by Warren Adler
"Don't you see? I was never certain. True, I made assumptions. But I was alone in my theory. After a while I began to believe that I might be fantasizing. Betty Taylor could have run away, disappeared for her own reasons. Harriet could have died from a real automobile accident. Besides, years had passed. I did despise Bunkie. In many ways I blame him for the disintegration of our marriage. But, you see, I couldn't be sure if my idea wasn't being colored by my feelings about him. Also, I had nothing to go on. Not until the death of Helga Kessel put it together for me."
The possibility that Frances Langford was concocting these stories for her own ends had not vanished, but her logic seemed impeccable and her face reflected an uncanny sincerity.
"You don't believe Helga was killed for her jewels?" Fiona asked pointedly.
"A red herring, I'd say. Like the lady. Buried somewhere."
"Why do you think she was buried behind that particular house?" Fiona asked cautiously, studying Frances' face.
"Now you're asking me to get into the man's mind," Frances said. "I haven't the faintest idea."
A line of testing questions was emerging now and the woman was answering them freely. Fiona detected no sign of extreme caution, only openness and apparent sincerity.
"It was a house for sale. Empty."
"Good choice, I'd say. I'm in the business, you know. The neighbors would be used to seeing strange cars near the house. A wooded lot, I suppose. One in which the owners would be reluctant to take down trees and, therefore, leaving the lot undisturbed."
"How would Bunkie know this house?"
"Probably by the For Sale signs. Maybe he was once there. Who knows?"
"Then the rains came and fouled up the plan."
As Fiona said this, she studied Frances' face. There wasn't a flicker of expression that suggested guilt or evil intent.
"Says something, doesn't it? We wouldn't be here if it weren't for that rain. Maybe it's God's way to get even," Frances said. She shrugged, smiled and finished her drink.
The God reference made her seem positively benign, further undermining her suspicions. Nevertheless, Fiona had to move forward with her premise. Her life depended on it. No point in being coy.
"We found Betty Taylor," Fiona said, her gaze two probing searchlights. Frances met them without fear or surprise.
"So you did know about Betty?"
"Same modus operandi. She was buried in a house for sale. We checked that one out. The present owners were building a pool. Then the rains came.
"What did you find?"
"Old bones."
Frances seemed to shiver. She took her glass and gulped down the remaining liquid.
"And from that you were able to—"
"Not really. We got lucky. The killer made a mistake."
Frances' eyes widened. She was reacting now, probing Fiona's face. Fiona let it sit for a while. If she was the guilty party, withholding the information might agitate her, give her away. It didn't.
"What mistake?" The question was logical, merely normal curiosity and, therefore, without relevance.
Fiona did not answer immediately, still hopeful that stalling might set the woman off, ruffle her calm. Fiona played with her drink, brought it up to her lips, put the glass down, fussed with her hair, details designed to throw Frances off balance. She wondered if Frances was passing or failing the test.
"There was an ankle bracelet on her ankle bone," Fiona said cautiously. "A gift from you-know-who."
Frances' reaction was oblique and non-conclusive.
"Maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe the killer wanted you to know someday."
"There's a bit of insight," Fiona said. It had not occurred to her at the time. And yet it lay at the heart of the accepted police theory that a serial killer secretly wants to get caught.
"Not really. Years of suspicion has made me an amateur detective of sorts." She smiled pleasantly. "Another drink?"
Fiona shook her head. Her mind was still reaching out to fasten on the flotsam of any idea. Their theory on Frances' guilt was beginning to crumble. It was Frances herself who seemed to kick away the last prop.
"I know I'm the principal suspect, and believe me, I'm not offended."
"Where did you get that idea?" Fiona said, knowing it was a lame try. Who was testing whom? Fiona wondered.
"Look, I understand." Without so much as a glance she literally pointed with her shoulder to the supposedly surreptitious Cates. "Maybe people who follow have a sixth sense about people following them. Who knows? Yet, who can blame you for thinking what you must think. I'm in the real estate business. I therefore know where empty houses are. I'm the ex-wife of a compulsive womanizer and, therefore, a person with a grudge. Long-festering grudges, any psychologist will tell you, make people crazy. Have I got it right?"
