Washington Masquerade

by Warren Adler

  “The Post fair-minded? Don’t make me laugh!” Mrs. McBride shot back, holding up her glass for a refill.

  Larry remained silent, turning to Fiona as if for rescue. Oddly, Fiona agreed with the obviously tipsy wife of the congressman. She cast a glance at Dolly, who was calculating how far this was going.

  “There will have to be a congressional inquiry,” Congressman McBride said. “We feel we have the right and obligation to question the circumstances.”

  “The usual political witch hunt,” Mrs. Newland quipped. Her husband shot her a glance of disapproval.

  “Bonanza for you media hotshots,” Mrs. McBride sneered. “Sells papers.”

  “We’re just fulfilling our mandate,” Larry said. Although he was used to such criticism outside the office environment, especially in the social world he now inhabited with Fiona, he seemed to be more uptight than usual.

  “It’s an open-and-shut case,” Mrs. McBride harrumphed. “He was done in by the sons of bitches at the end of Sixteenth Street.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Mrs. McBride held out her glass for a refill.

  “Open but far from shut,” Mrs. Newland said, sweetly showing her dimples, “from what I read.” She looked pointedly at Larry. “As far as I can tell, there is no hard evidence to validate that opinion.” She turned to Fiona. “Am I right, Madam Detective?” Mrs. Newland asked again, confirming how wrong Fiona had been in her assessment of her. She was surprised that her husband had risen so high in the State Department hierarchy with such an outspoken spouse.

  “We have not completed our investigation, Mrs. Newland. In our business, we theorize but never conclude anything without cold, hard facts,” Fiona said pleasantly.

  “If only that was the way the Post operated,” Mrs. McBride said.

  It amazed Fiona that the alcohol she was taking on board was not slurring her speech. Nor did her husband make any remark to silence her. She looked pointedly at Larry.

  “Burns was your token conservative, kept in print to prove your so-called fairness. I’ll give you some brownie points for that, but for the most part your rag reads like a house organ of the Democratic Party, a goddamned nest of lefties.”

  “It wasn’t my call to keep him on our op-ed page,” Larry said, clearly angry. Fiona shot him a sharp look. “I would have bounced him years ago.”

  “Could have saved his damned life,” Mrs. McBride said.

  “That’s a reach, lady.”

  “Now he’s gone, I suppose you’re celebrating,” Mrs. McBride said.

  “We don’t celebrate the death of a colleague,” Larry said, avoiding Fiona’s disapproving glance.

  “One never knows about suicides….” Bob Newland began, clearly attempting to lower the heat of the conversation. He recounted a long story of what had happened in his old hometown when the just-elected mayor with everything to live for just blew out his brains for no apparent reasons. “To this day, everybody is baffled.”

  “Was there a note?” Fiona asked, wanting to keep the anecdotal tale in play and avoid any further confrontation. She could tell that Mrs. McBride and Larry were fuming.

  “Yes, there was, a simple one. It read: ‘I can’t go on.’ Figure that?”

  “There was no note because Burns didn’t commit suicide,” Mrs. McBride said, upending another drink. “The man was murdered, and we—”

  The waiter came in to announce that dinner was served.

  Dolly seated Newland to her right and McBride to her left, seats of honor in the proper protocol of Washington, ranking official to her right, second rank to her left. Larry sat between Mrs. McBride and Mrs. Newland, and Fiona between Philip and Mr. Newland. Fiona noted that poor Larry sat between sparring partners and both had tried to beat him up.

  Dolly led the conversation, trying to wring the anger out of the earlier remarks by introducing other topics of interest that did not touch raw nerves. It was futile. Mrs. McBride and Mrs. Newland were at war, and Larry seemed to be fighting collateral damage. Mrs. McBride was getting into an uproarious state, drunk and ready to argue with anybody on any subject.

  Dolly, trying to perform as the perfect hostess, attempted to make sure that the discussions didn’t get out of hand, but it was increasingly obvious that the poisonous atmosphere that pervaded Washington like a pandemic had arrived on her dinner table.

