by Warren Adler
All agreed that the most baffling aspects of Burns’ death were the lack of personal identification and the false moustache and phony eyeglasses. The origin of the eyeglasses was hardly a mystery. They could be purchased at numerous places—drug stores, department stores, supermarkets. They were just too ordinary to be traced. The moustache was another matter. There were a number of stores in Washington and the suburbs that dealt in such costuming accouterments.
To save time, they split up, with Izzy working the northern Virginia suburbs and Fiona, Maryland and the District of Columbia. Armed with a picture of Burns, they spent the day canvassing the stores. Considering the number and styles of the moustaches, they had speculated that Burns had bought them all at one place.
At a magic store in the District, Fiona found a clerk with a vague memory of the sale. The picture was of no help. Probably wore a hat and specs, Fiona reasoned, but the clerk remembered the sale.
“I had to go into the stockroom to get a full selection. He took about a dozen styles, including some phony beards. Paid cash.”
“Did he give any hint of his intentions?”
“I never asked, and he never said. I assumed some costumed gig.”
“Why so many styles?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Wish I could,” Fiona mused aloud.
“Hardly helpful,” Izzy admitted to Fiona when they met again. “Answers where but not why.”
“Easy on the why. He did not want to be recognized,” Fiona muttered.
“Why?”
“God knows.”
“You claim the inside track, Izzy. You ask him.”
Izzy chuckled then grew serious.
“No accident, Fi,” Izzy said. “Burns would be too alert to make a misstep on a train platform. Not exactly a common incident in an empty non–rush hour station. As for suicide….”
“The man was a writer. Writer’s write. The lack of a note inhibits any clear vote for suicide.”
“Still, it could be an out. Declare suicide and close the book.”
“In fairyland maybe, not in this snake pit of contrarians where even the tiniest hint of conspiracy can spark an industry. Look at the Kennedy assassination. Go back to Lincoln. This dude was pushed.”
“Seems….” Izzy paused.
“Sloppy,” Fiona said. “Too public, too obvious, too stupid.”
“Maybe we should take the road less traveled.”
Fiona laughed, thinking of the Eggplant and his reading habits.
Chapter 7
“He should have been more diplomatic,” Larry said, dipping into his straight-up Bombay martini, two olives, very cold.
She preferred hers with Grey Goose. Gin, she had learned, had an evil effect on her psyche.
They were dining at a restaurant near Logan Circle. It was a late dinner. He usually stayed until all the stories were neatly packed away and put to bed for the bulldog edition.
“He’s with the cops not with the State Department. Besides, he’s out of his depth. Hell, you call him the Eggplant.”
“It’s a term of affection, and you know it.”
“Is this going to be a night of confrontation?” He sighed then smiled. “Hope so. Gives it an edge.”
“It?”
She knew what he meant. Rough love fueled by anger—a powerful turn-on. At that moment, she took offense at his macho posturing and sneering criticism of her boss. Still, she acknowledged “it” might be happening after all.
“You are such a supercilious snob, so typical Ivy League. You Harvard frat boys with your superior illusions…. The Eggplant is a wise, educated man, a master’s graduate of the black “H,” Howard not Harvard. Of course, his blue collar is the occupational grounds for more put-downs by you arrogant pricks and your ilk.”
“I love it. Arrogant maybe, but ilk?”
He took a deep sip of his martini. Fiona shrugged and sipped.
“Your ilk is on the decline. You are controlling less and less of the agenda. And that pisses you off. The Eggplant made your freak of a reporter look like a powerless turd.”
“Bolger is a great reporter.” Larry dipped his finger in his martini, pulled out an olive, and popped it into his mouth.
“Then let him report the news not create it.”
She watched him through a long silence. She could tell he was retreating from any further confrontation disguised as good-natured badinage. Observers might say they were bickering, but they both loved the game of verbal Ping Pong. It added zest to their relationship, enhanced the air of transparency between them, which in turn stimulated their sensual nature. That “it” was going on, and they both knew it.
“If you’re upset with him now, wait until you read what he wrote,” Larry said, winking as if to take the sting out of the assertion.
“I can imagine.”
“Your Eggplant will sprout warts.”
She shook her head and upended her martini, feeling the warmth descend.
“Do we have to hang around for the bulldog or wait for the morning edition?”
He reached into the inside of his jacket pocket and pulled out a copy of the proof of Bolger’s story and gave it to her. She read it, determined to show no untoward emotion although it was inflammatory.
It dealt with the question Bolger had asked about stonewalling, characterizing her Chief’s comment as defensive, implying something deliberately hidden. Then it quoted Mrs. Burns at length, expanding on her belief that a hit man who might or might not have ties with the administration killed her husband. The hint was broad enough to be inflammatory.
