Adler, Warren - FitzGerald 03 - Senator Love

by Senator Love [lit]

  "Then you decided my time had come."

  "At first I thought, 'She's just a cop, good for a quirky quickie.' You know, doing-it-while-you-wear-your-gun kind of thing."

  Fiona's hand went up to her breast. Shut that damned recording off, she told herself, but she made no move to stop it.

  "You've got a dirty mind," Fiona said. Again, it was mostly for the recorder's benefit. Who could possibly understand?

  "Do I?"

  "You spotted my partner — you knew it was all a scam to flush you out. Motivate you to do what we believed you did to the others."

  The woman paused, then giggled again. "Big surprise, huh?"

  What did that mean? Fiona wondered, feeling strangely uncomfortable. Had she enough on tape? Enough to satisfy them? Was it time to turn it off? More important, was it enough for her?

  She turned onto Memorial Bridge, saw the bronze horses' rear ends glistening in the sun. To reach headquarters she would have followed the curving road to Constitution then headed toward the Hill. Instead, she took another turn, which brought the car back under Memorial Bridge, leading toward Hains Point.

  From the rearview mirror, she saw Frances struggling to raise her chin to see out the window.

  "Where are we going?" she asked again.

  Fiona did not answer. Instead she parked the car in a deserted spot along the curb. Ahead she could see the fountain spraying water in the middle of the Potomac.

  "If you knew it was a trap, why did you walk into it?" Fiona asked. She turned to look at the woman, lying awkwardly on her side, her eyes feral and malevolent.

  "Because it had to be done," Frances said, as if it was the most elementary bit of knowledge. "You had no rights to Sam. I had to set things straight."

  "By killing me?"

  "Of course. You know that."

  It was getting too close to the bone, Fiona decided. Irrelevant to the confession. Still, she could not bring herself to stop the recorder. Then, suddenly, it was too late.

  "You think you could fool me?" Frances chortled with contempt. "You can't deny it, Miss Cop. You and he were getting it on and it was the real thing. That had to be stopped."

  "So here you are. Caught in the act," Fiona said with some bravad Only then did she cut the recorder.

  "Your word against mine," Frances said. "Bunkie, on the other hand, is in deep shit."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Bring me in. I'm ready to tell my story."

  Fiona felt her anger mounting. This was a crazy woman. Why then was she taking so much time with her? She had the confession on tape. Surely it would be enough to put the woman away. A good lawyer could plea bargain her into an institution.

  "What story?"

  "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

  "You just told me the story."

  She was tempted to tell her about the recorder.

  "But not about Bunkie and the jewels," Frances teased.

  "What about them?"

  "Interested, aren't you?" She giggled again, reflecting an inner hysteria. "I'll make you a deal."

  "No deals."

  "I'll let you have Sam. Sam forever. Sam your true love. No more Bunkies to give you the old Dear-John."

  It was madness talking, spewing out the distorted logic of a twisted mind. And yet, there was something in it that was too compelling to resist.

  "And what do you get for your revelation?" Fiona asked.

  "I go off into the sunrise."

  Fiona paused, continuing to observe the woman. She still lay awkwardly on her side, her eyes wild, her lips twisted in ridicule.

  "I'm listening," Fiona said.

  The woman giggled again.

  "All right then. I know you'll do it."

  Fiona did not respond, her gaze drifting. Outside the car, the shadows were deepening. She looked out to the slate grey of the Potomac, which was now turning to black. The woman's voice brought her back.

  "Helga's jewels are planted in a flowerpot on Bunkie's front stoop."

  "Fascinating stuff," Fiona said, wondering if she really meant it.

  "That's not all," Frances said. "I sprinkled some of the dirt from Helga's grave on the floor of Bunkie's car. In those hard-to-find places, as they say on TV."

  "The criminal mind at work."

  "If we need more I have more."

  "More what?"

  "Evidence. Isn't that the way police convict people?"

  "You're really nuts," Fiona said, embarrassed by her own remark. Of course she was. Off the wall. Then why was she listening? Why wasn't she bringing her in?

