by Warren Adler
"I thought you'd never ask."
17
HE HAD come without a hassle, willingly. Nor did it surprise him that she had asked him to her house.
"We want to keep this out of channels," she had assured him on the phone, knowing that he would accept the conspiratorial nature of the request. That was all the shorthand he needed.
Even when he was introduced to the eggplant, he showed no signs of irritation.
"We want to keep the Senator out of it, is all," the eggplant told him. He had placed himself on the leather wing chair. Fiona and Cates had taken the two upholstered chairs on the other side of the cocktail table and they had maneuvered Bunkie to the center of the couch. Nothing but space on either side of him. He was alone.
He had crossed his legs, showing his red socks with the polo symbols coming out of his tasseled loafers. To illustrate, or feign, his lack of concern, he had stretched both arms along the rim of the couch's back, a casual gesture. He had found a way to keep his smile fixed, although his wary, feral eyes roamed their faces in an effort to discover what they had in mind.
She had made a pot of coffee and placed coffee cups and Oreo cookies in a dish beside them. Only the eggplant and Cates took the coffee. Bunkie declined.
"Makes me jumpy," he said cheerily, his polka-dot bow tie dancing on his Adam's apple. He wore a blue striped shirt and a blazer with gold buttons.
He was, of course, no pushover. Fourteen years in the political arena surely had honed a great many useful skills. Fiona figured that hair-trigger alarm bells were set to go off in his mind at the first faint sign of danger.
"There was no way we could keep our commanding officer out of this, Bunkie," Fiona explained.
"I understand." Bunkie nodded toward the eggplant, who waved two ebony fingers in acknowledgment.
"Nothing is cut and dried," Fiona said. "No question that the woman's jewelry is missing." The Ambassador had, indeed, taken an inventory and acknowledged that to her in a phone call.
"Seems pretty obvious where the motive lies. She was always a walking jewelry store."
"Even when she met the Senator at your place?" Fiona asked.
"Always. I often told her that it was damned dangerous in this city."
"She wouldn't listen?" Fiona asked.
"Apparently not. It finally killed her."
"You're absolutely certain about that?" the eggplant asked. It was the opening salvo. Bunkie's guard went up. His smile stayed but his eyes gave him away. He also had another habit, Fiona observed. She had not seen it before. He swallowed nervously and the bow tie bobbed on his Adam's apple.
"Is there any doubt?" Bunkie said, adopting a slight tone of bemused arrogance. "You've just confirmed that she was robbed."
"That's the way it looks," the eggplant said calmly.
"How can you possibly say otherwise?" Bunkie asked, bow tie bobbing.
"You saw her on the Senator's behalf one day before she was killed?" the eggplant asked, his voice calmly modulated, unthreatening.
"That again." He turned toward Fiona. "I'm sure you've filled the Captain in on that."
"Such an assignment was part of your job?" the eggplant asked, his tone unchanged.
His eyes speeded up their inspection of each face in turn. In his mind, Fiona decided, he had begun to sound retreat, get back into the castle, lift the drawbridge.
"Yes," he acknowledged. "The political ramifications are obvious. Senator Langford is about to become a candidate for President of the United States. I'm not, as Detective FitzGerald knows, trying to hide anything. Helga Kessel was the Senator's mistress. It was decided that the affair, which was clandestine, had to be ended. To avoid a scene, I was designated to make it known to the lady that all was over."
"Forever or for the time being?" the eggplant asked.
"I offered no time frame. She was quite understanding of the realities. Her husband, too, is a politician." He uncrossed his legs, shifted his position, removed one arm from along the back of the couch, then recrossed his legs in the opposite direction. He was, Fiona observed, getting antsy. "Why are we going over this ground?"
"Have you ever carried out such an assignment before?"
"Unfortunately, I have had to," Bunkie said. "They tell me that years ago the media would have kept those secrets out of the public eye. There's lots of screwing around in this business. It's become fair game when you're running for office. Do I have to cite chapter and verse?" His eyes flitted from face to face. When he got no response, he continued. "The fact that the woman was murdered, frankly, scared the living shit out of us." He looked toward Fiona. No, she cried within herself. She could see it coming. He was poised to put a psychic knife between her shoulder blades. "Thank God for Detective FitzGerald and her ah ... friendship ... with Monte Pappas, our chief campaign consultant. She led us through the mine fields."
