by Warren Adler
Fiona turned and looked through the rear window.
“Bolger, the bulldog,” Fiona said. She spotted a strip-mall parking lot. “In there,” she told Izzy, who pulled into an empty slot.
The car that was following them passed the lot then doubled back and pulled into an empty slot at the other end of the lot.
“Let’s go,” she said, and Izzy drove his car to the rear end of Bolger’s car and blocked its way. Fiona and Izzy got out and moved toward the car.
“It’s okay,” Bolger said, getting out of the car and putting up his hands. “You got me, Officers.”
“You’re one lousy sleuth, Bolger,” Fiona said.
“You’re partially right. I picked you up outside the Army and Navy Club and followed you. Not high marks for you guys, I’m afraid. Not spotting a tail till now. You need a refresher course in avoiding surveillance.”
“Okay, so now you know,” Fiona said.
“Know what?”
“Yours to find out,” Fiona teased. Bolger, she knew, could be treacherous, and she had to be cautious.
“I’ll trade you. I know something you don’t.”
Fiona’s ears perked up. She looked at Izzy then at Bolger.
“Okay then, we wanted to talk to Mrs. Burns about Mr. Burns’ general health.” It was, she thought, a reasonably honest assertion.
“Mental or physical?” Bolger asked.
“Yours to discover, pal,” Fiona said. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
“Not quite a fair trade, but I’ll buy it for the moment. The big news, maybe the real news, according to my sources, which are damned good, is that the Feds are planning to link Burns with an assassination attempt on the President’s life.”
“Bullshit,” Fiona snapped, with accelerating anger.
“Maybe so. But it’s gathering momentum.” He shot a glance at Izzy. “Got an opinion, Officer?”
“Sounds weird,” Izzy said.
“The creep is fishing,” Fiona warned.
“Am I?” He turned to Fiona. “Put it under a security blanket, and the Feds come into the picture big time. Even if it’s just air, it is a master counterpunch on the President’s part. He discredits Burns by the barest hint that he was up to no good, and what is the worst no good to be concocted? Shades of Lincoln, a conspiracy to ice the Prez.”
“A media fantasy,” Fiona said.
“Maybe so, but it has promise.”
“Produce a source on that one.” Fiona shot back.
“You know we couldn’t do that, nor could we even quote such an anonymous source, not in today’s contentious environment.”
“Is the Post going to run with that?” Fiona asked, the thought bringing back the anger with Larry.
“I’m in the trenches, Fi,” Bolger said with a shrug. “I can’t say what the generals decide. I’m just playing gumshoe in your wake. But this I do know. The Feds are already nosing around on your turf. A little birdie has already let that cat out of the bag. Pardon the mixed metaphors.”
Fiona felt a spear of rage hit her in the gut. The two Fed boys from Homeland were supposedly committed to silence. Of course, she knew that there were no real secrets in Washington, except perhaps the one that held Burns in thrall.
“At this juncture, Bolger, we have nothing to say to you except the usual: We are pursuing the matter. You’re welcome to follow us if you can.”
She turned, and they got into the car. They sped off, leaving a baffled Bolger.
“Asshole,” Fiona hissed.
“He’s worked out a pretty scary premise,” Izzy said. “It has a strange logic. The administration is bugged by the spreading notion that the man was killed by their order, and the forces ranged against the administration believe that it’s true. The old Goebbels dictum: say the lie over and over again, and people begin to believe it.
“Do you, Izzy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Not even a smidgeon?” Fiona teased.
“My bias is not in sync with theirs.”
“We’re not supposed to have any bias that will distort our judgment.”
Izzy didn’t answer, and Fiona didn’t press the point. Her bias was against certainty, and it was growing as they pursued the matter.
At headquarters, the press was camped out and pounced as they entered the building.
“Nothing new to report,” Fiona cried, as they elbowed their way through the crowd of reporters.
Izzy said nothing, and they reached the squad room only to find that two uniforms were standing guard.
“Chief’s orders,” one of them said.
They found Chief Hodges fuming. His ashtray was filled with a mess of smashed Panatelas. With his eyes, he motioned them to follow him. They wound up in a men’s room. Some cops were buttoning up, and the Chief asked them to vacate, and then locked the door.
They filled him in on what they had learned, which merely underlined what they already knew, that Burns was involved in some sort of deception. They reported, too, on their discussion with Bolger and the new assassination theory that the administration was alleged to be floating.
“If true, it is not smart,” Hodges mused.
“I prefer to think it isn’t true,” Izzy said.
“The mayor wants more action. Thinks that this case is the defining moment for his Administration. Meaning, do we have the stuff or not to break this case? ‘The world is watching’ is his new mantra. I’m supposed to put more crew to work.”
“Your call, Chief,” Fiona said.