  "Either you want Sam or you don't. Putting me away won't do it for you."

  Fiona paused, then shook her head, but it was the hesitation that gave her away. The light was dimming, although there was still enough of it for her to see the woman's eyes, intense and glowing orange as they caught the last gasp of the setting sun.

  "Stick your hand on my chest," Frances said.

  "Jesus. That, too."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Just put your hand in and pull out the locket."

  "You are too much," Fiona said. But her words belied her action. She moved fast, put her hand on the woman's blouse, ripped it open, found the locket and ripped it off her.

  "You didn't have to break it, for crying out loud. Besides, you hurt me."

  Fiona pried open the locket with her fingernails. Something soft was inside. It seemed like hair. Human hair.

  "The black is Betty's. Stands up pretty good, don't you think. The blonde is Helga's. Car was too mangled to get at Harriet."

  "A real collector." It was sick, gruesome.

  "Got to have something for my efforts," Frances said, giggling again. "I would only use the Helga hair, though."

  "I don't get it."

  She reminded Fiona of a flawed jigsaw puzzle in which pieces fitted perfectly into an illogical pattern. What was needed was for someone to recut the pieces to make a more understandable picture. The idea had jumped into her mind. What evil alchemy did Frances practice to summon up such bizarre behavior, such weird ideas?

  Then it came to her. She saw it with pristine sharpness. She could save Sam, save his career, save his aspirations. Was it possible? She shook away the thought, tried to exorcise the idea.

  "You are a lthy little demented bitch," Fiona said, turning in her seat, gunning the motor, starting the car. "It's a lie about the jewelry and you know it."

  "The proof is in the pudding," Frances said.

  She headed the car back toward Capitol Hill. It was almost completely dark. They would be concerned by now. The eggplant would be fuming, berating Cates. She resisted any temptation to contact them. What was churning in her mind now could not be shared.

  Bunkie's townhouse was just a stone's throw from the Ninth Street exit of the 605. She made the distance in less than ten minutes and pulled up in front of it. No lights were visible. It was obvious that Bunkie had not come home. Getting on her knees on the front seat, she bent over and lifted Frances' head so that she could see out of the window.

  "The one on the left. Just get a hold of a fistful of plant and pull. The jewelry is in a plastic bag."

  Fiona pushed the woman away roughly, got out of the car, its motor still running. She bent over the flowerpot and, as Frances had instructed her, gave the plant a quick pull. It came out in tightly packed earth the shape of the flowerpot. At the bottom of the pot lay a pile of jewels in a plastic bag. She put the jewels into her shoulder bag and replaced the plant.

  It was not the time to reflect. Events were simply moving ahead of her. She got into the car again.

  "You see them?" Frances asked. Because of her position in the back of the car she couldn't see out of the window.

  "Yes."

  "You see? I was telling the truth."

  "Now Helga's hair. We mustn't forget that. Where would you put the hairs?"

  "I'd have to get inside. Maybe put them on a pair of jeans. Something like that."

>   "See how easy it would be? The jewels, the dirt, the hair. Pin it on the bastard. Put a bullet in his brain. Say he attacked you. Then you find the evidence. Pow. Then it's only a simple case of robbery. No trial. No bullshit."

  Fiona turned to look at the woman again. She was smiling.

  "Do I get a good mark on that, Miss Cop? Enough to get a ticket out of here?"

  "It has its charm," Fiona whispered.

  "And we'd save the day for the man we both love."

  The idea had an odd fascination. She should run it through her mind, just for kicks, she told herself.

  "We'd be framing the man," Fiona said hoarsely, goading Frances to believe in her sincerity.

  "Who deserves it more?"

  Fiona gunned the motor and guided the car back to the 605. She headed the car west.

  "See the beauty of it?" Frances said from the rear seat.

  "It does have cachet," Fiona muttered.

  Indeed, the exercise did have its own twisted logic. Fiona was putting it in perspective now, understanding her own motives. It might be worth considering, she thought, even if it were only theory.

  "Where are we going?" Frances asked.

