"While police were not available for comment on this aspect of the case, the Ambassador revealed that Mrs. Kessel, whose passion for expensive jewelry was well known, left her home the day of her murder wearing her diamond engagement and wedding rings, and a necklace and bracelet containing gold and precious stones.
"The Ambassador estimated that these items represented a value of 'probably close to one hundred thousand dollars.'
"The Ambassador also indicated that he was told by the police that Mrs. Kessel might have been murdered to prevent identification of her assailant. He told the _Post_ that the police were pursuing all leads based on this theory."
What followed was the so-called back story, a rehash of the body's discovery and the eggplant's press conference.
She looked up and saw him smiling.
"We truly appreciate this, Fi. It simply refocuses everything. Takes the heat off. Nipped in the bud, as we say."
"I didn't give this to the _Washington Post."_ "No, you didn't. As you can see, the Ambassador did."
She was dumbfounded, and he was obviously confused by her reaction.
"When the stakes are this high, you don't pass up opportunities like this."
"This is your idea?"
"It's not a question of taking credit, it's a joint campaign management decision." Lines formed on his forehead and he cocked his head in a gesture of puzzlement. "Hell, is there something wrong, something inaccurate in the robbery theory? It looked cut and dried to us."
It was beginning to dawn on her. As soon as she'd left him, Ambassador Kessel contacted the Senator or Bunkie. A hurried, cautious telephone meeting. They wouldn't have taken the time to meet personally. It was apparently essential that they move to forestall any mud being thrown in their direction. She looked at Monte, confused and hurt at the same time.
"What you implied to the Ambassador was the logical, wasn't it?" Monte asked with obvious agitation. When she didn't answer quickly, he said, his voice rising, "Hell, Fi, we didn't blow anything, did we?"
He looked pathetic and she wasn't certain whether to curse him or pity him. Them.
"Good thinking. Great damage-control thinking. Take the heat off. Did it ever occur to you to tell me? Poor little me, who was trying to get at the truth and, if you were all innocent, hold off the mudslide. Don't you think I should have been consulted?"
"We thought …" He hesitated, then stopped abruptly.
"It was in still in the theory stage," she sighed. She knew the mechanics of the act. An anonymous tip. A call for confirmation, and voila: the Ambassador is available for comment. A bull's-eye in PR management. Just in time for the deadline pressure of the bulldog edition.
"Will it get you into trouble?" Monte asked sheepishly.
"Trouble?" She thought better of explaining. The eggplant would be furious at he was not "apprahzed," livid that the media was getting privileged information and — she would definitely not tell Monte this — be predisposed to look beyond the robbery theory out of sheer pique and orneriness. Especially if she told him exactly how and why all this had transpired in the first place. Besides his having her ass, perhaps even
ruining her career, she would have to contend with the political ramifications.
"Trouble?" she repeated, a wave of nausea rolling through her. "You don't know what trouble _is."_ She paused to let that salvo sink in. From his expression and his pallor she knew that the message had been received. With her knowledge, she could blow them out of the water.
"You wouldn't," he whispered. She had the impression that he might have wanted to speak louder, but had lost wind by her implication.
"Why not?"
"Please, Fi," Monte said, genuinely panicked. "You are not a vindictive person. All right, we might have made an error in judgement. Maybe we should have checked with you. It had to get out fast. But surely you would have agreed with our intentions, considering the stakes here."
She shook her head, feeling suddenly ashamed for him, for his fear and his weakness. And for herself for going soft inside.
"I would have been opposed, totally. Aside from my official responsibilities, I consider it manipulative and cynical. That part disgusts me, if you want to know."
"I'm really sorry, Fiona. I had no idea you'd react this way." He looked helpless and forlorn and his large brown puppy-dog eyes grew misty. He was a bear all right, a big teddy. Just another frightened flunky who danced around the flame of power.
"A common affliction. A lack of perception about other people."
"The point is …" he began, then searched her face for some reaction. She forced herself into a stony deadpan. "It does make sense. She was stupid enough to go out loaded with jewelry. Somebody spotted it, or knew she did this, robbed and killed her. The other, this business with the Senator, has no relevance to her murder. None whatsoever. Why should we all be penalized for something so obviously not of our making?" He drew in a deep breath, expelled it and watched her face.
"That's the difference between your business and mine, Monte," she said pointedly. "We dig under the surface bullshit. You scrape it up and package it as the real McCoy. Saying it in print does not mean it's the truth."
"You don't think it's true?"
"Shit, Monte, we never make judgements on the obvious. We call that circumstantial. We've got a real conflict of agendas here. We're looking for a killer."
"Are you saying that you still think … ?"
"What I think is now none of your damned business," Fiona exploded.