  The food was, as always, excellent, but Mrs. McBride was getting well-oiled and increasingly raucous. Before the dessert was served, in true protocol accuracy, Philip got up and made the usual flattering toasts to the guests using the traditional clichés and platitudes of the ritual. Then Mr. Newland, as senior guest, stood up in response. It was after he sat down that Mrs. McBride chose to rise, her florid face telescoping her confrontational intent. Here it comes, Fiona thought, exchanging glances with Larry, who shook his head despairingly.

  “I can’t leave this table without remarking that these are dangerous times and that our President is leading us straight into the fires of hell. This is the most corrupt administration on record. The man is an incompetent nincompoop, a beast who should be hung from the nearest tree. As for that poor bastard who got himself killed in the subway, I’d say that the media,” she looked pointedly at Larry, “is nothing more than a bunch of whores, a shill for this administration, and a bunch of sniveling hypocrites. I say get that son-of-a-bitch the hell out of the White House. There I said it!”

  Then she glared at Larry.

  “Considering that you people in the media are totally without morals, spreading lies most of the time, anything to sell papers, I am really ashamed, worse, pissed off at the way your damned newspaper violates freedom of the press. You are a bunch of ass-kissing lackeys, and I don’t mind voicing my disgust.”

  She sat down and finished her drink. There was a long silence.

  Fiona felt embarrassed for Dolly. It was a rare occurrence, but Fiona had seen it happen before in other contexts. This outburst was pretty vicious, validating the state of Washington social intercourse in these days of anger and intolerance. Before the company could fully recover its social bearings, Larry rose.

  Fiona tugged at his sleeve, and he roughly pulled it away. His face was beet red.

  “I suppose I’m the designated defender of the third estate against this drunken tirade by this know-nothing, small-minded, right-wing fool….”

  “Fuck you,” Mrs. McBride shouted.

  “Fuck you, too, you fat-assed whore!”

  “Come on, Larry,” Fiona begged, exchanging troubled glances with Dolly. The guests were apparently too shocked to comment.

  “Let him flap his gums, guys,” Mrs. McBride said, offering a drunken smile. “This is fucking free-speech America. Go on, Mister, defend your fellow liars.” She paused for a moment. “Anybody with half a brain at your rag would know that—what was his name?—Burns was hit on orders from the President. Two and two makes four.” She pointed a finger in Larry’s direction.

  “Against shit like that, we don’t need a defense….”

  “Larry, please.” Fiona begged, again pulling at his sleeve.

  This time, he yielded and sat down.

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

  He sat down still glaring at Mrs. McBride, who smiled drunkenly and winked.

  “Let’s just all calm down,” Dolly said, shrugging but maintaining her demeanor.

  At that moment, the Congressman stood up.

  “Please let’s just calm down. No, I’m not going to apologize for Molly’s remarks. There is a lot of truth in what she says.” He looked down at his wife and smiled. “I would not put it in those terms though. She is a feisty lady, but….” He turned to Philip, who was ashen, “with all due respect, Mr. Secretary, that man in the White House has hurt us, hurt us badly. We are no longer respected in the world, even among our friends. We are in deep shit, I’m afraid,
and it’s time we took some aggressive steps to get rid of the man.”

  At that point, Mrs. Newland could not contain herself. Mr. McBride was still standing. Coming from a small woman with a tiny voice, her words came out as if they were spoken through a bullhorn.

  “You people ought to be ashamed. The citizens of this country elected this good man in a fair election. Don’t you people believe in democracy? You should be ashamed, ashamed to talk that way about your duly elected President, a decent man who is trying, despite everything, to keep our people safe in a dangerous world.” She looked up at the still-standing Congressman and his seated wife who was blue in the face. “You just don’t get it. We are at war with the most formidable foe we have ever encountered in our history, and you think it’s all business as usual. You should be celebrating our President for his courage instead of disparaging him. You people disgust me.”

