by Warren Adler
“Was he specific?” Fiona asked.
“No,” the Eggplant said. “He said it was a pack of lies.”
“Like Downey,” Charleen muttered, as if she were still trying to sell that discredited idea. Fiona and the Eggplant ignored the comment.
“I mean what he said at first,” Charleen said, assuming their reaction.
“There is no question but that they’ve got it,” the Eggplant said.
“The computer material?” Fiona asked him.
“I’d bet my life on it.”
“They got it and they’re going to use it,” the Eggplant said. “They’re going to have his ass for lunch.”
“Maybe you’re just jumping to conclusions,” Fiona said without conviction.
“Bastard broke his word,” the Eggplant said. “Proves you can’t do business with those rats. They’d sell their mother for a story.”
“That’s a given,” Fiona said, cutting a sharp glance at Charleen, who thus far had remained silent. “What I want to know is how he got the material. A couple of weeks ago he didn’t have it. And you can’t accuse him of buying it from Farber, because he didn’t have it. And we saw you bust up the hard disks and burn the hard copies.”
“Maybe he got it from some other source,” the Eggplant speculated.
“Possibly,” Fiona said. “Although the chances are that Polly developed it herself.”
“Maybe she made copies beforehand,” the Eggplant said.
Fiona thought about that for a moment.
“If she was intent on destroying the material on her death,” Fiona said, “it would follow that she would not have made any copies. The computer was both her record and her strongbox.”
The logic of it seemed to offer little relief for the Eggplant, who must have been seeing his chance at being Police Commissioner slipping away.
“I thought at first,” the Eggplant said, clearing his throat, “that maybe they, one of their other reporters, had found some other indiscretion, something that Polly Dearborn had failed to find. You know. Where-there’s-smoke-there’s-fire kind of thing.”
“That’s a possibility,” Fiona agreed.
“There is another possibility,” Charleen said suddenly. They turned to face her. She seemed somewhat tentative.
“We’re listening, Evans,” the Eggplant snapped.
“The murderer may have dumped the information from Polly’s computer to another one,” Charleen said.
“Are you suggesting that he came up with his own computer?”
“That or Polly Dearborn might have had another computer in the apartment. Maybe a portable. And when the murderer saw that there weren’t any disk slots in Polly’s machine, he fished around for a computer to which she could transfer the information.”
“And miraculously, there was one handy,” Fiona said.
“With connecting cables,” Charleen said without skipping a beat. “You can’t hook them together without connecting cables.”
“Or he could have brought his own computer,” Fiona said. She was conscious of the Eggplant’s gazing from face to face as if he were watching a Ping-Pong match.
“What about the computer key, the one you found around the woman’s neck?” Fiona asked.
“The murderer could have removed it,” Charleen said, “used it to open the computer, dumped the information into the other computer, relocked the computer, then replaced it around the woman’s neck and thrown her over the terrace.”
“How would he have known that the key was around Polly Dearborn’s neck?” Fiona asked.
“It would seem like a logical place to keep a key of such significance,” Charleen said. She seemed to have given the matter a great deal of thought. As she spoke, she appeared to be getting back her old confidence. A tinge of arrogance was also becoming visible. But Charleen was making every effort to drown the tendency in humility.
“Explain the sequence, then,” Fiona pressed, her mind racing. “He garrotes Polly. Does he go for the computer before or after he throws her over the terrace wall?”
Charleen wavered, pausing, biting her lip, not responding. Fiona pressed on.
“He kills her, leaves her strangled on the floor, goes to the computer, sees it’s locked. Figures out where the key is. Then he opens the computer, makes his copy and tosses her over the terrace. That it, Charleen?”
“You’re going too fast,” Charleen muttered.
“Or this. He garrotes her, tosses her over the terrace. Goes to the computer. Discovers that it’s locked. Looks for the key. Can’t find it anywhere. A light goes on. He pulls the body up, removes the key, does the copy, replaces it.”
