by Warren Adler
On the opposite wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She noted the titles—books on criminology, pathology, psychology, computer sciences. No novels or biographies. Charleen Evans was the kind of woman who made every spare moment count.
Oddly, the atmosphere reminded Fiona of Polly Dearborn’s apartment. It had the feel of being inhabited by someone who was intense and obsessive as to order, neatness, cleanliness, function. Only the abstract painting on the wall hinted at another dimension to Evan’s personality.
Fiona wandered through the kitchen, where pots and pans hung in ordered sequence on a punch board. Here, the same passion for neatness prevailed. Fiona heard the shower stop and wandered into the bedroom. Even the bed in which Evans had slept seemed barely used. The blanket was still tightly tucked under the mattress and the pillows were barely indented. It was as if Charleen Evans had simply inserted herself into a tightly made bed.
Off to one side of the bedroom was a computer and printer on a clean-lined Scandinavian-type desk. Beside the desk, piled neatly on the floor, was a stack of papers.
Charleen Evans emerged from the shower in a white terry-cloth robe. Her short curly hair was wet and shiny and her skin darkly attractive against the white of the robe. With barely a glance toward Fiona she removed her robe, showing a tight, muscular and not-unattractive body. Turning her back to Fiona, she began to dress quickly.
“Worked on the computer all night,” Evans mumbled as she dressed.
“No note, right?”
“No note,” Evans said.
Fiona walked around her and held up the Post. As she dressed, Evans read the stories on the front page.
“Because it’s murder, that’s why,” Fiona said. “Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
“I was wrong. I admit it,” Charleen said, zipping up her skirt.
“No sweat, Charleen,” Fiona said, deliberately using the woman’s first name, hoping that might crack the ice between them.
“But I’m glad I took the hard disk,” Charleen said. She buttoned up a white shirtwaist with a bow, fastened the leather strap that held her holster and put on her suit jacket.
“We’re in something big, very big,” Fiona said.
“Bigger than you think, FitzGerald,” Charleen said. She looked toward the stack of papers on the floor. “I printed out five hundred pages of hard copies. It’ll blow your mind.”
Charleen stooped and picked up the sheaf of papers.
“Stuff here on lots of people, potential victims. She’s cross-referenced scores of data banks, searched legal records, testimony in trials, credit reports. You name it. She’s even busted into some files that are probably verboten. I’ll tell you this. What she’s got is worth its weight in gold.”
“To who?”
“The media, the CIA, anybody who deals in information. I can’t prove it but I swear she’s been in and out of the FBI and CIA files. I don’t know which. But there’s stuff about some of these people that could only come from there.”
“And it’s all in that stack?”
She nodded.”
“You really know your computers, Charleen.”
“Yes I do.”
Fiona could spot the pride, but still no softness, no real pleasure in Fiona’s compliment.
“Problem is we’re tracking a killer, not bringing down the government.” Fiona could not hide her irritation.
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant.”
“Have you any ideas, any suspect?”
“Yes I do, Sergeant.”
“Come on Charleen, loosen up. Make it Fiona.”
“Downey for one. Father or son. One or both. Take your pick. You can’t imagine what she had on them.”
“Yes I can. Barker told us. He cut it out of the story today.”
“That doesn’t rule them out,” Charleen said.
“No it doesn’t,” Fiona agreed. She had turned and now looked directly into Fiona’s eyes.
“There’s another suspect,” Charleen said.
“Who?”
“The one she was getting ready to do. She’s got more than enough to do him. Not a pretty picture, I’m afraid.”
“All right Charleen, you can stop with the games.”
“Our mutual boss. The Mayor.”
“He had one conviction for possession, one for peddling.”
“The Mayor?”
“When he was a kid, living with his grandmother in South Carolina. He used his father’s name then. Later he changed it to his mother’s.”
“Did he go to jail?”
“Not for that.”
“Jesus.”
“He did six months for attempted murder. When he got out he was picked up for rape, then released when the woman changed her story.”
“How long ago was all this?”
“All before he was twenty-one. When he got out he changed his name to his mother’s, went into the civil rights movement. He was arrested for demonstrating, but we both know that doesn’t count.”
“And it’s all there?” Fiona pointed to the stack.
“That’s just the printout. It’s on the hard disk.”
“They use it, the Mayor is done,” Fiona said. “All validated?”
“Chapter and verse,” Charleen said. “It has all the earmarks of truth. Burns me up, too. Oh how they’ll run him down. Here is a rehabilitated man. Doing his best. Maybe he’s not the greatest Mayor in America. But he’s been straight for more than three decades. And just because they’ll want to dump on this black Mayor, they’ll use it, all these things he did as a kid.”
“Must it be a racial thing, Charleen?” Fiona said gently. “The Downeys are white.”
Charleen shrugged and turned away. She began to thumb through the papers.
“So what do we do with it now?” Charleen asked.
“It’s evidence,” Fiona replied, but halfheartedly.
“It’s more than that, Sergeant. It’s a bomb.”
“That’s not for us to decide,” Fiona said. Suddenly an idea began to emerge. “You think the Post has this?”
