by Warren Adler
"We'll do our best," the eggplant said, pausing. "Up to a point."
"What point is that, Captain?"
"The point that heads in your direction, Farrington," the eggplant said. It was intended as a threat, but for some reason it seemed to lack teeth, as if even the eggplant was losing conviction. Again Bunkie started to move, but there was something contrived in the way he was doing it, the cadence, perhaps, as if all along he was preparing to turn and confront them. Her observation proved correct. As he exited the den, he turned.
"Judy something," he said. "I remember her name. Peters. Judy Peters." He stood there watching them, making no move to leave. "I said I haven't heard from her since my conversation. I haven't. But she's very much alive. I just saw her picture on the cover of a cookbook."
18
JUDY PETERS lived in a townhouse on P Street, renovated to take advantage of every architectural strategy to make the house seem more light, airy and spacious than it really was. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a mirrored wall, a painting with a long-distance perspective, hanging plants, exposed blonde wood beams and bookcases snaking everywhere screamed out the pretense of the intellectual and superior taste level of the occupant.
From her vantage in the living room, Fiona could see the professional-size kitchen with its array of butcher block surfaces, hanging pots and up-to-date cooking devices, including a gold-plated cappucino machine, the obvious signature of a woman who writes cookbooks. On the coffee table in front of the couch where Fiona and Cates were seated were an array of these books, all by Ms. Peters, dealing with gourmet cooking sans such ingredients as salt, sugar, eggs and red meat. One was titled, Cuisine Without Pesticides. Ms. Peters, Fiona decided, had indeed found her ouvre.
The woman herself was tall and slender, with a high-cheek-boned esthetic face that went well with the house. She wore a long belted sweater and an expensive-looking, egg-shaped clock hanging from a beaded necklace. Her wrists were festooned with lines of gold bracelets.
Ms. Peters reeked with feminine militancy. Miss would simply not fit the subject. Her brown eyes peeking out from long lashes, despite an effort to appear serene, seemed wary, guarded. She had agreed to see them on the usual grounds of confidentiality, although from her initial questions on the telephone Fiona detected an inordinate curiosity. They had, of course, concocted a subterfuge, deliberately vague, something merely hinted at, about a scheme to blackmail Senator Langford. They were, of course, careful not to use the word blackmail.
"I'm not part of it?" she had asked with a dollop of expectation.
"Not yet," Fiona had answered, her voice pregnant with warning.
Fiona attributed Judy Peters' consent to the side-effects of what she called the "star-fucker syndrome." In Washington this was usually the affliction of women who interpreted participation in the political process as a sexual connection with an important politician or other powerful figure. Although most of those who were victims of the syndrome were the first to deny it in themselves, they were an accepted part of the fabric of the Capitol. Nor could Fiona deny to herself that there was some special excitement in it, a tantalizing temptation despite all the caveats and pitfalls.
Which was not to say that Ms. Peters was a typical example. But Fiona had found that after years had gone by, women who had "star-fucked" were not reluctant to discuss it. Jack Kennedy's women, for example, had been blabbing all over town for years.
Both Cates and Fiona had accepted her offer for, what else, cappucino, which they sipped from cream white cups.
After their abortive interrogation of Bunkie Farrington they had all agreed that if this was, as it had originally appeared, a kind of serial crime, they had better discover what had gone wrong with the serial and, consequently, their logic. All were also agreed, however, that there was a direct relationship between the murders of Helga Kessel and Betty Taylor.
"Yes, I did," Judy Peters acknowledged, after Fiona had finally posed the question. The initial opening had been the usual small-talk of ingratiation and the eliciting of biographical details. Judy Peters had been a legislative aide on the Hill until she had discovered cookbook-writing. She had actually been a legislative assistant to another Senator at the time of her meeting with Senator Langford. Not long after, she had joined the Senator's staff as a speechwriter.
She showed no embarrassment at the revelation.
"I came of sexual age in the sixties," she explained. "I was as much to blame as him."