To his credit, the eggplant kept his eyes fixed on Bunkie's face. Fiona felt her cheeks grow hot. She knew she had reddened. But she was thankful that her instincts had opted for confession.
"Mr. Farrington," the eggplant said, tugging at his ear, his eyes deliberately hooded and seemingly indifferent. "Did you know a Betty Taylor?" In the clinches, Fiona thought, he was beautiful.
Bunkie's reaction was merely to look at the ceiling as if the shard of memory was embedded there. It did not strike Fiona as an untoward or guilty reaction.
"Betty Taylor." His glance roamed the ceiling, then moved to his hands. "Betty Taylor." He shook his head, bit his lip.
"Go back say fourteen years. The Senator is a Representative. He serves on the Judiciary Committee."
"Betty Taylor. Jesus." His face brightened although his bow tie continued to bob. "A real beauty." He looked toward the eggplant and his gaze lingered. "It's so damned long ago. I think I was with Langford no more than six months." He laughed. "Betty Taylor."
"You and she had one of your little talks."
"Had to. He was planning for the Senate."
He appeared totally without guile, showing amusement.
"And he was married," Fiona added.
"That was unraveling," Bunkie said. "The downside for him was..." It had obviously occurred to him that he had better be careful about the racial angle. "Florida is a southern state. In some parts of the state it wouldn't be taken kindly. The Senator hasn't got a bone of prejudice in him." He seemed confident, unwavering. "She was gorgeous, what they call high yellow. She had actually passed as white ... until we checked." He backtracked, turned his eyes away from the eggplant. "It wasn't easy for me. It was my first time at this. I hated to do it."
"You told her it was all over."
"Yes I did."
"And what was her reaction?"
"You're making me go back fourteen years. Christ." He studied the faces surrounding him. The space on either side of him must have appeared to expand. Undoubtedly, he was beginning to feel totally alone and certainly suspicious. When they did not respond, he uncrossed his legs again and took the other arm from the back of the couch. "I think she bawled like hell. She was just a kid. He really liked her, treated her very well. He always treats them well." Suddenly, arrogance surfaced again. "Hell, they got value received."
"Did she go quietly?" the eggplant asked. "Like Mrs. Kessel?"
His bow tie bounced on his throat.
"I can't remember. She might have called once or twice. But the Senator never took the calls. Soon she got the message and was gone with the wind."
"You never heard about her or saw her again?" the eggplant asked.
"Never."
The eggplant let silence take over for a while. Fiona and Cates knew the drill. Force him to break the silence, show his nervousness.
"You think I like doing this? It's the pissant part of the job. The Senator likes girls. He can't keep his zipper closed. It's a problem and he's the first to acknowledge it. Maybe he needs some kind of therapy for it. Problem is how does a politician with Presidential aspirations get therapy with
out the world finding out someday? It's another no-no. So we hang on and hope for the best. It's an addiction, but somehow he manages to keep things under control around election time. So far he's been lucky ... and he's had me."
"You've done this often?"
"Not often," Bunkie sighed. "Only when it gets out of hand."
"He falls for the lady?" the eggplant asked.
"Gets involved. I wouldn't say falls for. Hell, they're all over him." His eyes met Fiona's. Remembering the Senator's effect on her, she turned away in embarrassment.
"To keep all of them at bay would require a full-time staff of dozens. Sometimes he got hooked. Only then did I have to get involved."
"How many others?" the eggplant asked. "Not counting Betty Taylor or Helga Kessel." Something had changed in the calibration of his question. He was starting to push.
"Maybe two," Bunkie said, his comfort level falling rapidly. "Not bad in fourteen years."
"I don't want maybes," the eggplant thundered. His manner caught Bunkie by surprise. He blanched.