“No, I don’t,” Charleen said. She reached into her blouse and pulled out a key attached to a gold chain. Fiona recognized it.
“That’s also evidence,” Fiona said, suddenly remembering that there was another hard disk still in the machine in the apartment.
“I know,” Charleen said.
“Can they get to it without the key?” Fiona asked.
“Doesn’t matter. I went back and got the other hard disk.”
“But you can’t be certain no one else has this material,” Fiona said. It was, she decided, considering Polly Dearborn’s passion for secrecy, a good bet that they didn’t have it. Not the Post. Not anyone. It was out there, of course, but someone would have to dig for it.
“If it’s evidence, we have to bring it downtown,” Charleen said. “Goes there, then somebody will fish it out.”
“Then what the hell do we do with it?”
Charleen Evans shrugged.
“We’ve got to let the Captain know,” Fiona said.
“You want the fox to guard the chicken coop.”
This was one complex woman. Brilliant, in fact.
“What would you suggest?”
Charleen was deliberately, infuriatingly silent. The message was clear.
“Burn it, right?” Fiona asked.
“You said it,” Charleen Evans snapped.
Fiona again looked at the stack of papers. Her throat went dry.
“We have no right . . .” Fiona began.
“Hell, we’ve been living without rights for years.”
“Christ, Charleen. You’re fucking impossible. What is it with you? Bottom line is we’re cops. Not saviors of the world. We can’t take these things on our own shoulders.”
Charleen Evans sucked in a deep breath. Then she lowered her head and studied her hands.
“Don’t you think I know that?” She pointed to the stack. “I’ve seen that stuff. Read it
. I already know more than I should. I’m trying to cope with the damned system . . .” She turned away and paced the room. “I do have an attitude problem. I am tight-assed and I don’t open up or trust people. It works for me. I’ve been on my own since I’m twelve.” She stopped abruptly. She shook her head, as if to say “enough.” She grew silent.
“I appreciate that revelation, Charleen,” Fiona said. “It will guide me in our relationship. I’m different than you. True, I don’t trust many people. I’m a cynic and skeptic and can only act tight-assed. When it counts I can be hard. Like you, I chose this job. I love it and I’m good at it. I’ll grant you this. You know a helluva lot that I don’t. But you’re an amateur when it comes to human behavior. We could be a great team, if you’ll just loosen up a little.”
“I’ll try,” Charleen said. It was, Fiona decided, a legitimate attempt at sincerity.
“We have to call in the Eggplant,” Fiona said.
“You’re the human-behavior expert,” Charleen said.
Fiona pulled a face. “You’re going to drive me up the wall, Charleen.”
“I know it. I’m working on the problem.”
10
IT WAS LATE. The material on the Mayor was more than a hundred pages. There was trial data, the testimony of witnesses. Polly had found and talked with both the victims of the attempted murder and the attempted rape. Neither had been reluctant to talk and neither knew that the man in question was the Mayor of Washington, D.C. It was incriminating stuff, sure to make great copy. It would finish his political career.
They had been at it for two hours. Charleen had gone out to bring in pizzas, the remains of which were still in their grease-stained boxes.
“See what I mean?” Charleen said, addressing the Eggplant. She had repressed her cantankerous side for most of the evening, although there was one moment of tension when she had requested that he not smoke. To Fiona’s surprise, he had surrendered gracefully.
Fiona supposed it was some deep-seated black cultural thing, some element in Charleen’s persona that commanded respect in black men. If Fiona had asked him to do the same, he would have lit up immediately. This could not happen on his own turf, not in his office. There, no woman, of whatever color or sharpness of tongue, could command him to do anything.
“Reads like a rap sheet,” the Eggplant said. “Pisses me off. The guy rises above it and they’ll use it to splatter him.”
“Boils down to this,” Fiona said. “It’s not our business.”
“It’s our fucking boss woman,” the Eggplant said.
“What about all the others she’s got stuff on?” Fiona asked. She sifted through the papers, held one up. “Like medical records. Take this. This is her dossier of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The goddamned Chairman. At thirteen years of age a Cook County hospital diagnosed him as schizophrenic. Imagine that. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Does it say it was the right diagnosis? Does it say where she got the information? But it can, in the hands of someone with mean intent, bring the poor bastard down.”
“And the one about the clap in the Army?” the Eggplant asked. “Who the hell was that?”
“Secretary of Human Resources,” Fiona shot back. “It’s bizarre. Medical records, court records, scholastic records. The Vice President’s academic record is a disaster, including a flunk for cheating.”
“And these goddamned police records.” He pushed away a batch of paper in disgust. “Rap sheets. Juvenile records.” He held up one of the papers. “Here’s one.” He looked at the name on it. “State Department. Deputy Secretary. Wife had an abortion in 1979.”
“In today’s climate that could be a zap,” Fiona said.
“Goes on and on,” the Eggplant said, shaking his head.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Fiona said.
“If it wasn’t so serious, I’d be laughing,” the Eggplant said.
“Like the Downey business,” Fiona said.
“Especially the Downey business,” the Eggplant said.
“You think Barker knew the extent of Dearborn’s files?” Charleen asked. They had filled her in, debriefed each other.