Fiona figured Ms. Peters for a couple of years older than herself, but of the same mind-set when it came to men. Sitting beside her, Cates fidgeted. Being younger and having grown up under the strict supervision of a stern mother, Cates rarely alighted conversationally on the subject of sex and, in the course of business, would deal with it in rigid, clinical terms. When he made an effort to loosen up on the subject, his comments were always forced and hollow.
"It was ages ago, of course," Judy Peters clarified. She closed her eyes to dramatize her calculation. "Eight years."
"And how long did it last?"
"Oh, no more than six months."
"How was it conducted?"
"Ah yes, the modus operandi," Ms. Peters said, smiling. "Sweet impulsive youth. He was gorgeous. Still is. I adored him. We met a couple of times a week at a house on the Hill."
"Bunkie Farrington's?"
"Now there is a first-class prick," Judy Peters said.
Fiona wanted to acknowledge agreement, but kept quiet. She cut a glance at Cates, who smiled.
"You met at his townhouse?"
"I must say, Officer FitzGerald, you know a great deal."
"There were others," Fiona acknowledged.
"Oh, I'm sure of that. The man was irresistible." She laughed. "And insatiable." She showed not the slightest embarrassment. "He also brought out the tigress in a girl."
"Did you rate it as a real romantic attachment?" Fiona asked.
"A love affair, you mean," Ms. Peters said.
Fiona nodded
"Most definitely that. A glorious, romantic love affair."
"Were the feelings mutual?"
"Very much so. It took a great effort for us to keep our hands off each other. I would often find excuses to get to his office." She paused. "God, we were like rutting pigs."
"People noticed?"
"Only those who weren't blind. That probably led to our undoing. He had been married less than six months. Can you imagine? Six months. She found out." Ms. Peters shook her head. Fiona and Cates exchanged glances. "I felt awful." She straightened in her chair and caught Fiona in her gaze. "One thing I'm not is a home-wrecker."
"How did she find out?" Cates asked. By their immutable law of unseen signals, it became his turn to ask the questions. Judy Peters shifted her attention seamlessly. She seemed to enjoy talking about it.
"Someone told her."
"How do you know?" Cates asked.
She sucked in a deep breath, and for a moment her eyes lost their sparkle, glazing over.
"She told me."
Fiona's heart lurched. Cates pressed on.
"In person?"
"On the telephone. Called me at the office. She said she had heard that I was having an affair with her husband. I was shocked. I lost the power of speech. What was I supposed to say? I was also ashamed. Oh, I thought of the possibility of being the third Mrs. Langford. To his credit, he never hinted at that as a possibility. Wouldn't have worked anyhow. I like my freedom."
She was drifting and Cates pulled her back.
"Did you tell her it was true?"
"I'm one of those people who are constitutionally unable to tell a lie. I said yes. I was." She shook her head. "I remember there was a long silence. Then she said, 'Can you see your way clear to end it? You see, I'm pregnant.' Christ, I felt that small." She made the appropriate gesture, then fell silent.
"What did you do?"
"I said I was sorry that she had found out, that I never meant to hurt her."
"A
nd the ending of it?"
"There and then. I went in and saw Farrington. That was his department. I said bye-bye as of that moment."
"Not to the Senator."
"I was too embarrassed. And I didn't want to face him. Cut it clean. That's what I was after. To get the hell out of there."
"And what did Bunkie say?" Cates asked.
"Best all around or somesuch. He sounded relieved. In a way I was, too. It was getting out of hand."
"Did you tell him about the call from Mrs. Langford?"
"I didn't want to. But, for Sam's sake, I thought it wise."
"Did you ever call Mrs. Langford and ask her how she found out?" Cates asked.
"No, I didn't."
"Who do you think told her?"
"God knows. The fact was that our affair was so blatant that anyone with malicious intent might have done it."
"Are you sure it was Mrs. Langford who called?" Fiona asked.
Judy Peters' eyes opened wide.