  "Georgetown."

  "You taking me home?"

  Fiona didn't answer. A matrix was forming in her mind and she was surrendering to the fascination.

  She had the jewels. She had Helga's hair. She could find the appropriate places to plant them in Frances' Georgetown house. They would be found later. After.

  Take it further, Fiona prodded herself, speculating that Frances was probably still concocting ways to eliminate her. Hadn't that been her object all along?

  The scenario spun itself out in her head. She might just give Frances

  the golden opportunity to achieve her objective. Fiona's mind raced with possibilities. Authenticity was, of course, essential. Frances' modus operandi was fixed in her mind, the use of the garrote, murder by strangulation. Naturally, Fiona would have to make the scarf available. It was right there beside her on the seat.

  She would be on her guard, ready to counterattack. There would have to be a struggle, then Fiona would fire her pistol in self-protection. One shot direct to the heart. Maybe two.

  There would be a hearing, of course. The jewelwould be found. Helga's hairs would be found. Verdict: A homicide detective kills a suspect in self-defense. In the absence of a rebuttal, the suspect is circumstantially guilty. Loose ends would have to be tied. Maybe there would be a period of suspension. Maybe not. They would put the Betty Taylor case on ice.

  And Sam would be free to pursue his career without fear. He was finished with that kind of a life, wasn't he? And Fiona would be his secret mistress, his only love, and perhaps someday …

  ———— *31* WOULD SHE have, really?

  Perhaps it was instinct. But if, at precisely that moment, she had not contacted the eggplant, would she have really gone ahead with it?

  "Where the hell have you been?" the eggplant shouted.

  His urgent scratchy macho voice pulled her back from the edge of the abyss. She did not have time to answer. His next question, which should have been his first, came too fast: "Are you okay?"

  "She had us going. It wasn't Bunkie."

  "Did she try to do you?"

  "Bungled it. She was waiting for me in my back seat. Amateur job. I got her trussed up and raving in the back of the car. I'll fill you in."

  "You should have called in," he said, but there was no bite to his rebuke.

  "Bitch kept me busy. Took me more time to get what we needed," she told him. Later, she would use that explanation to absolve herself of the guilt of intention. "I got it all, even a little extra." _Got more than I bargained for_, she thought.

  "Our boy has bit the bullet," the eggplant said.

  The words panicked her. Our boy? Sam?

  "He killed himself?" The question rushed out of her before she could stop it.

  "Killed his political career. Held this press conference couple of hours ago. He's not going to go for President and he's not going to run for the Senate after his term is over."

  "It's a trick," Frances screeched from the back seat. She had heard it all.

  "What was that?" the eggplant asked.

  "Lady Macbeth without the guilt," Fiona said.

  "Smart move on his part," the eggplant said. "No matter what. The shit would slop onto him. Better to leave with dignity at the top of his form. Can't say we didn't try to protect the son-of-a-bitch."

  "We tried, all right." _Harder than you think._ "Kind of a classy thing to do on his part," the eggplant said. "Said he wanted to spend more time with his family. Of course, he had no choice."

  "Almost did," Fiona whispered.

  "Didn't hear you," the eggplant said.

  "Wasn't important." She cleared her throat. "But I quite agree. He is a classy guy." In her heart she said good-bye. All in all, she told herself, smiling, it was worth it, every bit of it.

  She turned again to look at Frances, a sad sight, a mind obliterated by hate, committed to vengeance, an ugly and obscene woman. They would put her away in some hospital. Perhaps someday she would walk the streets again. Fiona felt her insides congeal.

  "So bring home the bacon," the eggplant said.

  "Cates must be pisse d."

  "He's sitting right here. Followed Bunkie right back to the office. Man was loyal to the end. Stood behind his man at the press conference."

  "Say Hi," Fiona said, feeling suddenly cleansed as she turned the car and headed toward police headquarters.

  "Had you going," Frances said from the back seat.

  "No way," Fiona said, suddenly thinking of her old man. "We FitzGeralds always wind up doing the right thing."

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