by Warren Adler
“Looks like the lady left some unfinished business,” Evans said.
“We’ve got some ourselves,” Fiona said.
“The man gave us two hours,” Evans snapped.
She worked the keyboard again and went back into her computer trance, staring at the screen. By now the media had been told about the press conference, but not the subject matter. Fiona left Evans to her search, went into the living room and continued to poke around.
No question, she decided, the woman was organized, neat, everything in its place. She stood in the center of the room, trying to imagine herself as Polly Dearborn, to feel like her, to understand what might have been going through her mind. Maybe she was having second thoughts about herself, the role of destroyer, killer journalist. Perhaps she was having a fit of conscience, an attack of self-revulsion. Considering the ruined lives in her wake, she might have decided that there was little left for her but judgement day.
How long had she been doing these pieces? Ten years or more, Fiona calculated. Her style was always witty and sophisticated and she seemed to believe that she was presenting a balanced assessment.
Always, Fiona recalled, the stories dealt extensively with the subject’s achievements. This was the good news and it always came first, a setup for a fall. The better the good news, the worse the bad news. Such was the reader’s expectation.
Because she had the ability to wield so much power in a place where power was the only criteria of true achievement, Polly Dearborn was deeply feared and coveted by those who thought that ingratiation might somehow cause them to escape her clutches.
The memory of Polly Dearborn cozying up to Downey at the races gave the lie to such an idea. Her media killing was business, not personal. She was like a hit man, emotionless and uninvolved, who could blow a man’s brains out and the next moment provide succor to the victim’s mother.
Perhaps that was the way it was done to her. An uninvolved hit man responding to orders. Kill the lady. Make a statement. Of course, the discovery of a suicide note would put an end to such speculations.
Apparently Barker was referring to the third Downey piece, the one that was evidently going to run tomorrow. It occurred to Fiona that, because of the early summons to the Watergate, she had not even read the second installment.
She found the paper in the corridor in front of the apartment’s front entrance. As the Post had done yesterday, they had run the story on the front page of the Style section. Considering the importance of the revelations, Fiona wondered why it had not been begun on the front page. Hell, it accused the Secretary of Defense of malfeasance in office and cast a long shadow over his character.
She began to read. In yesterday’s story Dearborn had made her accusations. In part two she was embellishing, expanding, going into the court records of Downey’s divorce, comparing Downey’s present financial statement, filed when he was appointed Defense Secretary, with the testimony of the divorce case and the settlement agreement with his ex-wife.
The accusation of hiding assets verified, Dearborn’s story concentrated on the accusation that Downey favored one defense contractor over others. There was a chart showing how much business this company, Interplex, did before Downey became Secretary with how much they got after he took over the Defense Department. The jump in contract totals was more than two thousand percent higher. But it wasn’t until the very last paragraph in the installment that Dearborn turned the knife.
She wrote: “There is always the argument that the reason Interplex got the business was because it was the best company for the job. Did the sudden upsurge in orders have anything to do with the fact that Downey’s son, Robert, had become a vice-president of the company three months after the elder Downey was appointed Defense Secretary? More on this tomorrow.”
The article ended on this note. Fiona shook her head. Poor Chester Downey. Poor Robert Downey. Investigated, convicted and hung in three days. Was a massive attack of remorse the reason for Polly doing herself in? She shook away the idea. Not now. Not yet.
Fiona looked at her watch. More than an hour had passed since the Eggplant had given them their deadline. Fiona went back to the bedroom. Evans was where Fiona had left her, tranced out in front of the computer screen, fingers dancing nonstop over the keyboard. Deep frown lines had engraved themselves on her forehead. Obviously, her search was not having the results she had imagined earlier.
“Anything?” Fiona asked, forcing a neutral tone.
Evans grunted, concentrating on the amber symbols moving like soldiers in formation across the screen.
“And you still think you’re right about the note?” Fiona asked.
Evans ignored the question. Fiona had to prod her.
“You could be dead wrong,” she said.