"No, I wasn't." She paused, bit her lip. "Maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Brought me to my senses. It was time to go. I wasn't a damned fool. I had a great time. He was the best..." Her voice trailed off but her smile remained.
"Did Mrs. Langford, the voice on the phone, imply any dire consequences if you kept up the affair?" Fiona asked cautiously.
"Dire consequences?"
"Like cut it out ... or else." Cates said.
"Or else? Sounds ominous." She thought about it for a moment. "No, she didn't. That would have ticked me off. Made me stick with it. The fact is I knew I couldn't compete with her, not in the real world."
"The real world?" Fiona pressed.
"The lady was loaded. Family in real estate, oil, precious metals. All those goodies. She was right out of central casting. Perfect mate for an ambitious young Senator. No contest." She lowered her eyes, reflected a moment, then said: "I went on into the sunset like a good little girl. Went off to Europe actually ... the very next day."
"Is that what Farrington suggested?"
"I wouldn't listen to that prick. Fact is I understood why I had to go, even as a kind of plaything. Sam had little choice. A very rich and very pregnant wife. His political career. You know what it means. You have to pretend to be someone you're not. The great unwashed wants you to be a saint. What could I do? I was up there on the Hill. I knew the score."
"Do you think Sam, while you and he ... do you believe he was unfaithful to you?" Fiona asked. It was, she was certain, a question that only a woman might ask another woman and get the correct answer. Judy Peters looked past her into the mirror that was behind the couch, studying herself. After a while, she said,
"I don't think so. Maybe, but I don't think so."
She did not elaborate. It was an answer with many layers of meaning. Sam was, after all, unfaithful by virtue of his marriage. An old story, Fiona knew. A mistress rarely counted the wife as "the other woman." Judy Peters' revelation, Fiona noted, stopped at that point. What she held back was hers—deeply personal and hers alone. In that moment, Fiona could tell that this was more than a lady who had just wanted to put a scalp of a powerful man on her belt. Despite her telling it now, there had been more to it. She had been, Fiona was certain, deeply hurt. She had loved the man.
"And that was that?" Fiona asked.
"Best thing that ever happened. Going cold turkey." She snapped her fingers. "Stayed in France for a year. Went to the Cordon Bleu cooking school in Gay Paree. As you can see"—her hand swept the room—"it changed my life."
"Have you seen him since you've been back?" Fiona asked.
"Sam?" She smiled and her gaze seemed to turn inward. "From a distance sometimes. Once we exchanged a look or two ... as the song says ... across a crowded room. Oh yes. My heart still goes pitter-patter." She snapped back to reality. "I wouldn't want to see Sam hurt in any way. That's why I'm telling you this. Politics is a sick business. Lots of people standing around ready to take potshots, especially now that he's moving up."
"Did it occur to you that it might have been someone other than Mrs. Langford who had called?" Fiona asked gently.
She grew silent, turning over a private thought. "That would be a laugh. Someone put up to do that. Never know with these bastards. I wouldn't put it past Bunkie Farrington." Fiona noted that she hadn't accused the Senator of such conduct.
"Or some scorned woman?" Fiona asked.
"Could be. Every woman that ever got caught in his aura might be suspect then." Her eyes locked into Fiona's. "Sounds incredible, doesn't it?" Her nostrils quivered as she drew in a deep breath. "You have no idea about this man's attraction."
Oh, yes I do, Fiona thought. Oh, yes I do.
19
IT NEVER failed to amaze Fiona how an important case mobilized her inner resources as well as that of those around her, especially the eggplant. Professionalism took precedence to pettiness. Even the masses of hidden agendas that gnawed at the eggplant's innards like maggots were repressed. Even his paranoia subsided and he no longer feared that he would not be fully "apprahzed" as the investigation progressed. Everything was put at the service of "the case."
They were, at this moment, plugged into a single wavelength. There was also tacit agreement between them that they would protect the Senator as long as it was feasible, meaning as long as it did not impinge upon the investigation or bend police ethics beyond what was acceptable, legal or promotion-friendly.