"More or less," Fiona admitted, as if she were compelled to defend her integrity. Had they been that obvious?
"I've got the other right, too," Frances said, her eyes narrowing. Only then did Fiona see the passion in her expression. "He's our man, and when he finds out, he's going to make his move. I feel it in my bones." She moved closer to Fiona and put her hand on her arm. "He's gotten away with it three times. He's found a way to beat you people, and I'll bet he thinks he's invulnerable. You've got to be ready for him."
"If he's our man, we will," Fiona muttered. What she needed most was time now to sort things out. She looked toward Cates, who caught her eye. Then she waved. Frances turned toward him and lifted her hand. He cocked his head in surprise.
"I'll get this," Frances said, hailing the waiter.
"I'm glad we had this little chat," Fiona said in a parody of the old cliché. She stood up. Frances put out her hand and Fiona took it. It felt firm, warm, comfortable. Maybe they were allies, after all, Fiona conceded, although she still held back her total surrender to Frances' contention. Not quite total, but tilting toward, she told herself.
"If I can be helpful in any way, please get in touch." She handed Fiona a card.
"One question, Mrs. Langford," Fiona said.
"Only one?" Frances retorted.
"Bunkie is not stupid. He might know that it's a set-up."
"But is it?" Frances said, offering a cryptic smile. "I mean now."
Fiona stood up and walked over to Cates, who had already paid his check.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked as they headed toward the lobby.
She didn't answer, pondering instead a vague sense of failure and humiliation.
"I need to know," he pressed.
"Actually," she said, breaking the silence as she stood in front of the hotel, waiting for her car. "It's a sisterly thing."
29
"FIRST HE has to get me in his sights," Fiona explained.
"And then?" Sam asked.
"Two ways to go. The eggplant has a different view than mine."
It was more than that, but she dared not explain. Only Cates was catching on, which was troubling. He kissed her hair and stroked her nipple as she nestled in the crook of his arm. As always, the blinds were drawn but they could see things clearly.
"The point is he has to believe this is ... well ... the real thing."
"It is for me."
"Come on, Sam. Don't tease."
"I mean it."
"Bet you say that to all the girls," Fiona said, not liking the idea behind the statement. He probably did. Maybe not all, but most. At least three, maybe more.
"When I say it, I always feel I mean it."
"Maybe you did in a general sense, meaning the whole gender."
"You think that's the root of it? Then you'd have to think I'm an insincere son-of-a-bitch."
"I used to think so. I'm not so sure now. I think you're right. You mean it when you mean it."
"Do you mean it?" Sam asked.
"When I mean it, I mean it," she said, flustered. There was simply no way to adequately rationalize these acts with Sam. Lust. Desire. Passion. Something. He was being untrue to his
wife. She to her job. Or was she? Fuck or play gin. What did it matter how she passed the time?
He gently moved her out of the crook of his arm and stood up, showing her his body. He was well made, tall, slender, adequately endowed. He had not asked her to keep her holster on and she had placed it on the floor beside the bed. Now he picked it up and put it on.
"Something about a gun," he said, patting it. He took it out of the holster and hefted it. Then he put his finger on the trigger and pointed it at her.
"It's loaded, you know," she said.
She felt no fear.
"A turn-on?" he asked.
"Not that one. Only the other."
She sat up, reached out and touched his erection. He put the pistol back in its holster and dropped it to the floor.
"Am I really different than other men?" he asked.
"Not to the naked eye," she said, smiling. She embraced him, nestling his penis between her breasts. Her hands grasped the globes of his hard buttocks, pressing him tightly against her.
"You are different from the others, Fiona," he said, caressing her hair.
"Cut it out, Sam. You don't have to."
"You're special."
"Jesus, Sam. You'll have me believing it."
"I want you to. I believe it."