“I’m not ready to concede yet,” Evans said through clenched teeth. At that moment the sound of chimes erupted. Fiona made no effort to move.
“A suicide wants a note to be found. One would think it would be more obvious,” Fiona said.
Evans cut a quick, almost surreptitious look at her watch.
“Will you please leave me alone?” she snapped, her irritability accelerating. The chimes started again, persistent now, as if someone were keeping a finger on the button. “Why don’t you answer that?”
Fiona shook her head and left the bedroom. She looked through the glass peephole. She saw a woman’s face distorted by magnification. The eyes seemed anxious, the look confused. The chimes continued, embellished now by a banging on the door.
“Polly, what is it? Is something wrong? If you don’t answer I’ll have to call somebody, maybe the police. Please, Polly, answer the door.”
Fiona waited. The woman’s voice grew louder, the knocking more persistent. Finally, Fiona felt she had little choice. She opened the door.
The woman looked up, startled. She was a short, stocky woman with black curly hair framing delicate sculpted features. Her complexion, without makeup, was dead white. Large brown eyes seemed to gaze out with mordant curiosity as they studied Fiona’s face then darted around her to search the apartment.
“Where is Polly?”
Fiona stepped aside as the woman moved past her into the apartment. Fiona remained silent, watching her.
“Who are you?” Fiona asked.
“What difference does that make? Where is Polly?”
The woman turned her head from side to side, rustling her head of tight black curls. She started toward the bedroom. Moving swiftly, Fiona planted herself in front of the woman, barring the way. The woman stopped, looked up into Fiona’s eyes, her gaze an obvious query.
Fiona opened her purse and showed the woman her badge.
“I’m Sergeant FitzGerald.” She was about to say “Homicide” but checked herself. “Metropolitan Washington Police Department.”
“Police?” The revelation had the effect of making the woman retreat a step. Fiona saw her nostrils quiver. “Where’s Polly?” The question was barely audible.
“She’s not here,” Fiona said. “May I ask who you are?” By then Fiona had suspected the woman’s identity.
“I’m Sheila Burns, Polly Dearborn’s assistant,” the woman said in confirmation. A reedy tremor had crept into her voice. “Something is wrong, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so, Miz Burns,” Fiona said, watching the woman’s eyes move to follow the sound coming from Polly Dearborn’s bedroom. A moment later Charleen Evans emerged from the room, obviously curious.
“Detective Evans, this is Sheila Burns.”
Evans nodded. She seemed distracted.
“Not there?” Fiona asked, finding it hard to keep a gloat out of the question. Evans shook her head.
“Still searching,” she muttered, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin pugnaciously as if she were compensating for her disappointment by buttressing her defenses.
“Maybe Sheila can help,” Evans said, deliberately vague. Then she went back to the bedroom.
“Would you p
lease sit down, Sheila,” Fiona said gently.
“It’s Polly,” Sheila said, sucking in a deep breath. “She’s, she’s . . .” Sheila’s hand groped for support, reaching for the armrest of one of the living room chairs. But she did not sit down.
“She’s dead, I’m afraid,” Fiona whispered.
Sheila’s eyes widened in confusion.
“Polly . . . dead? . . . That’s, that’s impossible,” Sheila said with more belligerence than disbelief. She seemed too overcome to say more. Tears welled in her eyes and a sob erupted in her throat. “But how . . . ?”
Fiona ignored the question.
“Can you think of any reason why Polly Dearborn would commit suicide?” Fiona asked, cutting a quick glance at Evans.
“Suicide? Polly? I don’t know.” She moved to one of the chairs and sat down, visibly shaken. “I can’t believe this.”
“You see any signs of depression recently? Anything askew in the way she conducted herself? A suspicion, a feeling you might have had?”
Sheila shook her head, apparently unable to find words. It was beginning to hit her. She seemed on the verge of fainting. Fiona rushed into the kitchen and came out with a glass of water. Sheila took it between two shaking hands and sipped, then gave the glass back to Fiona.
