by Warren Adler
Fiona looked toward the Eggplant. He had come within a hairsbreadth of confessing what they had done with the disks and she had deliberately deflected it. Yet the fact remained that without the computer evidence, any case against Sheila Burns would collapse under the weight of hearsay.
“We don’t intend to drop this, Mr. Barker,” the Eggplant said.
“Neither do we, Captain. Neither do we,” Barker said.
“You’ve got a paper to get out, Mr. Barker,” Fiona said. “And we’ve got a killer to catch.”
Barker’s eyes narrowed. The ends of his lips rose in the beginning of a smile. Then they stopped.
“You can tell your damned Mayor it won’t work,” Barker said. “And get the fuck out of here.”
25
IT HAD STARTED to rain during the night, one of those interminable and relentless showers that would last for days. Sheets of driven rain spattered the windows at Sherry’s, where Fiona and the Eggplant nursed chipped mugs of Sherry’s muddy black coffee.
During a lull in the rain gusts, Fiona saw Charleen intrepidly holding her umbrella against the wind as she moved toward Sherry’s. Her posture was ramrod straight, unbowed against the elements as she walked toward the coffee shop.
The Post had gleefully reported three more murders the night before. An indignant editorial called for more efficient police protection and less bureaucracy in municipal government, a veiled indictment of the Mayor.
They were setting the stage, conditioning the turf. Within the next few days, the other shoe would drop. They would run the story about the Mayor’s early indiscretions and the sinking process would begin with a vengeance.
The Eggplant, although fatigued and gloomy, was far from comatose. Fiona had often seen him show remarkable resourcefulness during a crisis. Consistently, when his choice was fight or flee, the Eggplant fought.
He was fighting now and he had inspired her to join in what seemed a hopeless struggle. The Mayor was as good as politically dead. The powerful Post would call for a new broom, especially in law enforcement. The likelihood would be that a “neutral” Police Commissioner would be chosen, someone from outside of the District jurisdiction.
“I’ve written it off,” the Eggplant had confessed earlier. She had expected that. He seemed calmer for it. “Doesn’t mean we’re going to lay down and die, FitzGerald.”
There were some encouraging signs. During the last twelve hours, despite the continuing onslaught of homicides, they had brought in three dozen suspects for the various gang killings. That action had taken some of the edge off his pessimism.
But the problem at hand was not the spate of gang murders. There seemed far more at stake in the Polly Dearborn case. As homicide detectives, they had committed the ultimate faux pas. They had become personally involved. They had compromised police ethics, disobeyed police procedures and destroyed evidence.
They had come through a round robin of “ifs.” If only they had brought the evidence into headquarters as procedures demanded. If only the Eggplant hadn’t destroyed the disks. They had behaved like a bunch of Keystone cops. And a killer remained loose, unwittingly under the protection of one of the most powerful people in Washington.
After they had left Barker’s office, they had gone down to Sheila Burns’ office. She was busy working on her computer.
“I can’t,” she said, when she saw them. “I’m on deadline.”
It was a different Sheila Burns than they had seen a few days ago. Then she had been open and relaxed, with an uncertain future. Now she was a busy, intent Sheila Burns, a new and more powerful Sheila Burns.
“This is Captain Greene, the head of MPD Homicide,” Fiona said, ignoring her irritation. Sheila continued to pound the keyboard, paying no attention to their presence.
“Come back later for chrissakes,” Sheila muttered.
“You told me you didn’t know who Polly was going to write about next,” Fiona said as they moved toward where Sheila was sitting. As they came closer, Sheila shut down the computer and swiveled in her chair, facing them.
“I lied,” Sheila sneered. “Now will you please leave.”
“You told us you didn’t know much about computers,” Fiona pressed.
“I don’t.”
“You told us that Polly was paranoid about anyone getting into her computer. Even you.”
“She was.” Sheila’s eyes had narrowed as they rotated from Fiona to the Eggplant’s face.
“All right then, Sheila, how did you get into Polly Dearborn’s computer?” the Eggplant asked.
A frown crossed Sheila’s forehead and her eyelids fluttered as she looked up at them. Fiona recognized the hardened expression of a stonewaller.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sheila said.
“The material about the Mayor,” Fiona said cautiously, with a glance at the Eggplant. “It was on Polly Dearborn’s computer.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Sheila asked, as if she were the soul of innocence.
“Do you deny it?” the Eggplant asked.
“Of course I deny it. This is material I developed myself.” She paused and glared at them. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’re here. I’ve told you all I know.”
She swiveled in her chair and picked up the phone.
“Mr. Barker, please,” she said sweetly, looking at them over her shoulder with an air of contempt. “Mr. Barker, Sheila Burns. I have these two detectives here.”
Fiona could hear a rising crescendo of sound emanate from the phone.
“I will.” Sheila said finally, hanging up. Then she swiveled back to face them.
“I don’t have to tell either of you anything. You have no right to interfere with the story I’m doing.” She paused for a moment. “Please leave,” she said, her voice rising.
