by Warren Adler
“Did he have any enemies outside of that sphere? Beyond politics?”
“Maybe. Who knows? We all have enemies for whatever reason. Complain about a bad purchase or a bad meal or some shoddy workmanship that cost you good money, and you’ve made an enemy. But to be killed by one, that takes real animosity, real anger. And my husband’s columns really infuriated them.”
“Them?”
“You know what I mean, Detective. Why overlook the obvious? His columns clearly offended the small-minded and the mendacious. Do I have to spell it out? Surely you read him.”
“Yes, I did.”
“End of story.”
“Not for us. For us, it’s just the beginning.” She paused, observing the woman. Close relatives of victims were always providing their own theories and certainties about how a loved one expired. Fiona continued, “Did he ever do… how shall I put this… personal investigations? Lone, undercover operations?” Fiona searched for words to elicit some hint the woman might reveal that could suggest an explanation for the disguise.
Mrs. Burns looked confused, her brows knitting.
“I don’t understand.”
Fiona studied the woman’s face.
“He was wearing a paste-on false moustache and store-bought, non-prescription glasses—props.”
Mrs. Burns scrunched her eyes in disbelief.
“Come now, Officer. That is ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is,” Fiona acknowledged, “hence my question.”
“I can’t believe this,” Mrs. Burns said, shaking her head as if afflicted with a sudden chill.
“Unfortunately, it is the truth and does require us to find an explanation. Obviously, he was taking some precaution not to be recognized. Where was he going?”
“It makes no sense.”
“I quite agree, Mrs. Burns. It does put an odd spin on the situation.”
The revelation had taken some starch out of the woman’s controlled exterior. For a long moment, she did not respond. Fiona knew it was time to take a more oblique approach. The woman was as baffled as she and seemed lost in confused thought.
“There is some design in this…,” the woman began, then shook her head in strong denial. “He would never have done such an idiotic thing.” She paused. “Not without good reason.”
“How did he commute to the paper?” Fiona asked, following another line of reasoning. A subway station was not within reasonable walking distance of their home.
“Commute?”
“Did he use the subway?”
“Why would he do that? When he went to his office, he drove. The subway is not convenient from here.”
“Did he go to his office every day?”
“He rarely wrote his column at home. Yes, he did go every day.”
“To your knowledge, did he ever use the subway?”
“Perhaps during the day to get around the city. I have no idea.”
“Do you use the subway?”
“Me? Not at all. I am a real estate broker. I take my clients around to see property by car. Why would I use the subway?”
Fiona again caught the whiff of snobbery. Suddenly, Mrs. Burns’ eyes glazed as if she was looking inward. Fiona waited through the silence.
“A false moustache and clear glasses? Actually his eyesight was excellent. He had no need for glasses. Perhaps he was doing some undercover work for his column. He did all his own research and no longer had an assistant.”
“No longer?” Fiona asked, curious.
“He decided that he did not want an assistant. Charlotte. Charlotte Desmond—very nice, very efficient. She was transferred to someone else at the paper. It apparently worked out very well for her. Anyway, it was his choice. He said he really would prefer working alone. Actually, he liked working alone.”
“Perhaps he did not want anyone to know what he was up to? Had he always had an assistant?”
“Ever since he was given the column. Five years, I believe. Then I guess it was about a year ago, he decided that he didn’t need an assistant.”
A red flag went up in Fiona’s mind. It validated a persistent and logical theory. He was involved in something that he wanted no one to know about.
“He gave no reason for getting rid of her?”
“As I said, he told me he preferred working alone. I didn’t inquire further nor did I give it much thought. And I was happy that Charlotte landed well. You see, my husband and I have… had… separate careers.” She grew silent for a long moment before she spoke again. “A false moustache and useless glasses. It seems so out of character,” Mrs. Burns mused. “It’s hard to associate Adam with such a….” She searched for a word. “…a prank.”
“Maybe so, but it is a fact. And for purposes of absolute secrecy, the tools he used seemed so… if he wanted to disguise himself… ineffective. And there’s more.”
“More?” Mrs. Burns squinted suspiciously.
“He carried no identification—no wallet, no credit cards, just a bit of cash and a Metro ticket. My partner is checking his office.”
Mrs. Burns’ face seemed to go blank as if she was having trouble processing the information.
“He… he must have had his reasons,” she said, after a long silence.
“That’s what we are trying to decipher, Mrs. Burns. Prank does not fit with the circumstances. If his personal effects—the wallet, for example—are not found at his office, we’ll have to search your home.”
“Be my guest.” Mrs. Burns seemed to ponder the idea further. Fiona could almost see the internal wheels at work. “Have you ever considered that it was all part of a plan to make my husband seem ridiculous? Along with his life, they would want to assassinate his persona, make it seem that he was unbalanced and his columns the words of a raving maniac. You’re dealing with very clever people, Officer. They will stop at nothing. They all hated him and wanted him out of the way. If I were you….” Mrs. Burns paused, her probing glance focusing on Fiona like a laser. “I’d start at the top. Go to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Speak to the head murderer.”