He lowered his eyes and fidgeted with his fingers. Her sudden outburst seemed to flatten him like a hurricane gust. Finally he looked up. "Listen, I'm sorry. But the milk is spilled. What can we do now?"
"Still in damage-control," she said with contempt. "I'll tell you what you can do."
He lifted his two hands.
"I know. I'm just leaving."
He walked across the room and picked up his jacket.
"I hope you don't hurt them — hurt all of us," he said.
"My business is catching killers. I shouldn't have taken any detours."
He looked genuinely whipped and uncertain. Contempt was quickly turning to pity in her mind and she cursed her vulnerability. If only he wasn't so … so cuddly. The thought made her smile.
"We meant well," he said. "We may be assholes, but we're not murderers."
She shook her head.
"The fact is that it does look like robbery. But we'll never know until we find the person that did it. That's the bottom line."
He paused, studying her face for any signs of forgiveness. Perhaps he
saw some.
"It's a viable theory then, Fi? That's what counts at this stage, doesn't it?"
"Yes," she admitted, her anger softening. "A viabltheory."
"Then maybe it will all come out right."
"Maybe," she shrugged.
"And you won't … not deliberately … hurt us?"
"No, I won't, Monte." She hesitated for a moment. No, she decided, unwilling to let him off the hook. "Not if you're all innocent."
He seemed confused, on the verge of protesting. Then she saw him surrender.
"I still want you to know — " he began.
"Never mind," she said, cutting him off with a wave of her hand.
He started toward the door.
"And you and I?" he asked when he got there.
"Not even for fun and games," she heard herself say. Next time she'd buy a pet.
Still he did not leave, his eyes roaming the room as if taking a farewell look. She was even disappointed in assessing that gesture. He saw the _Washington Post_ and picked it up. Then, without another word, he left.
Her instinct, she knew, was to overreact. A cool head must prevail, she badgered herself. They had betrayed her. No question about that. But, she argued, it had not been a malicious betrayal, an act designed deliberately to injure her, although it could have that effect.
Reason, you gullible vulnerable bitch, she
admonished herself, heading up the stairs to her bedroom. Shower time. She decided a real hot-and cold treatment was called for. She was out of her clothes in seconds, striding across the bedroom to the adjoining bathroom. Only then did she see the flashing light on her answering machine. Its placement was a quirk of hers, since often, out of sheer exhaustion, she headed first for the bedroom to flop into bed and oblivion.
She hit the rewind, then the play, and listened.
"Got something significant Fiona. Cates at home. Eight p.m."
There were two other messages, also from Cates.
"Heavy date, you sly fox," Cates' voice blared in his stunted version of black street talk. The last message, an hour ago.
"Don't want to interfere with your love life, lady, but when you come up for air, call me."
She pulled the comforter from her bed, wrapped it around her naked body, then punched in Cates' home number. He answered before the second ring.
"You saw it," she said.
"Saw what?" he asked.
"The _Post,_ Cates. The _Washington Post …"_ It occurred to her that the reiteration was not necessary. Also the question. He was obviously on a different tack.
"I get mine in the morning, Fiona," Cates said, his voice reflecting his confusion.
"It goes like this," she began, sucking in a deep breath, pulling the comforter tighter. "First let me take my shower. I'm standing here balls-ass naked and shivering."
"I won't ask why," he snickered.
"You'd be wrong. Its the furthest thing from my mind, body and spirit. I'm going into an imaginary nunnery." But she could not shake off her own curiosity. "So what's so urgent?"
"Remember that lady I talked to at the Judiciary Committee about our old bones?"
Her mind clicked into his mental rhythm, alert now. A surge of adrenaline warmed her body. Betty Taylor, she thought.
"The lady messengered over the Congressional Directory for that year.
Feeling obliged, I flicked through it."
"For chrissakes, Cates."
He was doing it too often these days, building the suspense for greater impact.
"He was on the committee for which the lady worked."
"Say it, Cates. Stop this shit."
"Langford. Representative Samuel Langford." Cates said.
Despite her body's apparent warmth, she began to shiver again.
———— *16* THE EGGPLANT was just winding down his tantrum, but the adrenaline was still pumping up his anger.
"Thickness of the fucking skull," he shouted, jabbing a dark finger at his temple. "It _is_ a disease, an affliction that impinges on the brain, the thinking processes, creates terminal stupidity. And here" — he pointed at both of them for the umpteenth time — "are two prime examples of the condition. What has be said for the message to sink in? Never, never, _never_ talk to the press, not through tenth parties, third parties, any parties. Zip the mouth." He motioned with his finger across the mouth. "Zip. Zip. Zip. We are in the killer-catching business. Leave the public relations to the eggplant. _Heah._ Do you get this message or am I pissing into the wind?"
Since they had expected it and, as best they could, had prepared for it, she and Cates wore their masks of contrition and waited for the flumes of verbal venom to subside.