Fiona felt herself boring in, as if Charleen possessed the guilty secret that held the solution to the Polly Dearborn case. Even as she pressed forward, Fiona knew it was excessively aggressive. By now Charleen was responding with confidence and increasing arrogance, enjoying the deductive clash between them.
“The former scenario fits better,” Charleen said. “Neither the body nor the rope indicated that the woman had been pulled up again. Besides, it would have been too big a chance for the killer to take. Throwing her over the terrace would have been his last act.”
“I think you got that right, Evans,” the Eggplant said. Actually, although it was difficult to decipher, this was meant as a compliment, which seemed to please Charleen.
“But why leave the information intact on Dearborn’s computer?” the Eggplant said. “The killer couldn’t have known that one of the detectives on the scene was a computer expert and would take the disks. As far as he knew, the information was left at the scene and might or might not be discovered.”
“But why make copies?” Fiona asked.
“Or take the disks,” the Eggplant said. “Like we did.”
Charleen listened, but said nothing, rubbing her chin in contemplation.
“It was supposed to be a suicide. If he took the disks, we would have known immediately it was a murder.”
“Got an answer for everything, Evans,” the Eggplant said. He was, of course, agreeing with the logic but not liking it. He shook his head. “Seems to me that someone is hell-bent on getting the Mayor. Somehow the killer has learned that there’s critical information on Dearborn’s computer. He . . .” The Eggplant stopped suddenly, then blew out air in frustration. “That’s stupid. What the hell does he have to kill Dearborn for? She’s working to get the Mayor herself. Why interfere with that?”
It was an endless circle and, at that point, Fiona was certain that they had all reached the same conclusion. Whatever happens, the Mayor loses. And if the Mayor loses, Captain Luther Greene loses, and if Captain Greene loses . . .
“No choice,” the Eggplant sighed. “We see Barker, open the can of worms and get ourselves a killer.”
He did not seem too happy about it.
24
“THIS IS A rotten time, Captain,” Barker said. At first he had refused to see them.
“The paper’s going to bed,” his secretary had explained. “Can’t this wait?”
“No, it can’t,” the Eggplant said firmly. When he was determined, he could be tremendously intimidating. Finally, Barker had relented.
“Five minutes—no more,” Barker grunted.
“It’s urgent,” the Eggplant told him, slipping into the same chair that he had sat in during their first meeting. Fiona also took the seat that she had sat in that first time. They had sent Charleen back to headquarters. Three cops would be one too many for confronting Barker.
Once again, Fiona was there to bear witness. She knew that. She also knew that they were there to determine the source of the information on the Mayor. After all, the Eggplant had destroyed what they believed was the original material. Although they had not discussed it in depth, she had a good idea what was in his mind. Find the source. Find the killer.
“Hold on until I finish this. The presses won’t wait,” Barker said.
They watched him pore over page proofs, then
pick up the telephone and bark out orders. He was obviously a man used to command, whose word at the paper was law. Finally, he took off his glasses, laid them still opened beside him on the desk and put his feet up. Again, Fiona noted that his shoe soles were remarkably clean and unscuffed.
“Okay,” he said. “What’ve you got?”
There was an edge of belligerence in his voice.
“Nothing yet,” the Eggplant said.
“So what’s the urgency?”
Gone was the charm of their first meeting with Barker. He seemed annoyed by their presence.
“It’s what you’ve got that’s the problem,” the Eggplant said.
Barker seemed taken aback by the Eggplant’s attitude, which was unmistakably confrontational.
“You’ll have to make yourself clearer, Captain,” Barker said. He was calm, confident, offering a thin, menacing smile. As they had learned earlier, Barker had no tolerance for anyone who defied him.
“One of your reporters called the Mayor a few hours ago asking for confirmation . . .”
“I am aware of that, Captain,” Barker interjected.
“We had an agreement,” the Eggplant said. Fiona was proud of his firmness, but apprehensive. He was taking on a dragon.
