Adler, Warren - FitzGerald 03 - Senator Love

by Senator Love [lit]

  "What did that mean?"

  "I checked it out. A woman driving alone, dead sober, on a lonely road in Virginia suddenly wraps herself around a tree."

  "That's pretty circumstantial," Fiona said.

  "Who would know better than a homicide detective?" So she does know lots more about me, Fiona thought. Frances plunged ahead with her story. "It just didn't sit well. I couldn't prove it. But I would bet that this Harriet Farley was having an affair with Sam."

  "You think foul play did her in?"

  Frances nodded.

  "I suspected it then. I know it now."

  She paused.

  "The murder of Helga Kessel has convinced me."

  "But the woman was robbed," Fiona said cautiously.

  "The papers said that this is the police contention, Miss FitzGerald. I also know that's the way you met Sam." She studied Fiona and smiled. "You are a lovely looking woman, Miss FitzGerald, although, I must say, a very unlikely detective. But I bet you must hear that frequently."

  "So you've added all this up in your mind. Three murders."

  "I believe it sincerely."

  "And no evidence."

  "No."

  She hesitated, then spoke again. "Believe me. For your sake, I hope I'm wrong. But I've decided to speak out regardless of what you might think of me."

  "And who do you think is the culprit?"

  "I have nothing to hang it on. No hard facts or evidence to impart. I know in my gut. That's all I can give you."

  Fiona knew what was coming and she was busy concocting alternate scenarios.

  "Bunkie Farrington," Frances said. "This man is diseased. He is corroded by ambition. He would stop at nothing."

  Fiona saw the flash of anger, the effort to keep it under control. It seemed perfectly appropriate to the moment. Was this woman such a superb actress? Was her own theory faltering? Could she be right?

  "We are not fools, Mrs. Langford," Fiona said. "We considered all that."

  "I've always felt there was more to it," Frances sighed. "More than just protecting Sam's career. I remember this boy when he first came with Sam. A young, pretty boy just out of Yale. He took immediate possession."

  "You seem to be implying something beyond ambition," Fiona said.

  "Oh, I've always felt that. It's a breed very common in politics, a kind of a homosexual psychopath that hides his real motive under the guise of ambition."

  "And Sam?"

  "There's a theory that philandering men need to keep proving their manhood to themselves."

  Suddenly, she felt Frances' scrutiny become more intense. She knew she was blushing to her hair roots and it was playing havoc with her objectivity.

  "Are you saying — " Fiona began.

  "Sam and Bunkie? I'd vote no to anything overt. As for Sam knowing and willing to manipulate Bunkie, that's another matter." She had let go of her pearls. Now she took them up again.

  "Heavy stuff," Fiona said. She turned it over in her mind, buking herself for blocking out the obvious. And yet, hadn't they "rousted" Bunkie, put him through their gauntlet without success?

  "I feel better now," Frances said. She signaled for the waiter. "I can use a drink. You?"

  The waiter came over.

  "A bloody Mary," Frances said, looking at Fiona.

  "Same," Fiona said. Again, she stole a glance at Cates, who was watching her peripherally now. Then she looked at Frances, who exuded credibility, a hundred and eighty degrees from where she had been in her mind. Still, Fiona had made no move to test the woman, largely because she had not been able to think of anything that might trip her up.

  "Forewarned is forearmed," Frances said. "It's not like you would be out there in the cold. You're police people. You know how to handle these things."

  "He couldn't know about Sam and me. No way." This had to be a hard fact. He had been deliberately taken out of the loop. The trap was set for Frances, not for Bunkie. Had they been playing to the wrong gallery?

  "I know he's out of town. I checked. I figure that he may not know with who, but he surely knows something is up. There's a real gap in Sam's schedule on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the middle of the day. No way to hide that. He'll find out. Count on it."

  There was a test, Fiona thought. A test of something. She had a question ready.

  "Did you know that Sam kept some of his business to himself?"

  "Maybe that's what he thought. Believe me, Bunkie finds out. He'll find out about you and Sam and put two and two together."

  "He might think it's just another roll in the hay. Not worthy of much attention."

  "Not Bunkie. Bunkie would know."

  "But we've kept him out-of-town," Fiona said, wondering if she had gone too far.

  "Out-of-town for Bunkie does not mean out-of-mind. Besides, he'll be back. He'll know. He has his methods."

  "Wouldn't he question it. So — soon after Helga?" Fiona asked, then wished she hadn't. Was she asking for herself? Or professionally?

  Frances shrugged. "Ask yourself that question."

  The message, because Fiona had shrouded it in obfuscation, was reaching her obliquely. In her heart lay the answer to that. But to confront it would mean that she was expecting more from Sam than was given. Jesus, this was getting out of hand.