  “That is one crock of shit,” Mrs. McBride shouted, all restraint gone.

  “No need for that,” her husband said, smiling, patting her on her hand with an air of mock rebuke. “She’s a pistol, my Molly.”

  At that moment, Dolly stood up.

  “Well now, time to chill out,” she said. “We’ve all had our say.”

  “Yes, we have,” Mr. Newland said, with true diplomatic poise.

  “Who was it that said we should never discuss religion and politics? But how can you have a get-together in Washington and avoid politics?” Dolly said with an air of quiet dignity.

  “No way,” her husband added, offering a pained smile.

  She started it, Fiona thought. Poor Dolly. Poor Philip. He had turned pale at the course the dinner party had taken. Politeness never returned by evening’s end, and while everyone took his or her leave with appropriate good-byes, animosity hung in the air like very high humidity.

  “Call you tomorrow,” Fiona said, kissing her friend and whispering, “you were wonderful. This will pass.”

  “My fault, Fi. Wrong mix.”

  In the car, Larry, who was driving, shook his head.

  “That big Irish broad is a nasty piece of work.”

  “She was plastered,” Fiona said. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”

  “The drunken bitch had it coming.”

  “You made it worse.”

  “I wasn’t going to sit by and let that fat pig piss all over my paper.”

  “You’ve heard it all before. Hell, this was my friend’s home! You should have kept your big mouth shut.”

  “Please, Fi, don’t tell me how to act or react. My ex did that to me, and—”

  “Better not go there, Larry,” Fiona said.

  She had heard that before a number of times from others in her past. Handwriting on the wall, she thought, comparing her to their exes was the first move toward the kiss of death. They were silent for a long while.

  “The new Washington—not like it was—everybody beating up on everybody. Something toxic going on,” he said, not realizing how far he had stepped over the line. She did not comment.

  The dinner argument and the depth of division were unsettling. Remaining silent on the ride back to her house, she asked herself, what is going on? She forced her thoughts to concentrate on the case at hand and the accusation flung at them by Mrs. McBride. It was clearly a common thought in the minds of many: Burns’ death at the hands of the President… no way! And yet, the accusation could not be avoided.

  The fact was that there was not a shred of hard evidence to pin such a crime on the Administration, not a shred. Still, she had to fight the inclination that maybe these people were right. In general terms, she held the same political views, albeit more moderate than those expressed earlier by her fellow Democrats. She could not shake her patriotic notions, the Presidency, the flag, America.

  She could still get teary-eyed at the passing of the colors and charged with patriotism when she watched a military parade. She had often gone to the Marine barracks to see the Marine Band strut its stuff. She remembered her father choked up with patriotic fervor and emotion when recounting anecdotes from his old submariner days. The night’s conversation had depressed her. Suddenly she felt old, nostalgic for the good old days.

  They undressed, got into bed, but didn’t touch. She fell into a troubled sleep, then awoke, suddenly angry and combative. She shook Larry awake.

  “I was not happy with your outburst at dinner last night.”

  “You already scolded me, Fi,” he muttered hoarsely, “I said what needed to be said. Go back to sleep.”

  “Wrong venue.”

  “Can’t this wait until morning? I defended my paper. Just don’t tell me how to act.”

  “Mr. Macho. And who do I remind you of?”

  “Leave it alone, Fi. Besides, you know I carry baggage.”

  “That’s your baggage, not mine.”

  “Go to sleep. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  “You should have left it alone.”

  “Stop harping, Fi, I’ve been there before.”

  “So have I,” Fiona shot back.

  She felt rage rise in her gut. She turned to confront him. She looked at him for a long moment, and suddenly as if a bolt of lightning had struck, he seemed diminished, lesser. Something deep in her psyche was fighting to reject him. Was this a repeat of all her previous rejections, some of which she had regretted after the split? Over this? Unfortunately, her emotions were reacting forcefully, forming a clear message that had its own logic. Larry Porter was not on her wavelength. His light was dimming. He must have sensed the change when he said:

  “Are we creating grounds for a parting of ways?”