She lifted her face and their eyes met and held for a long moment. His hands reached out and held the sides of her head. Then he gently tilted it and kissed her hair.
Too mysterious to contemplate, she told herself. Go with the flow. Moving back to the bed, he embraced her from behind. Afterward they lay like two spoons.
"Imagine," Sam whispered. "He's down there right now, waiting."
"Have you bought it? The Bunkie theory?"
"Not quite."
Bunkie had come back from California and Sam had, according to their instructions, set it up. "Wasn't hard," he had told them. "Bunkie usually knows my day minute-by-minute. Our people in the office told him that I was spending unscheduled time somewhere. He wanted to know. I evaded the issue. Voilá. Bunkie is very resourceful. I had no doubt he would want to confirm the situation for himself."
Cates, using his car phone, had called up to the room, talking in code.
"He's in his car, waiting," Cates had said. She assumed that Bunkie had followed Sam to the motel.
"No sign of Frances?" Fiona had asked.
"None."
"Ten-four," she had answered, hanging up. "Frances may have it right after all."
"As long as I live I won't believe any of this."
"He'll want to make certain who the new lady is. Figure your charm has seduced yet another canary. We're in Virginia, so it won't be official MPD police business." She twisted her body to face him. "Then he'll confront you? What will you tell him?"
"I'll tell him it's none of his business."
"And then?"
"I'll get the usual lecture about destroying my political career." Fiona saw the evasion.
"Will he believe that I'm the real thing?"
"It's true."
"Stop it, Sam," she said firmly, wanting it to be true, hating herself for wanting it.
"He'll be convinced. He'll also think that by these little meetings in a public place I'm really taking a chance, throwing caution to the winds. Oh, he'll be convinced all right." He stroked her side and kissed her hair. "If Frances is right, I'm setting him up to attack you."
"That's the point."
"Scares the hell out of me," Sam said. He raised himself on an elbow and leaning over her, he kissed her deeply on the lips. "Rough duty," he said when his lips had disengaged.
"We'll get him, Sam. But we've got to get him to crack wide open."
"And Frances is free and clear?"
"Maybe."
It was, the eggplant and Cates had agreed, worth the test. The fact that Frances was not in evidence was certainly a plus for her contention.
"Be a miracle if I can salvage a political career out of this," Sam sighed. "Even a confession has to deal with a motive."
"Maybe he'll cop an insanity plea. Leave a doubt in the public's mind."
"Or he'll deny it. Get a smart lawyer. Go to trial. Put me on the stand. Any way you slice it, I'm in deep shit."
"It was always worth the try, Sam. And the right thing to do."
"I'll buy that."
He slid lower on the bed and embraced her, kissing her navel and her pubic hair.
She caressed his head.
"Maybe we'll find a way, Sam. I would if I could."
She felt suddenly heroic and determined, which triggered an idea. Unfortunately it was morbid, ugly, against her grain. Bunkie would attack her and she or Cates would shoot him.
"My God," she said aloud.
"What is it?" Sam asked.
Should she tell him what was going on in her mind? Before she could act, the phone made them jump. She picked it up.
"He's gone into the lobby," Cates said.
"Can you see him?"
"He's just sitting there, watching the elevators. It's a good spot to observe. You won't see him."
"Ten-four."
She told Sam where Bunkie was at that moment. He reached out to look at his wristwatch.
"Damn. Time goes."
She came back into his arms. It was madness, lunacy for both of them. Once again, old Fiona was trapped by her romantic nature, she told herself. Runs in the blood. The impractical Irish romantic, the worst kind. Maybe she was his counterpart, fated to spread her love over the entire other gender. Yet, she wasn't promiscuous. Certainly not indiscriminate. All right, she could count her lovers on the fingers of both hands. Not quite all the fingers. Was that promiscuity? It certainly was chance-taking in this age of AIDs. A shiver ran through her as she thought of Bunkie and Sam in the way Frances had described them. Oh no. Not Sam, she decided. Hell, was she supposed to cart around condoms in her handbag like some slut?