  The drinks came, concoctions containing a large flowering stalk of celery. Frances reached for the stalk and bit off a piece. The act was purposeful, primitive, and it arrested Fiona's attention for the moment, further confusing her.

  Fiona removed her stalk and took a deep sip. It was spicy, a little hot for a Washington-inspired bloody Mary.

  "You ever bring this up with Sam?" Fiona asked.

  "Absolutely not," Frances said, her eyes squinting over the rim of the glass. "He'd think I was being vindictive." She paused and put her glass down. "About Bunkie."

  "And what if he did? What would it matter? You've been divorced all these years."

  "It matters," Frances muttered. "I can't bear the thought of what has happened to those women. He must not be allowed to get away with it." Her intense gaze suddenly focused on Fiona. "Not again."

  "Meaning me."

  "I could never live with myself if I didn't have this conversation."

  "Why didn't you have this talk with Helga Kessel?"

  She nodded her head, picked up her drink again and sipped, obviously taking the time to frame an answer. Surely she knew now that her credibility was under scrutiny, although she showed no signs of vacillation from her position.

  "Don't you see? I was never certain. True, I made assumptions. But I was alone in my theory. After a while I began to believe that I might be fantasizing. Betty Taylor could have run away, disappeared for her own reasons. Harriet could have died from a real automobile accident. Besides, years had passed. I did despise Bunkie. In many ways I blame him for the disintegration of our marriage. But, you see, I couldn'be sure if my idea wasn't being colored by my feelings about him. Also, I had nothing to go on. Not until the death of Helga Kessel put it together for me."

  The possibility that Frances Langford was concocting these stories for her own ends had not vanished, but her logic seemed impeccable and her face reflected an uncanny sincerity.

  "You don't believe Helga was killed for her jewels?" Fiona asked pointedly.

  "A red herring, I'd say. Like the lady. Buried somewhere."

  "Why do you think she was buried behind that particular house?" Fiona asked cautiously, studying Frances' face.

  "Now you're asking me to get into the man's mind," Frances said. "I haven't the faintest idea."

  A line of testing questions was emerging now and the woman was answering them freely. Fiona detected no sign of extreme caution, only openness and apparent sincerity.

  "It was a house for sale. Empty."

  "Good choice, I'd say. I'm in the business, you know. The neighbors would be used to seeing strange cars near the house. A wooded lot, I suppose. One in which the owners would be reluctant to take down
trees and, therefore, leaving the lot undisturbed."

  "How would Bunkie know this house?"

  "Probably by the For Sale signs. Maybe he was once there. Who knows?"

  "Then the rains came and fouled up the plan."

  As Fiona said this, she studied Frances' face. There wasn't a flicker of expression that suggested guilt or evil intent.

  "Says something, doesn't it? We wouldn't be here if it weren't for that rain. Maybe it's God's way to get even," Frances said. She shrugged, smiled and finished her drink.

  The God reference made her seem positively benign, further undermining her suspicions. Nevertheless, Fiona had to move forward with her premise. Her life depended on it. No point in being coy.

  "We found Betty Taylor," Fiona said, her gaze two probing searchlights. Frances met them without fear or surprise.

  "So you did know about Betty?"

  "Same modus operandi. She was buried in a house for sale. We checked that one out. The present owners were building a pool. Then the rains came.

  "What did you find?"

  "Old bones."

  Frances seemed to shiver. She took her glass and gulped down the remaining liquid.

  "And from that you were able to — "

  "Not really. We got lucky. The killer made a mistake."

  Frances' eyes widened. She was reacting now, probing Fiona's face. Fiona let it sit for a while. If she was the guilty party, withholding the information might agitate her, give her away. It didn't.

  "What mistake?" The question was logical, merely normal curiosity and, therefore, without relevance.

  Fiona did not answer immediately, still hopeful that stalling might set the woman off, ruffle her calm. Fiona played with her drink, brought it up to her lips, put the glass down, fussed with her hair, details designed to throw Frances off balance. She wondered if Frances was passing or failing the test.

  "There was an ankle bracelet on her ankle bone," Fiona said cautiously. "A gift from you-know-who."

  Frances' reaction was oblique and non-conclusive.

  "Maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe the killer wanted you to know someday."

  "There's a bit of insight," Fiona said. It had not occurred to her at the time. And yet it lay at the heart of the accepted police theory that a serial killer secretly wants to get caught.

  "Not really. Years of suspicion has made me an amateur detective of sorts." She smiled pleasantly. "Another drink?"

  Fiona shook her head. Her mind was still reaching out to fasten on the flotsam of any idea. Their theory on Frances' guilt was beginning to crumble. It was Frances herself who seemed to kick away the last prop.

  "I know I'm the principal suspect, and believe me, I'm not offended."