“My call?” He pointed with his chin. “Did you see the crowd out there, the ghoul brigade? They want raw meat. Think of it: the President as the Godfather. Chills the blood. The media is churning out such theories, the talking heads are in high dudgeon, and the engine is careening blindly forward. Worse, they may have a point.”
“Not you, too, Chief,” Fiona snapped.
“Nobody is immune to chicanery. If they were, we wouldn’t need cops.”
“It’s media bullshit,” Fiona said, pointing with her chin at Izzy.
“I’m in the open-mind department.”
“Then damn it, give me something to refute them with!” Hodges said, obviously exorcised. “Established: Burns was a liar. He faked his face, and he faked his injury. He was working as a lone wolf outside the orbit of home, hearth, and workplace. Obviously, he was onto something, in pursuit of something.” He swept his glance from Fiona to Izzy. “Of what? Come on girls and boys. Of what?”
“He was cunning, Chief.”
“Some are more cunning than others.”
She had been deliberately holding back what Bolger had told her, waiting for the right moment to avoid a conflagration. Since she could not answer his pressing question, she had no choice but to tell him. He seemed genuinely startled, unwrapping a Panatela, which he took from an inside pocket of his jacket. He shoved it between his teeth.
Shrugging, she turned to Izzy. “You tell him the Bolger revelation.”
“As a counterpunch, Bolger says that the administration is on the verge of accusing the late Mr. Burns of planning a Presidential assassination.”
“Whoever said this administration is not creative?” Hodges asked, his face crinkling into a wry smile.
Fiona thought of Philip. Even in his gestures, expression, and body language, she did not detect any sign that might hint of such speculation. Philip, after all, was on the payroll. One could never judge the power of blind loyalty in others. She decided that she would have to explore that aspect further.
“Have you heard from the Homeland boys?” Fiona asked, restoking her frustration at Bolger’s revelations about the Feds’ involvement.
The Chief shook his head then smiled and pulled out a satellite phone, holding it up.
“Gift of the Homeland b
rothers,” he said. “Guaranteed clear channel.” He winked at them. “Sorry, only one to a team. These boys take no chances.”
***
Of all places, they arranged to meet late in the day at Fiona’s house. In the rear garden was an enclosed gazebo that she doubted would have tempted any surveillance. It seemed as good a spot as any for a private confabulation.
“Nice place,” Kinney said, casting his eye across the expanse of garden that led to the main house.
“My parents’ home,” she admitted, as if to explain to the federal agents the disparity of wealth.
The real estate boom had greatly inflated the value of the house to multimillion-dollar levels. She set up a bar and filled some dishes with nuts. The night was cool and clear and not uncomfortable.
She offered drinks and the two agents took soft drinks while the Chief was proffered his usual brand of single malt scotch, which he accepted. Izzy took nothing, and Fiona poured some vodka over ice for herself. As she poured, she heard the faint ring of the telephone from the house.
“Let’s cut to the chase, gentlemen,” Hodges began, after first sipping his scotch.
“Somebody has wind that the Feds are involved in this investigation and that the Administration is deliberately touting the notion that Burns was plotting the President’s assassination.”
The redhead and his partner exchanged glances.
“Media paltering,” Wallinski said.
Fiona was impressed with the use of the word, the meaning of which she could only assume.
“What is your implication?” the Chief asked after another sip of his scotch.
“The obvious,” the redhead said. “A counterbalance to the general opinion about what really happened to Burns. It’s a classic PR ploy, and it’s an accusation that is believable, especially if the President is on your shit list.”
“Do you know something we don’t?” Kinney asked.
“Are there other Feds tracking this?” Fiona said, eyeing the two men suspiciously.
“Sure as rain,” Wallinski pointed out. “They would be negligent if they weren’t. These are serious implications. As we stressed, we are independent of the others.” He stopped abruptly and turned exclusively toward Hodges. “If they haven’t stepped forward in person, they’re listening, hence your instinctive caution. Expect them, Chief. Guaranteed. Like us, they are charged to get to the bottom of things; only, they are saddled with too much transparency and infighting. We’re free of such a taint. They can be accused of being part of the PR machine. We’re outside that loop.”
The Chief upended his glass. Fiona rose to pour him another.
“We know we’re ahead of the curve,” the redhead said. “But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t others in our wake. We are constantly butting heads with competing entities within the government. No matter how we try to reform the system, everyone has his own sinecure, complete with their network of security and investigators. Nobody trusts anybody.”
“It’s a greasy pole,” Kinney said. “Everyone is competing for glory, for promotion, for their fiefdom, whatever.” He looked pointedly at Fiona. “Surely, we don’t have to explain to you the perils of the bureaucracy, the turf battles and the political jockeying?”
“What about you guys?” Fiona asked.
“We’re the H. G. Wells contingent,” Wallinski explained, chuckling.
“What the hell does that mean?” Fiona snapped.
“The Invisible Man. That’s us,” Kinney said. “Without the bandages to cover our empty faces, we’re vapor.”