"I know of two others, okay?" Bunkie said after a long pause. He was genuinely alarmed, getting testy. His hands began to shake. "What the hell is going on?"
"What were their names?"
"How can I remember—"
"Remember," the eggplant intoned. The color drained from Bunkie's face.
"I do remember Harriet Farley. She was on our publicity staff during the Senator's first campaign. He spent a week with her in the Bahamas. I had to do that one quick."
"No repercussions?"
"Got a little messy. She got so involved she left her husband. The Senator was actually single then, but the husband was getting antsy."
"What does antsy mean?" the eggplant pressed.
"He kept calling. You know how it is. She had this jiboni that she had married in college. He was a salesman somewhere. Then she got a taste of the Senator, thought there was more to it and had to be set straight. It all cooled off pretty soon."
"How so?"
"The husband stopped calling and we never heard from Harriet again."
"And the other?"
"Judy something," Bunkie said. "She wrote speeches for us. I can get her last name. She was really bright. Suddenly he was spending lots of time writing speeches. He had married Nell by then, had their first kid."
"Same pattern?" the eggplant asked.
"Not really. It was getting hot and heavy. I could see that the time had come. Then before I could act she came to me. Said good-bye and upped and left. Just like that."
"How did the Senator react?"
"The thing is," Bunkie said with a smile, "I told him I had sent her away."
"That satisfied him?" Fiona asked.
"Look at it this way. I spared him the rejection." He shook his head. "Sounds awful, doesn't it?"
"Did Nell know?" Fiona repeated, cutting a quick glance at the eggplant, who nodded his approval.
"I would doubt that."
"Why do you think Judy something left so abruptly?"
"I told you. She was smart as hell. Knew it wouldn't work, I suppose. Jumped the gun."
Whatever her feelings about him, which were highly negative, Fiona felt he had been forthcoming, almost too forthcoming. Indeed, he seemed to go out of his way to leave that impression.
They gave him another treatment of extended silence. Finally he said:
"I've answered all your questions. I've been a good boy. Now tell me what the fuck is going on."
"You don't know?" It was Cates who asked. He had been silent throughout the entire interrogation.
"Haven't got a clue," Bunkie said.
Suddenly, the eggplant took an envelope from the table beside him and handed it to Bunkie. Fingers fluttering clumsily, he opened the envelope. He looked at the pictures, his eyes squinting.
"Looks like a skeleton," he said hoarsely.
It was the pictures that had been taken at the site where Betty Taylor had been buried.
"Betty Taylor, Bunkie," the eggplant said. They were all watching his face. The color disappeared from it. His lips trembled.
"Betty Taylor?" He could barely say her name.
"Strangled," the eggplant pressed. "Not long after you gave her the word. Buried in the backyard of an abandoned house. Same MO as Helga Kessel. What do you make of this, Bunkie?"
"I ... I ... I'm speechless."
"So I see," the eggplant said.
"I can't believe it," Bunkie said, faltering, gasping for air.
"Have we been leaving something out?" the eggplant said gently.
"Leaving something out?"
"Still think it's robbery?" Fiona asked.
"I don't know what to think."
"It's over now, Bunkie," the eggplant said gently. "It'll take some work on our part, but we'll get it right, Bunkie. Why go through all that pain? It's all over now."
"What the hell is happening here?" Bunkie exploded. He looked into their deliberately expressionless faces. "You really believe it. You think that I did this." He waved the pictures in front of him, then dropped them onto the coffee table.
"Gotta admit," the eggplant said. "It's an idea with legs."
Bunkie seemed to have collapsed from the inside out. All the bravado had disappeared and beads of sweat had broken out on his upper lip.
"Sam know this?" he whispered.
"We thought you'd like to be the first," Fiona said.
"He'll go crazy," Bunkie said. "He'll think I fucked everything up. All that we've been working for."
"Maybe you tried too hard," the eggplant said.
Bunkie's nostrils quivered as he sucked in a deep breath. All the Ivy League arrogance had run out of him like air from a punctured tire.