“I’m so sorry,” she said in a small voice, barely above a whisper. For a moment, she stared through the terrace windows, as if lost in a trance. Fiona waited through the pause.
“She was always so strong, so sure and confident, on top of everything. It was hard enough keeping up. No. I saw nothing different in her. Nothing at all.”
“Maybe something in her personal life was bugging her,” Fiona suggested.
“Personal life?” Sheila’s retort seemed too swift. The corners of her mouth turned up with the faintest hint of a smile.
“A disappointment of some kind,” Fiona pressed. “A lovers’ quarrel perhaps. Something deeply affecting.”
“Polly? Her life was her work. As far as I know, there were no special men. No. No men at all. Polly Dearborn was a very dedicated person.”
“Maybe the pressure of the work got to her,” Fiona said. Almost immediately, Fiona rejected the idea. That possibility meant a sudden crack-up. If this was a suicide it was not a sudden decision. The method implied planning, calculation, the deliberate creation of a public statement, an advertisement of death.
“The Downey article seemed to have stirred up a lot of flack,” Fiona said. Sheila nodded, showing no surprise.
“All her articles stirred things up. Above all, we prided ourselves on accuracy.” Fiona noted the collective pronoun and, as if Sheila had sensed that an explanation was needed, she said, “Polly checked things out. The bottom line on everything was truth. Polly Dearborn was the most thorough journalist in America.”
“No matter who got hurt,” Fiona said quickly, thinking suddenly of Chappy. And the others. Sheila Burns showed no sign of irritation at the accusation. Undoubtedly she had confronted such criticism before.
“Our job was to find the truth. The mythbusters, that’s what Polly called us. We got behind the image and the P.R. We got to the heart of the matter.”
Considering her recent shock, she was being militantly defensive.
“Do you think that her death . . .” Fiona paused and looked toward the bedroom where Evans was, undoubtedly, still playing with the computer. Fiona shook her head in disgust. Cates would have jumped in at that point, offering additional questions. Fiona looked at her watch. Time was running out. “. . . had anything to do with the Downey article?”
Sheila frowned, then looked at her hands.
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Pretty rough stuff,” Fiona said. “A man’s career down the chute. Has to take its toll on the perpetrator as well.”
“The perpetrator?”
“In a journalistic sense. Could Polly have had a sudden bout of remorse? Something that pushed her over the edge?”
“A very farfetched idea,” Sheila said with a touch of indignance. She appeared to have regained her composure. “We’ve been through this before. Nobody likes to see their bubble busted. We concentrated only on those who served the public and betrayed their interests.”
Sheila had the look of frailty and vulnerability, but underneath Fiona sensed bedrock layers of blind faith. No, Fiona decided, responding to gut instinct. Remorse was not a motive for death in this case. Polly Dearborn was a zealot, a crusader, and Sheila Burns was a disciple.
“And Harry Barker, what was he after?” Fiona asked.
“He was questioning some points in the article, the piece that is set to run tomorrow.”
“What points, for example?”
A cloud seemed to pass over Sheila’s face. She grew hesitant and looked down at her fingers. After a moment, she raised her head.
“Mr. Barker rarely discussed these things with me. I’m . . . I was only Polly Dearborn’s assistant.” Fiona detected a touch of resentment. “He dealt with Polly on matters that he deemed very sensitive.”
At that point the telephone rang. Fiona picked up the instrument.
“FitzGerald?”
Fiona was surprised to hear the Eggplant’s voice.
“Not yet, Captain,” she said, looking at Sheila, who bowed her head. Her hands were clasped on her lap.
“There’s more spin on this than I figured.”
He had lowered his voice but could not conceal its upbeat tone. A faint click told her that another phone had been picked up.
“That you, Evans?” Fiona said. “It’s the Captain.”
“Yes sir,” Evans said.
“No note?” the Eggplant asked.
“It’s going to take longer than I . . .”