  "Where did you get that idea?" Fiona said, knowing it was a lame try. Who was testing whom? Fiona wondered.

  "Look, I understand." Witht so much as a glance she literally pointed with her shoulder to the supposedly surreptitious Cates. "Maybe people who follow have a sixth sense about people following them. Who knows? Yet, who can blame you for thinking what you must think. I'm in the real estate business. I therefore know where empty houses are. I'm the ex- wife of a compulsive womanizer and, therefore, a person with a grudge. Long-festering grudges, any psychologist will tell you, make people crazy. Have I got it right?"

  "More or less," Fiona admitted, as if she were compelled to defend her integrity. Had they been that obvious?

  "I've got the other right, too," Frances said, her eyes narrowing. Only then did Fiona see the passion in her expression. "He's our man, and when he finds out, he's going to make his move. I feel it in my bones." She moved closer to Fiona and put her hand on her arm. "He's gotten away with it three times. He's found a way to beat you people, and I'll bet he thinks he's invulnerable. You've got to be ready for him."

  "If he's our man, we will," Fiona muttered. What she needed most was time now to sort things out. She looked toward Cates, who caught her eye. Then she waved. Frances turned toward him and lifted her hand. He cocked his head in surprise.

  "I'll get this," Frances said, hailing the waiter.

  "I'm glad we had this little chat," Fiona said in a parody of the old cliche. She stood up. Frances put out her hand and Fiona took it. It felt firm, warm, comfortable. Maybe they were allies, after all, Fiona conceded, although she still held back her total surrender to Frances' contention. Not quite total, but tilting toward, she told herself.

  "If I can be helpful in any way, please get in touch." She handed Fiona a card.

  "One question, Mrs. Langford," Fiona said.

  "Only one?" Frances retorted.

  "Bunkie is not stupid. He might know that it's a set-up."

  "But is it?" Frances said, offering a cryptic smile. "I mean now."

  Fiona stood up and walked over to Cates, who had already paid his check.

  "What the hell is going on?" he asked as they headed toward the lobby.

  She didn't answer, pondering instead a vague sense of failure and humiliation.

  "I need to know," he pressed.

  "Actually," she said, breaking the silence as she stood in front of the hotel, waiting for her car. "It's a sisterly thing."

  ———— *29* "FIRST HE has to get me in his sights," Fiona explained.

  "And then?" Sam asked.

  "Two ways to go. The eggplant has a different view than mine."

  It was more than that, but she dared not explain. Only Cates was catching on, which was troubling. He kissed her hair and stroked her nipple as she nestled in the crook of his arm. As always, the blinds were drawn but they could see things clearly.

  "The point is he has to believe this is … well … the real thing."

  "It is for me."

  "Come on, Sam. Don't tease."

  "I mean it."

  "Bet you say that to all the girls," Fiona said, not liking the idea behind the statement. He probably did. Maybe not all, but most. At least three, maybe more.

  "When I say it, I always feel I mean it."

  "Maybe you did in a general sense, meaning the whole gender."

  "You think that's the root of it? Then you'd have to think I'm an insincere son-of-a-bitch."

  "I used to think so. I'm not so sure now. I think you're right. You mean it when you mean it."

  "Do you mean it?" Sam asked.

  "When I mean it, I mean it," she said, flustered. There was simply no way to adequately rationalize these acts with Sam. Lust. Desire. Passion. Something. He was being untrue to his wife. She to her job. Or was she? Fuck or play gin. What did it matter how she passed the time?

  He gently moved her out of the crook of his arm and stood up, showing her his body. He was well made, tall, slender, adequately endowed. He had not asked her to keep her holster on and she had placed it on the floor beside t bed. Now he picked it up and put it on.

  "Something about a gun," he said, patting it. He took it out of the holster and hefted it. Then he put his finger on the trigger and pointed it at her.

  "It's loaded, you know," she said.

  She felt no fear.

  "A turn-on?" he asked.

  "Not that one. Only the other."

  She sat up, reached out and touched his erection. He put the pistol

  back in its holster and dropped it to the floor.

  "Am I really different than other men?" he asked.

  "Not to the naked eye," she said, smiling. She embraced him, nestling his penis between her breasts. Her hands grasped the globes of his hard buttocks, pressing him tightly against her.

  "You are different from the others, Fiona," he said, caressing her hair.

  "Cut it out, Sam. You don't have to."

  "You're special."

  "Jesus, Sam. You'll have me believing it."

  "I want you to. I believe it."

  She lifted her face and their eyes met and held for a long moment. His hands reached out and held the sides of her head. Then he gently tilted it and kissed her hair.

  Too mys
terious to contemplate, she told herself. Go with the flow. Moving back to the bed, he embraced her from behind. Afterward they lay like two spoons.