“You’re lying to us,” Fiona said. “That material on the Mayor is from Polly Dearborn’s computer.” She felt the ineffectiveness of her statement. All she could do was to offer the accusation and provide no proof. If they were going to break Sheila Burns, this was not the way.
“Oh,” Sheila said calmly, as if reading her mind. “Have you proof of this? I understand that Polly’s computer was destroyed by her lawyer according to her wishes.”
“You won’t get away with this,” the Eggplant said. He was obviously suffering from the same degree of exasperation, made worse by the knowledge that he had destroyed the only evidence to support their accusation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Sheila said. Her rejoinder was laced with ridicule. “So why don’t you get out of here and start looking in earnest for Polly Dearborn’s murderer.”
“Maybe we’re looking at her,” Fiona said, shooting a knowing look at the Eggplant, who remained uncharacteristically silent and noncommital.
Sheila’s reaction was a broadening smile.
“I’ll forget that I heard that,” she said sweetly.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Fiona said as they went out the door. On her part it was pure bravado.
The memory of the humiliation rankled her, adding to their frustration. So far neither she nor the Eggplant had come up with any substantial idea on how to make a case against Sheila Burns, who was now their prime suspect. They might take various actions in the hope of breaking her into a confession, but that would be dangerous, especially since Sheila could hide comfortably behind the First Amendment and count on the resources of the most powerful editor in the country to protect her.
They had better, they both had agreed, resist further tangling with Harry Barker until they had something, something concrete and persuasive.
They watched as Charleen Evans came in, shook out her umbrella and raincoat and slid in the booth beside them. Fiona had briefed her the night before about their conversation with Barker and Sheila Burns, then sent her home to think about it.
“I’ve thought about it,” she said, watching Sherry fill her coffee mug.
“No ha
rm in listening,” Fiona responded. The Eggplant shrugged his consent.
Charleen took a sip of her coffee.
“We may be jumping to conclusions,” she said, putting her mug back on the cracked plastic surface of the table. She did not wait for a response. “Maybe she didn’t take the material out of Polly Dearborn’s computer.”
“I’ll say this for the lady,” the Eggplant said. “She does listen to a different drummer.”
“It’s only an assumption on your part,” Charleen said.
“You think we’re wrong?” Fiona asked.
“I think we should keep an open mind until we’re certain,” Charleen argued.
“And just how do we know for sure?” the Eggplant asked.
“We find out,” Charleen said. “Chances are that the material is in a computer in Sheila’s house, where it’s been all along. We get a search warrant.”
“Which opens up a whole new can of worms,” the Eggplant said. “Barker won’t stand for that. He now thinks of that material, if it is there, as the property of the paper. He’ll accuse us of using gestapo tactics, interfering with the function of a free press, attempting to implicate one of his reporters to counterattack for their exposure of the Mayor. Also don’t be so sure that the judge will issue a warrant. We haven’t got the remotest hard evidence that connects Sheila Burns with the Dearborn murder. And if the material is not there, Barker will fry me, maybe you two as well, along with the Mayor.”
“If we don’t check to see whether Sheila Burns has the Dearborn material, we can’t go anywhere in this case,” Charleen sighed.
“And suppose she does have the material,” Fiona said. “How do we prove it came from Polly’s machine? What’s to prevent her from saying that she had the material all along?”
“She may have,” Charleen said cryptically.
“Which means that we’re wrong about her being our prime suspect,” the Eggplant said. Beads of perspiration had broken out on his lower lip.
“Afraid so.” Charleen said.
“You don’t think so?” Fiona asked.
“As I said, I’m keeping an open mind.”
“I’m not authorizing we go for a search warrant. We’re in enough hot water as it is,” the Eggplant said.
“I figured you might say that,” Charleen said. She was into her tenacious mode, unstoppable, the tentativeness of the last few days gone. “Fact is, we can’t get anywhere unless we’re certain.”
“I don’t think we can get anywhere even if we are certain,” the Eggplant said. Discouragement was creeping into his mood.
There was a long pause. In the silence the radio that sat on the table between them crackled. It was a call for the Eggplant. He was wanted at headquarters.
“First things first,” he said, getting up. “In terms of human life we’ve devoted more than her due to the murder of Polly Dearborn.”
“You’re writing it off?” Fiona asked.
The Eggplant shrugged, his face a map of dejection.
“I need that search warrant, Captain.” Charleen said, her lips tight with determination.
“No way,” the Eggplant said. “We find nothing, we’ll be crucified for harassing the press.”
“Better that,” Charleen said after a long pause. Their eyes had locked. Fiona saw this as primal, the quintessential moment. Charleen was telescoping her threat to him with her gaze. “. . . than destroying evidence.”
“All right,” he muttered. But the conviction was gone. Fiona watched his bulky receding back as he walked to the door, carrying his dead dreams with him.
“I feel awful about that. I had to.” Charleen said.
“Not your fault,” Fiona mumbled. She looked at Charleen, who seemed genuinely disturbed. But it was a more open-faced Charleen than she had ever seen before.
“Yes it is,” she insisted. “It’s the way I deal with people. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Jesus, Charleen. It’s no time for introspection.”