Since it was the eggplant who had opened up the attack, they had little chance to fill him in on the facts of the case. The story in the _Washington Post,_ as they knew, would set him off. It had little to do with substance. To the eggplant, nothing was worse than an invasion of his turf, which is the way he perceived the _Post_ article. It was, of course, irrational, egotistical, perhaps even verging on the maniacal, but, as she had often concluded, it was the nature of the beast, an aberration to be accepted. The beast had a good side, as well, which often outweighed the bad.
Apparently, a reporter had made appropriate inquiries the night before, but there was no one around with any authority to answer them. Eventually, the eggplant had gotten wind of it, preferring to duck the call until he could gather all the facts at their morning meeting, not realizing how fast the story was moving. He was a man that liked to set agendas in dealing with the media, not be manipulated by them. What riled him most was that one of his own staff had put the first spin on the story without his knowledge and against his caveats. To him that constituted usurpation of power and bordered on betrayal. While he was in this state, there was no room for protest.
As he spoke, his frustration accelerated. Veins stood out in his neck and forehead and bits of spittle caught at the sides of his mouth. It was not a pretty sight. Fortunately, the dark gloom of the dreary rain days had lifted and the sun shone through the dust-caked windows, making the scene, if not cheerful, bearable.
Finally spent, the eggplant ended his ranting and looked out of the window, one arm leaning against a wall, his broad back offered as a sign of immediate dismissal. Fiona glanced at Cates, her look an obvious solicitation of support.
"We think the motive might not be robbery, Chief," Fiona said, reaching for a conciliatory tone. He did not respond and she spoke again. "We think the motive might be more" — she hesitated, groping for a word that would arrest him — _"controversial."_ He turned slowly like a heavy door on a rusty hinge.
"I believe the newspaper story was premature, maybe even misleading," she pressed. "Even though it stemmed from my meeting with the Ambassador." He had, she was certain, already surmised that Fiona was the source of the story. His version had her cast as the deliberate "leaker," who passed it along to a reporter to embarrass him. He hadn't
yet given them a chance to fill him in on all the details.
"You mean the jewelry is not missing?" he asked, malevolence still resonating in his voice.
"I didn't say that. The Ambassador had promised to take an inventory. Yes, the jewelry is probably missing."
"So where is it misleading?" He walked back to his desk and poked a finger into the newspaper lying there.
"I'm trying to 'apprahze' you," she said, using his pronunciation.
His lips curled and his eyes narrowed. Then he sat down at his desk and glared at her. "Show me, bitch," his attitude said.
She and Cates had determined that a bit of deft editing was in order, although she feared that the eggplant's paranoic antenna might pick up the nuances. A woman, in his world, acting out of friendship with a man was always suspect. To him, female vulnerability was endemic, an inherent weakness in the gender. The fact was, it shamed her to acknowledge that such a conclusion in this instance was not far from the truth.
he began her explanation from the beginning, trying to prescreen her every utterance. She took him through the events of the investigation, her various meetings with the cast of characters, cataloguing their fears, motivations and proclivities. She included her earlier meeting with Monte, Bunkie and the Ambassador when they first learned that Helga was missing.
His reaction to her admission that she had merely been doing a favor for a friend brought a slight tic to his cheek and a barely perceptible denigrating twist to his lips. Naturally, she left out any hint of a quid pro quo with Monte on the matter of keeping their interrogation of the Senator and his staff under wraps, but she foresaw that a satisfactory explanation had to be attempted, and she provided one. Her reference to Monte as a "friend" was transparent enough for him to get the message. She knew he took it for the confession it was, hoping that was the end of it. She needed to get through that before she threw in the clincher, the part about the old bones.
"Blame me, Chief," she said bravely. Of course, he already had. "I made a fine-line judgement. We had every intention of keeping you 'apprahzed,' but the opportunity to interrogate the Senator presented itself and we had to take it as it came. Also, frankly, I did not yet want to open a Pandora's box that could involve the Department in a political donnybrook, especially if the Senator and his staff were blameless in the woman's death, which is still a possibility." She watched for his reaction. She was being del
iberately oblique, talking in the kind of shorthand she knew he would understand, but before he could make an overt conclusion she proceeded: "You've drummed it into us … this sensitivity to cases involving politicians, especially a Senator about to announce his campaign for the Presidency. We didn't 'apprahze' you of it yesterday, pending this meeting, because we wanted to have a more complete story to present for your judgement."
Toadying it was, but she preferred to mentally refer to it as "defusing." She watched the eggplant's face for the desired effect and actually saw it happen. He nodded, not quite a nod, but close enough. And she knew why. She had struck a chord of accommodation. He had finally seen the personal benefit to himself, always his prime motivation.
Adler, Warren - FitzGerald 03 - Senator Love Page 15