“And you seriously believe that?”
“I do,” Mrs. Burns said firmly.
Fiona remembered what Izzy had said at the Eggplant’s office earlier: Who benefits? It had a peculiar logic, but it was too bizarre in this instance to take seriously. Reactionary critics were an essential part of the system. Silencing them by murder would be too obvious and naïve a ploy by a president in power. Of course, it was quite possible that an overzealous supporter might cross the line, a theory not to be discounted.
“Conversely,” Fiona said, a sharper edge in her tone, “using your own idea, it could be a deliberate ploy by the opposition to make it look like your husband’s death had an administration footprint.”
“Whose side are you on?” The tone was deprecating.
“No side, Mrs. Burns.” The woman was beginning to irritate her, reminding Fiona how much she detested these types in their younger days. “My role here demands neutrality. The issue for us in homicide—whether a victim’s death was caused by accident, suicide, or murder—is to discover the truth. Let the chips fall where they may.”
“You are baying at the moon, Officer. You will never solve this case. They are masters of deceit and cover-up. Your path will be strewn with red herrings. You’ll see. All doors of inquiry will be slammed in your face.”
“Then we will have to find a way to open them.”
“Fat chance,” Mrs. Burns muttered, turning away.
Despite the woman’s outward calm, Fiona sensed she was in deep pain, and she hesitated, trying to summon up the courage to ask the essential question.
“I must ask you this, Mrs. Burns. It will be one of the most-asked questions in the entire investigation. I’ll apologize in advance, not only for the question but the timing so soon after this terri
ble shock.” Fiona paused. “Where were you at two-thirty today?”
Mrs. Burns’ lips curled in a derisive smile.
“Bravo! So you stand with me, rejecting your silly suicide idea.”
“I would be remiss if I had not asked it.”
Mrs. Burns grew thoughtful, her eyes narrowing.
“I was showing a house in Georgetown to a Mrs. Jane Harrington,” she said calmly. “Going about my business while Adam….” She choked up for a moment, recovered quickly, cleared her throat. “She seemed interested.”
Fiona felt a sudden rush of sympathy. She was certain that under the cold façade Sally Burns was devastated.
“It will be all for naught, Officer. They will block you at every turn. My husband was assassinated. There can be no other explanation.” She sucked in a deep breath and lifted her chin in a pose of aggressive defiance.
Fiona stood up and handed Mrs. Burns her card.
“If you can think of anything helpful, I’d appreciate your calling me.”
The woman studied the card for a moment. She remained seated.
“I shall, Officer Fitzgerald. Not that it will matter.”
***
Izzy dumped the contents of a briefcase onto his desk in the squad room. There were a number of plastic bags filled with paste-on moustaches of many shapes and sizes and a dozen or more pairs of store-bought glasses. There was also Burns’ wallet, which contained his credit cards, driver’s license, the usual, including a metal money clip and a number of keys on a key ring, as well as a thick clasp envelope.
“They were in his locked desk drawer. The editor, Jack Brady, and Donald Grant, the publisher were also baffled, they too, strongly hinted that it was probably his writings that got him killed.”
“An assassination plot?” Fiona asked.
“They were not exactly bashful about raising the possibility.”
“The spouse accused the President in no uncertain terms.”
“The implication was clear at the Post, but they were careful about any specific accusations. Remember the Post supports the President. But they gave the impression that the possibility existed. Brady remarked—if I remember correctly—that the news business was full of surprises. As he put it, ‘Hell, surprise is mother’s milk to the press.’”
“Did they see the contents of the drawers?” Fiona asked.
Izzy nodded.
“They were as confused as I was. Grant speculated that Burns was on the trail of some big story à la Watergate. Hell, those Watergate hotshots, Woodward and Bernstein, met late at night in a parking garage. Brady said Burns might have been playing gumshoe. He also admitted that he had gotten calls from someone at the Secret Service. Sounded like one of his friends making inquiries. They asked me what I made of it.”
“And you said?”
“The usual. Can’t comment. That’s the Chief’s prerogative.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t instigated a press conference.”
“He will,” Fiona said. “He probably wants to be certain of his grounds. With the world watching, he wants more raw meat to throw on the stoop, would be my guess. Note that he’s not increasing the force, leaving it to little us. Keeping it tight between us—you move too far out on this one, you get your fingers chopped off.”
“I talked to some of Burns’ colleagues,” Izzy said. “It was obvious that they could not get their head around the idea that the Administration was involved. Although one got the impression that the idea was loose.”
“Loose. Nice. It is very loose, the unthinkable,” she said.
“At least, that was my intuitive impression.” Izzy shrugged and consulted his notes. “Most said that Burns was a loner. Pleasant, but you couldn’t get close. Brady did say he talked to him about his column going too far, warned him that too much bile might hurt his credibility, but apparently he did not push too hard. Agreed with Burns that his point of view was the most popular with those readers who were not well-disposed to the President.” Izzy looked up from his notes. “Now there was a revelation,” he said sarcastically. “They were all pretty upset. I also inferred that few believed the suicide theory.”