“It is for me,” she snapped. “You’ve accused me of having no insight. You’re right. I don’t. I’ve shut myself off from people for too long. You can’t be a good homicide detective without insight.” She focused on Fiona. “You’ve got insight . . . Fiona.”
“Taking a chance on intimacy are you, Charleen?”
“You’re right to make fun of me.”
Fiona felt suddenly ashamed.
“That was dumb,” Fiona muttered.
“Not really. I’ve exasperated you. I’m beginning to exasperate myself.” She turned her eyes away, concentrating instead on the oily surface of the coffee in the chipped mug.
“Now you’re going overboard, Charleen,” Fiona said, trying to pull away. The woman was on the verge of self-revelation, confession. “It’s too early in the morning.”
“I’ve been identifying with Polly Dearborn,” Charleen said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Sometimes that can be a plus in a murder investigation.”
“People obsessed with computers are often lonely, frustrated people.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Charleen.”
“I’ve always been too hard on myself,” Charleen sighed. “Never letting go. Spending a lifetime looking for Momma and Daddy’s murderer. How can I be an objective homicide detective if I’m carrying around baggage like that?”
“I’m not a shrink, Charleen,” Fiona said. There she was, Fiona thought, being tenacious.
“It’s important that I say these things. Important to me. All you have to do is listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s also important that I make this up to you.” She motioned with her head. “And him. I owe both of you.”
“Stage two. Blame yourself,” Fiona said. “If you didn’t get into Polly Dearborn’s computer . . . hell, what’s the difference? Besides, you didn’t destroy the material, the Captain did. And so what if you were wrong about Downey. Big deal. We’ve all made mistakes.”
“I’m going to get into Sheila Burns’ computer,” Charleen said suddenly.
“Only if he gets that search warrant,” Fiona said.
“You know he will.” She paused, “He also hate me forever.”
“Only if you’re wrong about what’s in the computer.”
“I know,” Charleen said with resignation.
“Don’t expect any help from me,” Fiona said.
“I don’t want any.
“Yes you do,” Fiona said. She felt her anger rising.
Charleen shook her head and sighed.
“Typical of me. I’m a damned fool.”
“I’ll buy that.”
Charleen lifted her mug, sipped, then spat the coffee back into the mug. The action somehow deflected Fiona’s anger and she laughed.
“It’s not necessary, Charleen. You’re really going too far. So what if we don’t crack the Dearborn case. There’ll be others. We’ve had cases before where we had a pretty good idea who the murderer was, but we still couldn’t get enough to make our case. If I were you . . .”
“You’re not me, Fiona. Thank your lucky stars.”
Charleen had opened her emotional dikes and her guts were spilling out.
“All that self-effacement is making me nauseous.”
“Better this way, than the other,” Charleen said.
“I’m not so sure.”
Fiona’s thoughts lingered on what Charleen was going to do. She had given the Eggplant little choice. If they failed to find any incriminating evidence, Barker would hang the three of them in the pages of his newspaper.
“Above all, Charleen, what you’re contemplating is not smart,” Fiona said. In fact, Fiona thought, nothing that they had done in the past few weeks qualified as smart.
“Maybe,” Charleen said. Then she grew silent. They sat through a long pause. The rain battered the windows and the coffee shop began to empty. Sherry came over and poured more coffee.
“There’s something else,
” Charleen said suddenly.
“I was afraid of that,” Fiona replied, taking a deep sip of the strong coffee. Charleen looked at her. Fiona noted tiny flecks of yellow in her brown eyes.
“Polly Dearborn and I had another thing in common.”
Fiona did not reply, waiting.
“I’m also a virgin,” Charleen said.
26
SHEILA BURNS LIVED in what was once a large home just off Massachusetts Avenue near Dupont Circle. It had been converted to eight apartments and Sheila’s was on the second floor. The Eggplant had gotten their search warrant, probably at great risk, perhaps calling in a favor. They knew, too, that the method of entry would be suspect.
Utilizing Charleen’s knowledge of locks from her Burglary squad days, they had entered the front hallway, then Sheila’s apartment with comparative ease. Charleen carried a laptop computer.
“Like falling off a log,” Charleen said as they opened the door to Sheila Burns’ apartment. Fiona had checked to make sure that Sheila was still at the paper. She was. It was two in the afternoon. The wind had slackened and the rain had settled into a steady drizzle.
Before they had entered the building, Charleen had asked for the tenth time since their meeting at Sherry’s, “Are you sure about this?”
“No, I’m not,” Fiona had answered with scrupulous honesty. “But I’m coming anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because you need somebody to protect you,” Fiona said. The point was, Fiona had decided, that they were in it together anyway. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered. It was foolhardy and dangerous. But fascinating and compelling, Fiona had reasoned, if reason was the right term, which it wasn’t.
Now she was here with Charleen in Sheila Burns’ apartment, a party to it, in up to her ears.
Charleen found the computer, a portable on a desk in an alcove extension of the living room. It was connected to a dot matrix printer. The apartment was modest, but neat. There was a small library of computer books on a bookshelf in the alcove.
“So she didn’t know much about computers, did she?” Fiona remarked.