“What agreement?” Barker sneered.
“You were going to stop bashing us, stop referring to our town as the murder capital of the United States, laying off the Mayor . . .”
“I kept my promise,” Barker shot back. “It wasn’t open-ended.” He removed his feet from the desk and slid forward on his elbows. “Problem is, you didn’t deliver your end. Not one fucking clue to Polly Dearborn’s murder and they’re still butchering each other like mad dogs out there.” He stood up and began to pace his office, working up a good head of steam. “We have a responsibility to this city. Our Mayor is a goddamned phony. As a kid he was a drug pusher himself. We got him on that dead to rights. Also he killed someone in a hit-and-run. He was in jail. An excon, a murderer and a drug pusher. The public needs to know that, needs to know that that’s the kind of flawed character that runs this city. He’s also an innocent.” Barker stopped and pointed a finger at the Eggplant’s nose. “Damned straight we’re gonna get the bastard. Damned straight.”
The Eggplant looked Barker in the eye.
“Where did you get that information, Mr. Barker? The material about the drug-pushing and the hit-and-run?”
Barker smiled, stopped pacing and sat down again.
“Do you seriously believe, Captain, that I would answer that question?”
“How do you know it’s the truth?”
“I won’t print it if it isn’t,” Barker said. “That’s why we’re checking it out. That’s why we called the man.”
“You sure as hell didn’t have this information the last time we were here,” the Eggplant said, accusatory now. He was definitely taking chances, baiting his hook. The problem was that the fish at the other end was too formidable. It could never be brought in.
“Well, whaddayaknow. Now he’s none other than Sherlock Holmes,” Barker sneered.
“If you had it you would never have agreed to stop beating up on the Mayor,” the Eggplant said calmly.
“I don’t believe this,” Barker said, shaking his head, offering a sarcastic cackling laugh, staring now into the Eggplant’s eyes.
“Am I right or wrong?” the Eggplant asked.
Barker frowned and continued to stare at the Eggplant. It was Barker who finally yielded.
“So what if you’re right?” he grumbled.
“You didn’t have it then,” the Eggplant pressed.
“We have it now,” Barker sneered.
“And apparently you have faith in the source. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had your people call the Mayor to confirm it. Am I right?”
“Are you telling me how to run my business, Captain?”
“Problem is,” the Eggplant said slowly, “the source of your source is my business.”
Barker looked puzzled.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You got the information from Polly Dearborn’s computer,” the Eggplant said.
“I don’t think it’s any of your goddamned business where I got it,” Barker said.
“It’s evidence in a homicide,” the Eggplant shot back.
Frown lines etched Barker’s forehead.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m dead serious,” the Eggplant said.
Barker shook his head.
“What is this, some kind of a ploy? Are you telling me I can’t use this information about the Mayor because it’s evidence in a homicide? My nostrils are beginning to twitch. Do you realize the position you’re putting yourself in? The Mayor’s not worth it, Captain.” He turned to Fiona. “And they’ve enlisted you, FitzGerald. Sounds to me like an act of desperation by the Mayor. Sending two sacrificial lambs to the slaughter. Are you trying to cover this up, protect that jackass in City Hall? Do you realize that I have every right to tell our readers about this ploy? Have you lost your mind, Captain?”
“Polly Dearborn got killed for that information,” the Eggplant snapped. He was doing a good job of holding in his anger.
This is more than you can handle, Captain, Fiona thought, frightened for him. He was pushing too hard.
“You’re not making any sense at all, Captain,” Barker said calmly, obviously confused. “If, as you contend, the information was on Polly’s computer, the chances are that it would have found its way to our readers one way or another. Are you saying that Polly was killed to repress the information? That would make the Mayor and his allies suspect. Are you accusing the Mayor of masterminding Polly’s murder?”
“You’re twisting it,” the Eggplant said.