  “You, not me,” she acknowledged.

  “Over what?”

  It was exactly the question she had asked herself.

  “Call it the trigger.”

  “You owe me an explanation, Fi.”

  “Recycle your memory, Larry. I’m not a historical footnote.”

  He let it sink in. Moving closer, he put his arms around her. She remained unyielding, feeling nothing. Sensing her obvious indifference, he got out of bed and backed away.

  “Let’s do this in the morning, Fi.”

  “Fine,” she said. But she knew the fire was cooling. “In the spare room.”

  Closing her eyes, she turned away and heard the door slam.

  Chapter 12

  In the morning, she was relieved that she didn’t have to face him. He too, had felt similar distaste for any further battle and had gone off early to avoid it. After three cups of coffee, Fiona recovered the mental resources to shed irrelevancies of other people’s opinions, including Larry’s, and get back on the investigatory track.

  Izzy picked her up. Heading downtown, he explained that he had had a eureka moment and had made an appointment to meet with Dr. Barton, the medical examiner, one of Fiona’s good friends in the department. When she asked him to reveal his idea, he raised a finger and playfully suggested that it be kept fresh until they met with Dr. Barton. After her dreary night, she decided that the suspense might be curative, and she fell into a long silence as she speculated what that eureka moment might be.

  Barton leaned back in his chair and listened carefully as Izzy, with an occasional glance at Fiona, revealed his theory.

  “Approximately ten months ago, Burns got rid of his assistant. At about the same time, he began to postpone his squash games because, as his buddy Jack Perkins told us, his knee was inhibiting his game, and he had to beg off the matches. We don’t know why he got rid of his assistant. Perkins gave us an alleged reason for his postponements.”

  “And you want to know if that alleged reason was accurate,” Dr. Barton offered.

  A dignified, white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman with light coffee-colored complexion and blue eyes, the mark of his New Orleans heritage, Dr. Barton spoke slowly, th
oughtfully, weighing his words, which were delivered with a sense of authority in a deep bass voice.

  “In going over your report,” Izzy said, “I saw no reference to a knee problem.” He shot a glance at Fiona who noted that he had made every effort not to be confrontational or suggest that Dr. Barton had missed something.

  They watched as Barton called up his report on his computer and read it carefully.

  “You’re absolutely correct. There is no mention of an injured knee in the report,” Barton said.

  “It made me kind of wonder,” Izzy said.

  “About the truth of Perkins’s assumption?” Dr. Barton asked. He considered the idea, rubbed his chin, leaned back in his chair, and then made a cathedral with his fingers.

  “What exactly did Jack Perkins tell you?”

  Fiona remained silent, watching and listening.

  “As I said, Burns had a knee injury that periodically prevented him from playing squash. Not always, understand. Perkins also mentioned that Burns’ doctor had advised arthroscopic surgery, which he was seriously considering.”

  Dr. Barton contemplated the information, nodding. Although he was a busy man, Fiona knew he was accurate to a fault in remembering the details of all autopsies he had performed.

  “What I found in the case of the late Mr. Burns was a healthy male of forty-three in excellent shape for his age. I can say without reservation that he did not have a knee problem. I looked rather carefully. As you know, the man fell from the station platform in front of a subway train. When such a situation occurs, I always check the limbs, particularly the legs, both knees and ankles, since the possibility exists that the person who falls in front of a moving vehicle or from a height could have fallen as a result of a faulty action of a limb, which might have created an accidental misstep.

  In this case, he could have leaned too far over the edge, for example, and the movement might have caused the knee or ankle to collapse, throwing him off balance. I found no evidence to sustain that possibility. No way. Both knees were in excellent condition. There was not any abnormal deterioration in his knee or ankle joints. He could not have fallen because of a physiological aberration. I believe I did mention that his heart and brain function were normal and showed no signs of a sudden stroke or heart malfunction that could have caused him to collapse and fall into the path of the train.