she said cautiously. "Might interfere with my objectivity."
Cates kept his eyes from confronting her. He was obviously evaluating the revelation, being deliberate, checking it against his own standard and, of course, its effect on his career. It was a measure she understood.
"When you swim in your own pool," Cates said after a long pause, his glance meeting hers, "you're bound to meet familiar fish."
"Bon mot, Cates?"
"I was looking for a good way to say it."
"Say what?"
"That I trust your judgment, Fi."
It embarrassed him to say it and again he turned his eyes away.
"Fair enough," Fiona said, offering a thin smile. She wanted to bend over the table and kiss his cheek, but she held off, worried about any misinterpretation.
SHERRY CAME over and filled three coffee mugs. They waited until she finished her chore and waddled away.
"She's been murdered."
It did not need to be said twice. Unlike the Ambassador, who had gone white, Monte flushed red.
"Fuck," he said.
She watched the anger wash over him. His large brown eyes flickered with pain and his chubby fingers tapped the formica table. She wished she could have broken it to him by herself in a private comforting way, cuddling him in her arms like a big teddy bear. In his game, she knew, a threatened career held all the terrors of a threatened life.
As quickly as she could, in much the same way as the eggplant had briefed the press, she gave him the details. In performance, the eggplant always rose to the occasion and she was proud of him, albeit grudgingly. She considered herself far less skillful. It was impossible for her to coat the pill.
"Those lice will find a way to connect Sam," he said, meaning the media. He could not stop shaking his head in disbelief. "Could be an absolute disaster politically." He started to slide outward from the booth. "I've got to tell them before it hits."
"I'd be circumspect, Monte," Fiona said, her words cautioning. He stopped his slide at the edge of the booth.
"I don't understand," he said, searching her face.
"They're suspects now."
"Jesus." He paused. "Me, too, I suppose."
"Only technically," she admitted.
"Jesus. Jesus K. Christ. I can't believe it." He leaned against the backrest. "Fi. Me?"
Fiona exchanged glances with Cates, who was present as both colleague and witness. Again she wished she were alone. But that would be unprofessional, compromising and insulting to Cates. Besides, she respected his judgement and she badly needed another opinion for her actions.
"It's our job, Monte. Everyone who has even the most theoretical of motives is automatically a suspect," Fiona said, putting her hand over his. He moved it away. She knew Cates had noticed. It didn't matter. She was certain he knew there was something more between them.
"And what is mine?"
It didn't need to be explained, but she did it anyway.
"Politics. You were running Sam's campaign. High stakes and good reason. The woman could upset the goal. Perhaps she was becoming a nuisance and she had to be taken out."
"By me. Monte Pappas. A killer. I can't kill cockroaches." He reached out, wrists together. "Cuff me."
"It's a scenario. It's the way cops think. I'm letting you in on the process."
"Maybe you should disqualify yourself. You've got a conflict of interest." He expelled the words in a fit of temper. Of course, he was angry. He had a right to be. But not at her.
"I have an interest, not a conflict," she snapped back. I care about you, you prick, she shouted inside herself.
"You wouldn't be here if she didn't care," Cates suddenly interjected. They had exchanged glances.
"You keep out of it," Monte said, still testy.
"I'm in it, Mr. Pappas," Cates replied calmly. "So are you and nothing can change that. Nothing."
"Don't blow it, Monte. He's on our side."
"You mean we have a side. You're both cops. You can't be on anybody's side," he said, his eyes shifting from one face to the other.
"Maybe what happened has nothing at all to do with the Senator or his staff," Fiona began, deliberately showing him a note of hope.
"Thank you," he mumbled.
"That's the benefit of the doubt, Pappas," Cates said. "Be grateful."
In her heart-to-heart with Cates she had told him of Monte's trust in her. Trust was a commodity of enormous value in the cop business. Indeed, in life.
"We don't know that anyone in your tight little circle killed this woman. We intend to find out, no holds barred. But we can promise that we will do everything in our power to"—she remembered how they had put it—"to be discreet."
"How can you do that? The very act of investigation sends the message. The stink will be in the air and the media will follow it. And it will lead directly to the Senator. You've just supplied the motive. Mistress of Presidential-hopeful murdered. Two and two make five to those vultures. Grist for the mill."
Sweat had sprouted on his upper lip and he paused to wipe i
t away with the back of his hand.
"Depends on how we handle it," Fiona said gently. They hadn't yet put the eggplant into the loop. He had rushed away from the press conference for a meeting with the Police Commissioner, which gave them both the excuse of postponement. But she was obliged to keep the eggplant "apprahzed," especially when a case involved a politician, and he, in turn, was obliged to keep the Mayor "apprahzed," which meant that the involvement or noninvolvement of the Senator was at the mercy of conflicting agendas.
Before leaving for the meeting with the Police Commissioner, the eggplant had told them:
"Tomorrow in my office. First thing. I want theories and options." He had lifted one of his well-cared-for ebony fingers and pointed it at them. "No surprises," he had warned. In his shorthand it meant that he would hold them responsible for anything the media might ferret out, whether they knew it in advance or not. He would be particularly intolerant, in fact, inflamed, if he discovered that they were withholding information from him deliberately. On this latter issue, they were forever vulnerable.
"Help us move fast, Monte," Fiona said. "This could be a totally unrelated thing, and a quick absolution of your principals might get everybody off the hook without a mark on them. Fact is that nobody on our side wants to fuck over a potentially powerful politician ... if it's not necessary. We have to see Sam, Monte. No way out."
Monte looked down at his fingers, mulling it over. When he looked up again, his gaze had softened. He reminded her of a big curly-topped baby on the verge of tears.
"More coffee?"
It was Sherry, looking as shabby as ever in her bageled stockings and stained cardigan pulled tight over her overample figure. As always, she wore battered and stained once-white Reeboks. Without waiting for an answer she filled their mugs.
"As the doctors say," Fiona told him when Sherry had walked away. "Cut out the cancer before it spreads."
"You mean now?"
"We're wasting time," Cates said.
"I'll try. Sam's first instinct will be to stonewall," Monte said, biting his lip. He slid out of the booth but did not go for the phone. "There's something else." He shook his head. "He doesn't know you were in it."