“Or is there a more sinister agenda here?” Barker said. In this mode, Fiona thought, he was fearsome. “You think I bought it from Farber?”
“No, I don’t,” the Eggplant said.
“He sure as hell didn’t give it to me,” Barker said. “He destroyed it, just as he said he would. He gave me a deadline. I told you that.”
“You also said you’d be sending out your lawyers to get an injunction. You didn’t.” The Eggplant was calm, his eyes steady. He did not look at Fiona, who watched the duel between the two men with growing apprehension for her boss. Barker, if he chose, could ruin him with barely a flick of his figurative wrist.
“Oh, that,” Barker said, his evasiveness patently transparent. “We decided against that. Too much of a hassle.”
“For who? You said it yourself. You have lawyers on the payroll and had a good chance of getting Dearborn’s material. Why didn’t you?”
Barker’s eyes narrowed as he studied the black man who sat across his desk. He seemed to be reassessing his tactics, exploring the implications of the Eggplant’s questioning. He might have guessed correctly that Captain Luther Greene was a stubborn and tenacious man.
“I don’t understand any of this, Captain. What’s your game? Do you seriously believe that the Post will stop its investigation of your Mayor? Are you looking for brownie points in this confrontation? What the hell is going on?”
“I made it perfectly clear at the beginning of this interview. Did the material come from Polly Dearborn’s computer?”
“Surely, Captain, you must know that a newspaperman would rather die than reveal his sources.” The Eggplant did not answer, nor did he draw away his gaze from Barker’s.
Fiona could sense the approach of the critical moment. In order to make his case persuasive he had to tell Barker the truth about the computer information, in effect to put his professional life in the hands of a man with no real stake in the secret, a man to whom revelation was everything.
“Even if it would help to catch a killer?” Fiona interjected.
The Eggplant looked at her, obviously unhappy with her intervention.
Barker grew contemplative. He studied them both.
“What
I don’t understand,” Barker said, “is why you believe that this information about the Mayor came from Polly’s computer.”
The Eggplant and Fiona exchanged glances. Moment-of-truth time, Fiona knew. The Eggplant was about to say something, but Barker was not finished.
“Was it because it was Sheila Burns who called the Mayor?”
There it was. For some reason the Eggplant hadn’t told her. Or the Mayor had not told the Eggplant. But Barker’s revelation was the push that started the dominoes falling. Of course. Sheila Burns.
“You promoted her, did you?” Fiona asked.
“Now you’re going to tell me who I can promote?” Barker said, somewhat defensively.
“Put her in Polly’s place?” Fiona pressed.
“She was the logical choice,” Barker said.
“Because she knew what was on Polly’s computer,” Fiona snapped.
“Not specifically. Only in general terms,” Barker said.
“Sheila Burns lied to us, then,” Fiona said.
“Lied? That’s a strong accusation, Sergeant FitzGerald.”
Not strong enough, Fiona thought, looking toward the Eggplant. His features expressed approval. Carry the relay stick, his eyes told her.
“She told us that Polly Dearborn was paranoid about secrecy.”
“Where is the lie in that?” Barker asked smugly.
“Then how would she have obtained the information?” Fiona asked.
“I told you. She was Polly’s assistant. She knew what Polly was working on in general terms. She also knew about data banks, about the way Polly bird-dogged a story through her computer. Hell, the Mayor’s stuff is public domain. It’s all out there. You. Me. Everybody. Polly was a ferret. Sheila is a clone. She developed the information on the Mayor herself.” He stood up and looked at his watch.
“I’ve got a paper to put out,” he said, standing up, dismissing them. In that attitude he exuded power. They were mere flies ineffectually buzzing around him. He could scatter them with a brush of his hand. “Maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe the killer of Polly Dearborn was looking for that stuff in her computer. If you’re implying that Sheila Burns killed Polly, you’re way off base. The only person who could benefit from destroying the material on Polly’s machine was the Mayor himself.”