There was, however, one point about which all were in agreement. At the next interview with the Senator the eggplant would have to be present. The agreement might be subject to misinterpretation on the grounds of appeasing the eggplant's hidden agenda for collecting future chits, which it certainly did, but more important was the fact that the matter was now too nationally sensitive to be pursued without the top rung of the police establishment represented. The eggplant, whatever his strengths and weaknesses, was able to short-circuit the Commissioner. He was plugged directly into his own power source, the Mayor, who, in turn, had his own constituency and favor bank among the political elite. As public servants, Fiona knew, they were vulnerable without some political protection.
Bunkie Farrington was still suspect number one, despite his protestations. But beyond gut instinct there was nothing to validate him as the perpetrator.
They had, Fiona knew, individual murder scenarios spinning in their minds, but it was too early for them to trade revelations. All agreed that the connection between the murders of Betty Taylor and Helga Kessel was inescapable, although a serial pattern had not totally emerged. Another body killed and disposed of in the same manner would quickly have confirmed the theory. That had not yet occurred.
The next morning the Post carried a follow-up story on the Kessel murder, quoting the eggplant as saying that "the police were still pursuing the robbery theory," which cut both ways and carefully signaled to the Senator and the Ambassador that they were not yet off the hook.
But the first surprise of the day was a call from Bunkie Farrington, who requested that they meet him at his townhouse "as soon as possible." Fiona and Cates were there within an hour.
They followed him into his kitchen, a jungle of unwashed dishes and general chaos. He appeared in the same physical state as the kitchen. His eyes were puffy, his skin pasty, his hair matted. A sour effluvium rose from his body. He poured oily coffee, which literally tasted fried, into chipped mugs.
He also appeared to have suddenly, as of a few hours ago, taken up smoking, which periodically sent him doubling-up into coughing fits.
"You people are making me a nervous wreck," he said.
He indicated that they should sit down at the table. They reluctantly accepted the invitation.
"Sorry for the mess." Bunkie said.
He shook his head and lit another cigarette, managing to get through a puff without coughing.
"Damndest thing," he said. They waited through a long pause. He squinted into the smoke, then looked up at them. "I found out what happened to
Harriet Farley."
Fiona and Cates exchanged glances. They had planned, of course, to check it out themselves.
"Saves us the trouble," Cates said.
"Dead," he said flatly. "Killed in an automobile accident. I called Herb Frank in Florida. He had hired Harriet for the first Senatorial campaign. She was a beauty, six foot tall, one of those athletic, perfectly proportioned amazons. Sam went nuts for her. Right in the middle of the campaign. Three years ago. She had to go. Our opponent was gathering dirt and there she was, bigger than life, a perfect target. It didn't take a genius to see that Sam had reserved that for himself. And she was getting real hooked."
"So you gave her your best Dear-John," Fiona said.
"You make it sound like it's a crime. I did the best I could. Gave her a month's severance." He shook his head. "You may not believe this, but I felt real bad about Harriet. I really liked her, big blue-eyed baby."
"Boss got first dibs," Fiona said with a sneer.
Bunkie shrugged, but his silence told her she had hit a raw nerve.
"She was killed on a secondary road in the Middleburg area."
"Was she drunk?"
"No evidence. I got the report from the Loudon County Police. She was into horses, rode with the Hunts in Middleburg when she got a chance. Anyway, this was one of those winding country roads."
"When was it?"
"Did you have to ask? Three days after I spoke to her. Not a word in the Washington papers. Happened in broad daylight, too. Bang into a tree. Police could find no reason for it. She wasn't drunk, wasn't drugged. No sign of foul play. They simply shipped the body back to Oklahoma, where she was from. We never know how the end comes. Damned shame. She was something."
"We'll check it, you know," Cates said.
"I hope so." He punched out a half-smoked cigarette, then lighted another with a match, and puffed in a drag. He blew it out without inhaling.