Also reiterated was Mrs. Burns’ allegation, carefully sandwiched between quotation marks, that the false moustache and phony specs were a ploy to make Burns look unbalanced and crazed by an obsession to bring down the President. Charlotte Desmond, the relieved assistant, was also quoted on the issue of death threats, anonymous e-mails and phone calls, commenting that it made Burns nervous and secretive to the point where he might have begun to trust no one, not even his deeply loyal assistant.
It was obvious that the Post was approving a line to foster the notion of assassination by loyalists or administration insiders. Soon, she knew, the worldwide press and media would chime in. Developing readership superseded everything, including political bias. The objective was to get the world riled up enough to look forward with bated breath to the next issue of the Post.
“Look, Fi,” Larry said. She had been conscious of his watching her react as she read the story. “This is an important story. It is not every day that a tough critic of the President dies in strange circumstances wearing some stupid disguise. It is a front-page story above the fold, and that’s the way every major paper in America will play it. Hell, we’ve got to be the leader on this. We live here.”
“And I suppose Bolger now heads up a team to get at the truth.”
“How would you handle it if you were running things at the paper?”
“I’m not.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Come on, Larry, you’re just concerned about your declining readership and advertising revenue, you know it.”
“We’re a business. We deal in numbers. What’s with this holier-than-thou attitude? You’re a big girl and know this town like the back of your hand. Don’t be so fucking self-righteous.”
She caught the real anger. Was he also looking for the exit door? Was she? He signaled the waitress to bring them another round.
“And don’t expect me to compromise myself by feeding you any facts of our investigation.”
“I’m somewhat in the same position, Fi. What we find out is equally privileged.”
“Aside from what is personally embargoed, don’t expect that it will free me from being critical.”
“And vice versa.”
They sat through a long silence until the waitre
ss brought their drinks.
“Let’s drink on it.”
They lifted their glasses, but each knew that parameters had been set between them. A relationship based on confrontation cannot stand, Fiona thought, knowing that it masked a different motive.
Chapter 8
Charlotte Desmond did not mind at all coming down to headquarters. She had remarked that it was cool and she had never before set foot in a police station. They sat in a sterile white-walled windowless interrogation room on metal chairs placed around a much-abused metal table. She had no objection to them using a tape recorder and seemed eager to participate in the experience.
She had a round face and alabaster skin. Two blushing red circles of obvious excitement had popped out on both cheeks, making her look cherubic. She had large white teeth, which gave her the illusion that she was always smiling, which was not the case. But it was somewhat confusing to an observer. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which suggested that she was younger than she was. Her stats informed them that she was thirty-eight, had two years at Montgomery Junior College in Maryland, and the official designation of her job was that of researcher. She had worked for Burns for three years before she was transferred.
“Was the transfer a shock, Miss Desmond?” Fiona asked.
She and Izzy sat across from her, separated by the table.
“Yes, it was.”
“How long did you work for him?”
“Five years, ever since he became a columnist.”
The woman was making every effort to seem calm but betrayed some nervousness by rolling a Kleenex tissue into little balls.
“Was it a good relationship?” Fiona asked.
“The best. He was a terrific boss, and I loved doing things for him. I was his trusted assistant, his alter ego, the whole nine yards.”
“So you were shocked when he let you go.”
Her cheeks reddened further.
“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t fired, although at the time I was pretty pissed off. I did a lot of his grunt work. He said he had no intention of hiring anyone else, and it did surprise me that he chose to fend for himself.”
“It boils down to this, Miss Desmond. Why did Mr. Burns initiate the transfer? We know it was not for poor performance. Everyone we talked to among your colleagues said that from their observations your relations were excellent, and you were perceived as a dedicated and efficient assistant. Mr. Burns had given management a glowing report on you just a few months before you were transferred.”
Charlotte nodded and blinked, obviously pleased by that assessment.
“So why do you think you were transferred?”
“Didn’t I say?” She paused for a moment then sighed in a gesture of surrender. “He said he’d rather be on his own, that he really didn’t need me, and suggested that I would have better advancement opportunities serving someone else. He was right. I am an assistant to Jill Godfrey the Style section editor, and I have received a raise and am quite happy.”
“And were you also happy with Mr. Burns?” Izzy asked.
“Very.”
“Now, Miss Desmond, you’ve had ample time to think about this. Did you notice anything, anything at all, any tiny change in his attitude, his behavior, his demeanor, anything that might explain what happened? Surely you’ve had time to think about this.”
Charlotte nodded. The round flush marks on her cheeks expanded and crept down her neck. She was silent for a long time.
“Anything,” Fiona pressed. “Something out of the ordinary. Phone calls. E-mails. Threats. Insults.”
“He got lots of threats, especially on e-mails.”
The mention of e-mails triggered a new line of interrogation. Fiona exchanged glances with Izzy, who nodded.
“They got his computer,” Izzy said.
“Who?”
“Management. Said it was routine in these situations.”
“With all his e-mails and records?”