“Neither did Mrs. Burns. Did you speak to his former assistant?”
It was a base she was certain he had covered. He was extremely thorough and detail-oriented.
“Charlotte Desmond. Worked for him up until about a year ago. Actually nearer ten months. I talked to her. Couldn’t understand why she was transferred. She thought she had been very efficient—kept his calendar, did research, fielded his calls. He told her he would prefer to carry on alone. She was quite upset at the time. Made the point that she believed Burns’ columns were right on. I got the impression that she liked him a lot.”
“Meaning?”
“Respected him for his views. If there was more to it, I didn’t see it. She was a bit on the hefty side.”
“So? Remember Clinton and Monica,” Fiona snapped. “No one can judge the mysteries of attraction.”
Izzy snickered.
“No insult intended. I was merely being descriptive. She, too, thought suicide was the wrong conclusion, but then most of those I talked to did as well. Hell, this man was very much admired for his courage and his views. Everyone up there acknowledged that his loss was a blow. Foul play was suspected by one and all, just as we figured.”
“Did his former assistant make any comments about the home front? The wife and kids?”
Izzy rubbed his chin and nodded.
“I asked. She said the missus was a high-powered real estate lady, and they seemed to have a good, solid relationship. He doted on his kids.”
“Solid? Was she upset by such a characterization, as if she cared? Did she put it that way, Izzy?”
“If you’re asking whether she was interested in this man sexually, I didn’t see it. You’d have a better take on such things than me. She characterized him as a good family man—had a picture of the whole family, him included, on his desk. Said he carpooled the kids frequently and attended all of his younger daughter’s practices and soccer games. The daughter was a student at the National Cathedral School. The older one was away at school—Harvard, like our victim. The cult of the upwardly mobile.”
“What else?” Fiona posed, with clear distaste.
Fiona had graduated from Georgetown, a Jesuit institution. Washington was awash with fast-track Ivy Leaguers who looked down at graduates from any other school not in the charmed circle. Even Georgetown, a reputed university, was considered a cut below in the pecking order. She could never quite get over her resentment at their attitude.
She thought suddenly of her current flame, another Harvard man. In her mind, most were snotty frat boys and snobby sorority girls: full of themselves, narcissistic, and entitled. When Larry ridiculed this assertion, she reverted to a cliché. All life is a compromise, she would reply.
She checked herself, remembering that the President was one of the club. She chuckled internally, recalling that some of America’s best Presidents had never even gone to college: Washington, Lincoln, and Truman. Unaccountably, her mind had wandered. She forced herself back on track.
“Did he have a Rolodex or a contacts list on his computer?”
“There’s the rub, Fiona. His computer was removed.”
“By whom?”
“Management.”
“On what grounds?”
“They said it was their property.”
“We’ll have to subpoena it.”
“Unless the Feds get it first.”
“Wheels within wheels,” Fiona sighed.
Izzy glanced at his notes. “Oh yes, he did have a twice-weekly squash game at the Army and Navy Club, always a twosome. His playing buddy was Jack Perkins, administrative assistant to some senator from New Jersey, a Democrat. Bauman, I think his name is. The ga
me is twice weekly in the morning. I tried to get Perkins, left a message on his cell. So far no response.”
Bauman had been elected after her father had died, but she couldn’t place Perkins.
“I’ll follow up,” Izzy said. “And you?”
She went into detail about her meeting with Mrs. Burns. “It’s a universal appraisal. The Administration pushed the button, offed the guy. Sounds awful when you say it out loud.”
As they compared notes, Chief Hodges came out of his office and beckoned them. They exchanged glances and followed him outside into the cool fall evening. He led them to a small square of a park a few yards from the building. After a sweeping glance around the area, he began to speak in a low tone.
Fiona had been through the drill before when investigating a sensitive matter of special interest far from prying electronic ears. Electronic surveillance, like some new virus, had infected everyone in official Washington with galloping paranoia.
“The Feds are on our case,” the Chief began.
“How involved?” Fiona asked.
They did not sit on a bench but huddled near a tree standing on a carpet of fallen leaves.
“Big time,” the Chief responded.
Fiona was aware that he had contacts throughout the intelligence and federal police establishment, not to mention the formidable black network in government circles on every level. Everyone in her business had a network, and she knew better than to ask the source. Besides, she had her own. One of her former boyfriends was Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, Philip Owens, who had started his career in her father’s senatorial office. Theirs was an adolescent fling that went awry, but they had maintained their connection and met frequently on the dinner and cocktail circuit. Besides, Philip’s wife Dolly was one of her best friends. Philip, whose grandfather had been in the Eisenhower cabinet, was from a cave-dweller family. In Washington, the cave-dwellers were the permanent upper-tier residents, all formers and used-tos still connected with the power elite, a network of networks.
“Burns was a pincushion for death threats. After a while, he stopped reporting them to management.”