“He sure knew the extent of her obsession,” Fiona said. “No boyfriends, he said. Her own body confirmed that. A virgin at forty-three. Dear Polly went through the sexual revolution without leaving a trace.”
“A real nutcutter, Barker told us,” the Eggplant said. His eyes were heavy-lidded and bloodshot and he needed a shave.
“Her and her damned computer. That’s another thing Barker said.” Fiona patted the stack. “I really don’t think he knew how deep she went.”
“And if he did?” Charleen asked. “That’s his business.”
“He’d eat it up with a spoon,” the Eggplant said. “Hell, he let her go at it all the way.”
“Not quite,” Fiona added. “Even he pulled back on the Downey story.”
“Think it was conscience?” Charleen Evans asked.
“No way,” the Eggplant said. “Not that bird. He’s just watching his own ass. They go too far, they get a backlash.”
“Still,” Charleen pressed, “he would run that stuff on the Mayor.”
“In a minute. That’s for damned sure,” the Eggplant said, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t want my dirty wash hung out for everyone to see. We don’t think about it much. Somewhere tucked away in a data bank is stuff about us.” He cut a glance at Fiona. “Got any dirty little secrets, FitzGerald?”
“Mucho bytes-worth, Captain,” Fiona said. An image of her mother flashed in her mind. She also heard the sound of her voice. “God knows everything. He knows all about you. Don’t you ever forget that.” A cold chill passed through her.
He had turned to Charleen, but, for some reason, did not pose that question. Fiona was certain he had it in mind. Then he quickly asked another.
“You believe only one person did this?”
“No big deal. It’s out there. You have to gain access. All that takes is know-how and money. Not a lot, either. It also takes dedication, hard work, long hours. Then there’s this business of getting into secure files. That took some doing. Like outside help. There’s always someone who takes a fall for whatever reason. Sure, one person could do this.” She paused, studying their faces, deliberating. “I could do it.”
Suddenly the Eggplant stood up and paced the length of the room. It was a living room/dining room combination. One wall of the living room was filled floor to ceiling with books. Fiona had noted the titles: mostly detective fiction, spy stories, suspense novels and technical books on crime. The Eggplant stopped for a moment to peruse the titles then came back toward them. He had thrown his coat on the back of one of the dining room chairs. He stopped and looked at it, then he slipped a panatela from an inside pocket.
“I won’t light up,” he said to Charleen.
“It’s okay, Captain. You probably need it.”
He struck a match, lit up, then, before fanning it out, he looked at it for a moment.
“There’s an idea in that,” Fiona said.
“Don’t even think it, FitzGerald. We’re here to find killers. In this case, the killer of Polly Dearborn. Destroying evidence is a felony.”
“Granted,” Fiona said. “Then what do we do with this stuff?”
“I know what we don’t do with it,” the Eggplant said. They were sitting around Charleen’s dining room table. The Eggplant stood up and stretched. “We don’t give it to Barker. No way.” He looked suddenly at Charleen Evans.
“Especially not to him.”
“Who, then?” the Eggplant asked. It was a question for both of them.
“Not the feds,” Fiona said. “You let the bully boys get something on the pols, you got big trouble. Remember how Hoover kept his job.”
“And our people?” the Eggplant asked. He puffed deeply on his panatela, held the smoke, then pushed it out of his nostrils. For him a great deal was at stake. If the Mayor went down, his hopes of becoming Police Commissioner went down wi
th it.
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Fiona said, leaving unspoken what was obviously the central idea nagging at them. They could, after all, edit the material, remove the Mayor’s dossier. But that would mean establishing a bond between them that was fraught with pitfalls and dangers.
The Eggplant took one last puff, then smashed the panatela out on a slice of cold pizza. He did not press the issue.
“Who needed this?” he said.
They were silent for a long time. Finally the Eggplant sat down and looked at the papers strewn across the table.
Fiona reviewed the options in her mind. They could bring the evidence in, hard copies and hard disks, and check it in to headquarters as evidence. They could remove the material about the Mayor, then bring it in. Technically, that would be tampering with evidence. They could destroy it completely. That would be both self-protective and logical, except that they would then share a secret between them, encroaching on their individual independence. Or they could simply put it back, wipe it from the slate. That could mean that Barker would get it.
“What happens if somebody turns on the computer?” Fiona asked.
“Gonna get a big surprise,” the Eggplant said.
“Withholding, tampering, now burglary,” Charleen Evans sighed.
“A multitude of sins,” Fiona whispered. She glanced toward the Eggplant. “It’s your call, Captain.” She knew, of course, what he wanted them to do.
“Thing is,” the Eggplant mused, “will it help us find Polly Dearborn’s killer?”
“It could help make a case,” Fiona said. “Once you write off the ones we know she wrote about.”
“That would leave the Mayor a suspect, along with all the others,” Charleen said.
“A motive isn’t hard evidence,” the Eggplant argued.
“If we don’t declare it as evidence, then it’s stolen goods,” Fiona said. “We have no business with it. Technically it still belongs to the estate of Polly Dearborn.”
“You want me to put it back?” Charleen asked.
“I say let’s put it on ice for a while,” Fiona said.