"I didn't do these things," he whispered. "I couldn't." His eyes welled with tears and he wiped what spilled over with the cuffs of his jacket. "The question here is, how will this impact on..." He moved his hands in a way that suggested that he was too choked up to continue. It was hard, Fiona decided, to generate any sympathy for the man. The craft of acting was part and parcel of a politician's arsenal, extending to his staff and sycophants.
"Make it easy, Bunkie," Fiona said gently, falling into the good-cop role, knowing that the eggplant would take off the gloves now. He got up from the leather wing chair and moved toward Bunkie.
"You're a fucking killer, man," the eggplant said. He stooped down and grabbed Bunkie's jacket, half-lifting him from the couch. "We're going to fry your ass one way or another. Hard or easy, you're finished."
The eggplant's face butted close to Bunkie's. His bloodshot eyes were popping and he was blowing sour breath in his face. The eggplant was doing his "physical intimidation" act now. She had seen it work before. Bunkie's body hung limply above the couch, like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut. He made no effort to resist.
"I'm no killer," he insisted.
"Fucking liar," the eggplant sneered, pushing him back on the couch. He paced the room like a caged animal, then came back and pointed a finger at Bunkie's nose.
"We'll squeeze you like a grapefruit. We'll be on your ass day or night, Farrington. One day other bodies will turn up."
Up to then he had been accepting the intimidation with only the mildest protest. Now he seemed to have pulled some strength from a hidden resource.
"Destroy for the sake of destroying, would you?" Bunkie said. His voice seemed stronger, and his confidence level had risen considerably. She could not understand why. "That would be damned shitty. Least you could do is give us the benefit of the doubt. We're not killers."
"Sure. The jails are full of innocent guys. We just put people away for fun."
But the fire was burning out in the eggplant as well. None of the strategies was working. Innocent or guilty? She wasn't sure. None of them could be sure.
There was something else troubling her. Bunkie was certainly the logical suspect. He had openly admitted his connection. But something was awry and she felt a troub
ling barrier between the obvious and the real truth.
The fact was that all the evidence presented was circumstantial. No confession. No case. Not yet. They'd have to keep digging. They'd have to check out Harriet Farley and Judy Something. Were they, too, buried in someone's backyard?
"I'm no angel," Bunkie managed to croak, sensing that the tension had eased. "But I didn't kill anybody."
"We'll see, won't we?" the eggplant said. He had stopped his pacing and now leaned against a wall. He looked toward Fiona, widened his eyes and gazed toward the ceiling. His message was obvious. No point in pursuing the interrogation any longer. The parameters had been set. They'd need more evidence before Bunkie would break. He was either acting, stonewalling or truly innocent. One thing was certain. No confession was forthcoming. If guilty, he had opted to play out the string and there was nothing they could do to force the issue.
Bunkie uncrossed his legs and folded his hands around them. His knuckles were white, yet he seemed to have finally taken command of himself again, although he was emerging as someone else. He was, Fiona knew, exercising the chameleon option, the politician's last resort, changing colors in mid-campaign.
"You can destroy us politically with this," he said. "You know it and I know it and soon Sam will know it. Even if we're innocent, which we are. Neither Sam nor I is guilty of any of this. I don't know how or why these terrible things occurred. Could be coincidence. I don't know. But the least you can do, without any other corroborating evidence, is to protect us. Is that too much to ask?"
"Might be," the eggplant said, leaving open the possibility. If, indeed, they were innocent, he would not want to lose the chit he had earned. "Hard to keep these things from the media."
"I wish Sam were here," Bunkie said. Obviously, he had realized that he had gone as far as he could go by himself.
"You're welcome to use the phone," the eggplant said.
No way, Fiona thought, and he made no move to look for a telephone.
"May I go now?" he asked, standing up, straightening his jacket. A flash of arrogance had returned, which was puzzling to Fiona.
"For the moment," the eggplant muttered.
"I know you'll want to speak with the Senator," Bunkie said, shooting a glance at Fiona. "And you can bank on his cooperation." He started to walk, then stopped. "We have nothing to do with this. Once more can I prevail on you to keep this quiet? I mean as far as the media is concerned."