“No time for that anymore,” the Eggplant said. “I want your asses over to 2101 N Street. I’ll hold off the uniforms for ten minutes more. Don’t want this on the police radio yet.”
“Got it, Captain,” Fiona said. “There’s someone here. Hold for a second.” She addressed Sheila.
“Thank you for your help. We must ask you to leave. We’ll talk later.”
Sheila rose. She seemed relieved.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” she whined, again on the verge of tears.
“Yes, it is,” Fiona agreed.
Sheila turned and, beginning to sob, moved quickly out of the apartment.
“Dearborn’s assistant,” Fiona explained. “She’s gone now.”
“Chief?” It was Evans. “I’m taking the hard disk. I need more time. That okay?”
There was a pause.
“Just get the fuck over to N Street, ladies. Now, please.”
“Who is it, Chief?” Fiona asked.
“Thought you’d never ask, FitzGerald,” he said in a teasing tone. “Chester Downey’s maid just called. Apparently he just blew his brains out.”
5
“CLASSIC,” FIONA SAID as they entered Chester Downey’s study. The body was sitting upright in a high-backed leather chair behind an antique desk. The gun, a .38 Wesson, was still locked in the man’s hand, which rested in his lap. He was dressed immaculately, obviously having chosen his exit clothes with great care: a fresh white shirt, pressed dark pin-striped suit, paisley tie, spit-shined shoes.
He had shot himself through the right temple, and the left side of his head was soggy with oozing red matter. On the desk in front of him were two envelopes, one addressed in a flourishing hand “To Whom it May Concern.” The other to Robert Downey, his son.
Outside the door to the study, they could hear the housekeeper’s whimpering. It was she who had found the body and called the police.
Holding the edges of the envelope marked “To Whom it May Concern,” Fiona took out the neatly handwritten note on a single sheet of plain white paper. Evans looked over her shoulder as they both read it silently.
I am of sound mind and I take this step after careful consideration. Please see that my son gets the letter addressed to h
im. He is fully aware of all arrangements made in connection with my demise. I apologize for any inconvenience and I hope any controversy surrounding my action will be quickly resolved.
Sincerely,
Chester Downey.
“No doubt about this one,” Fiona said. “Suicide. Open and shut. Agreed?”
She turned to Evans, who nodded. Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside the den and two men rushed in.
“Feds,” Fiona whispered.
They were tall, officious types, tight-lipped and unsmiling. There seemed only one distinguishing factor to separate their identities. One was bald. A kind of cloning, a scrupulously maintained neutrality of personality, was the unmistakable sign of a federal agent, any federal agent, regardless of gender.
“What you see is what you get, gentlemen,” Fiona said. She pointed to the two suicide notes. “All down in black and white. Our jurisdiction, I’m afraid.” She showed her badge and gave the man her card. Evans followed her lead.
“A national-security matter,” the bald man said, flashing his credentials.
“CIA?” Fiona snapped, turning to Evans. “The bully persons.”
“He was the Secretary of Defense, for chrissakes,” the bald man said. The other man opened the note and read it. He moved to the side of the room and whispered into his wrist.
“They love their toys,” Fiona whispered to Evans, who nodded. For the first time since they had been partnered, Fiona could sense the first fleeting signs of alliance. “Everybody will be in on it, all the initials—FBI, DIA, NSA.” Probably the Secret Service, too, alerted for a possible conspiracy to assassinate the President. “Now you see it. The power of the media. Our little Miss Dearborn writes her story.” She looked around the room. “Then this.”
Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside the den. Through the open door, Fiona could see other agent types. Footsteps could be heard on the floor above. The Feds were “securing,” searching the premises.
An agent came in with a camera and started to take pictures.
“Who’s he?” Evans asked.
“Company man,” Fiona shot back. “Local procedures get fuzzy around the edges when something likes this comes up.” Besides, she had already reached her conclusions. Cut and dried. Unassailable. The man blew his brains out. Polly Dearborn’s legacy. Fiona cut a glance at Evans, who looked confused.