In his arms she felt safe. More than that? She brushed away the thought. This entire interlude was a travesty, an insult to her job, a violation of all procedures. Wrong as hell. But it hadn't stopped her. Nothing had stopped her.
As agreed, he would be leaving the room first. He prepared to go. They had been together just under two hours.
"Anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself," he told her.
"I'm a professional," she assured him. "I know how to handle myself. And I've got backup."
"It's not worth it, Fiona. I'm not worth it."
"We're not doing it for you," she said firmly.
"It's me that killed those women," he said. "I should be punished for it." He looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. "Hell, there's life after politics." Then he opened the door and went out.
She showered and dressed quickly. No point in thinking about anything but the matter at hand. She hefted her pistol, drew it out of the holster and checked to be sure it was loaded. It was.
She did not expect him to make his move immediately, only to make her, identify her. That done, he would act as soon as he determined that her relationship with the Senator was more than casual. But expectations often conflicted with reality. It was his option and he could act immediately. Today.
As if to assure his postponement, she put on her trick brassiere, which she carried in her shoulder bag. Above all, she'd be ready for the son-of-a-bitch. Catch him in the act and loosen his tongue. That was the gamble.
"You get done for nothing, I'll have your ass," the eggplant had warned, still reticent, genuinely worried.
"Nothing's for nothing," she whispered to herself, thinking of Sam.
30
A GREY-HAIRED couple got on the elevator with her. She smiled thinly, let them push the button, and stood against the rear panel as it descended.
On the lobby floor, she hung back and waited until they got out. Then she moved, walking slowly, exhibiting herself. Her check-in method was to pay in advance and there was no need for her to stop at the desk. This time she did, asking the cl
erk for the time. Peripherally, she saw Bunkie. He was sitting in a corner, a magazine held up to partially conceal him. When she was certain he had made her, she headed out the side door toward the parking lot.
She pushed through the door, noting as she angled her body that he made no move to rise and follow her. Cates, she knew, was waiting in his car at a point in front of the hotel that afforded him the best view of any of Bunkie's potential actions. She assumed that Bunkie's car, too, was parked at curbside. The objective for Cates was to keep the man in view at all times, while giving him enough distance for him to think he was safe enough to make his move. Apparently, now that he knew who she was, he would save that for another time.
Almost at the moment she approached her car, her cop's sense of things awry assailed her. She slowed her steps, studying the vehicle. Then she saw it. The inside lock button was raised. Had she been careless when she left the car? Highly unlikely. She had equipment in her glove compartment, a walkie-talkie. Under the dash was the police radio and car telephone. No way would she have left the door open. Force of habit. Someone had hooked it open.
Her mind focused on that fact and she could feel the adrenaline pumping. Was someone inside? Who? There was no time to analyze. She prepared her body, which surged with alertness, every cell ready to react.
Hesitating for a brief moment, she touched the mechanism in her brassiere, felt it activate, then opened the door to her car on the driver's side. Before she slid in, her peripheral vision caught the picture. Someone was, indeed, lying on the floor of the car. It was a tricky moment.
There were no doubts now. Frances had snookered them. Quickly, she noted that there were no people in the parking lot. Only cars. Good, she thought. No interference. The time was now. She bent forward, put her key in the ignition, then straightened, calculating the moment. Her fist went up to her neck at precisely the moment when the scarf swished over her head. She felt the pressure on her fist and windpipe as the scarf was pulled taut, tightening as strong hands pulled at either end of a loop.
She heard the grunting sound, distinctly female, although the grip seemed masculine. Body to body, she had been taught—the key to overpowering an opponent was leverage and concentration. With her free hand, she grabbed a handful of hair, pulled back, heard the squeal of pain. With her fisted hand she pushed, feeling the grasp loosen and scarf loop widen. Then she slid under the loop and twisted her body, both arms free now, as she rose to her knees on the front seat and tightly grasped both of Frances' wrists.