“And all the backups, which were separate,” Charlotte added, oddly proud of this new disclosure, indicating approval of the move.
“Did they confiscate yours as well, Miss Desmond?”
“’Fraid so. But only the stuff I did when I was with him.” Her fixed big-tooth smile broadened.
“I suppose they wanted anything that had to do with Mr. Burns, all his e-mails and contacts.”
“To protect his privacy. Keep others out of his business.”
Fiona hadn’t asked for Burns’ computer at home. Without any evidence of foul play, it didn’t seem to have any relevance. The Post, on the other hand, was pursuing another tack.
“Why do you think management took the computers?”
“To keep them out of the hands of this corrupt government,” Miss Desmond said with all the certainty of stating a fact.
It struck Fiona as a knee-jerk judgment, delivered as if everyone within hearing distance believed the premise as unarguable. Apparently, she had bought into Burns’ political opinions. Again she exchanged glances with Izzy.
Remembering her discussions with Larry, she knew that this was not the prevailing view at the paper. It didn’t surprise her. No one in Washington could be blind to the fact that, even considering the bias, there was perpetual tension between the media and government. It was expected, routine.
Media was the watchdog, the bellwether, the so-called self-ordained truth exposer and fact finder, the ultimate whistle blower and disciplinarian, the bull in the china shop. Every politician was aware of this. Her father had praised the system, particularly the Post, as the last bastion of justice and truth. He was a great friend of Katherine Graham. But when push came to shove, they destroyed him. Media and government were natural antagonists. Indeed, she was inclined to that perspective as well. Still was.
Fiona thought of government agents as dummies in suits with crew cuts and shined shoes, even when they wore sneakers and sweaters and had long hair. Indeed, she knew many of them through police business and socially. But she could never shake the sense, despite the ample evidence to the contrary, that they had been brainwashed into a single career attitude and mindset that showed sycophantic support for whomever was in power.
What she had not realized was how deeply the antagonism and lack of trust had grown, including her own, although she tried desperately to achieve a more expansive view.
“To your knowledge were any of these death threats by letter or e-mail ever turned over to government sources, the FBI for example?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Charlotte said. “You want my opinion?”
“Of course.”
“Despite all their left bias, no one at the paper trusts anything the government does, especially not the FBI. Mr. Burns never trusted them at all, although he did have lots of contacts in government, even those on the other side. The Administration loves our editorial policy, but they hated what Mr. Burns had the courage to write. He was fantastic, a very brave man. I believed everything he wrote. He was really onto them.” She swallowed deeply, obviously holding back a sob. It took her a moment to get control of herself. “And they got to him.”
“You really believe that?” Fiona asked gently.
“Without a doubt,” Charlotte said firmly.
Fiona exchanged glances with Izzy, who had assumed the role of observer, remaining respectful and silent. She decided to go back to the original line of questioning before she was sidetracked.
“So was there anything in Mr. Burns’ behavior that was different, that might have suggested some change in him?”
“Not that I noticed. Believe me, he would never in a million years have killed himself. He was a family man, deeply devoted to his wife and daughters. He was a very interested and dedicated dad. Mrs. Burns and Adam were a great couple. He rarely missed his younger daughter’s soccer games. She was the apple of his eye. He carpo
oled her along with the other parents.” She paused for a moment. “When he was able.”
“What about Mrs. Burns? Didn’t she carpool as well?”
“I guess they worked it out. She’s in real estate, very successful. Always showing houses. I think he carpooled more than her. Remember, he controlled his own time, more or less.”
She shook her head, but suddenly an air of hesitation intruded. “When he didn’t show up for a game, his daughter would call really upset. She’s a lovely girl. Sometimes she would stop by, a really striking figure, a tall model type. God, she’ll miss her dad.”
“But there was a change in him,” Izzy said, suddenly intervening.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Desmond said, her brow wrinkling.
“He fired you. That’s a change.”
“Not fired, Officer,” Miss Desmond said indignantly. “As I told you before, transferred.”
“Did you confront him?” Izzy asked.
Fiona noted that the rolling of the tissue balls intensified.
“Well, I… I felt entitled to a reason. We were close, and he was always complimenting me on keeping him organized.”
“Then he changed,” Izzy snapped.
The attitude change was making her uncomfortable.
“I wouldn’t say….”
“Change is change, Miss Desmond. Out of the blue, he got rid of you.”
“He explained….”
Izzy was using the drumbeat mode of interrogation, zeroing in. To Fiona it seemed somewhat harsh. The girl was not a suspect, but he didn’t put a stop to it.
“Did you see it coming? No clue? No foreshadowing?”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell us, Miss Desmond. You said you sensed no change. That’s a hard one to understand. Did you accept his reason for firing you without question? Surely, an intelligent woman like yourself must have questioned his decision. Surely, you thought in your heart that he was unfair. He was bouncing you from a job you loved.”