“Put simply, our job is to cut through the bullshit,” Wallinski explained. “No paper work, no cyber space. Unsung, although we like to think we’re the key cog in the machine.”
“Like the old Dragnet guys,” Hodges said. “‘Just the facts, Ma’am.’ They had it right.”
“So do we,” the redhead said. “Here’s what we want: First, Burns—suicide, accident, or murder? Second, who’s blowing smoke inside to the outside? Third—as you say, Chief—just the facts. You can’t bake bread with horse manure.”
***
Considering that media, especially Hollywood, portrayed most government agents as dolts, automatons, or worse, Fiona was impressed with both these men.
The redhead turned to the Chief. “Do you believe us? You know what I mean. Do you buy into our mission?”
Hodges pondered the question.
“Am I required to answer that?” he asked, obviously debating the question, directing his gaze at the redhead’s face. Then his gaze roamed to his partner.
“Trust can only be a demonstrated virtue, not an emotional choice.”
“I’ll buy that,” the redhead said. “Meaning we’re still on probation.”
“You got it.”
Fiona nodded and laughed. Again, she ignored the distant telephone’s ring.
“No matter what,” she said, “who trusts who is not the issue here. There are probably hundreds of snitches among the Feds who talk to reporters off the record for various reasons. They’re primarily motivated to push their own agendas. You know what I mean—payback, personal vendettas, frustration about lack of promotion, and, of course, the big one, acting out of conscience, or their perception of it. In a divided political climate like ours… hell, you know the menu.”
She was conscious of them paying close attention to her remarks, the length of which surprised her, but she pressed on.
“No matter what, the facts are the facts. In the case of Adam Burns, here are the up-to-date, out-of-the-gate facts. Everything else at this point is pure speculation. He led a double life. Established. Why? Not known. Motive? Not known. Did someone else know? Not known. Suicide, accident, or murder? Not known.”
“Okay,” Kinney said, compelled to direct the discussion elsewhere. “There is no way we can establish any credible connection to any government involvement in Burns’ death. Within the bounds of our brief, we’ve tried. In such matters, lips are sealed and security is tight. Does the Administration monitor its critics? They’d be fools if they didn’t.” He turned to his partner who nodded. “I mean up to a point. Too much monitoring has a boomerang effect, especially if a snoopy journalist gets wind of it. They go nuts when they smell government interference in their hallowed First Amendment rights.” He shrugged. “Are there limits?”
He turned again to his partner, who chimed in.
“Not on our résumé,” the redhead said. “We’re into anything that threatens the security of our homeland.” He screwed up his face. “I hate the name. Sounds like some Nazi thing. Homeland. Motherland. Fatherland. Yuck! But the mission is essential. If this guy was involved in some conspiracy against the U.S. of A., it’s our thing. So far, it’s obvious, from your end and ours, nada.”
Kinney interjected, “If the media begins to broadcast a belief in that possibility….” He paused and looked at the redhead.
“And Congress acts to investigate or, worse, passes restrictive laws,” Wallinski added.
“And the world out there begins to believe,” Kinney said.
“Preference falsification,” Izzy said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Fiona snapped.
“When people believe things that further their own agendas,” Izzy explained.
The Chief had remained silent, obviously pondering the situation. To Fiona, he seemed like a wise old lion, slow, deliberate, pacing himself, working himself up to make his move.
“Folderol, lady and gentlemen,” he said, nodding as if consenting to himself. “Enough of this mental masturbation. At our level, as humble homicide cops, our job is not to wrestle with the big issues. For us to expand this investigation at this point would only stoke the fires further. The Mayor wants more, the whole nine yards, lots of personnel, big public push, the works. Whatever we do, the media will be on our asses and accus
e us of being the lackeys of the government, incompetent, or worse. We’ve got to get to the truth of this… and fast, without fielding a huge team—the more teammates, the more grist for the mill. I’ll try to be the little boy with his finger in the dike. I’ll talk to the Mayor, see if I can get him to soften his stance and give us more time to unravel this sticky ball of string.” He looked at Fiona and Izzy. “The ball is in your court, guys. Do you think you’ve hit the wall yet?”
Fiona and Izzy exchanged glances.
“No way, Chief. We’ve just begun.”
“We low-key it until the shit hits the fan,” Hodges said, eyeing the two government men. Fiona could see they had won his trust. And hers.
“Okay, then let’s draw a circle around us five. We share with no one except us. Wherever the chips fall, the truth is all we want, no side trips. We stay away from the Feds.” His gaze swept the faces of the two men. “These invisible men excepted. We’re the only network—us five.”
“Agreed,” Kinney said.
“Ditto,” Wallinski echoed.
“All communication goes through the Chief’s satellite phone,” Wallinski said. He gave them the number.
As the men stood up and started to leave the gazebo, Fiona stopped them.
“One last thing,” she said. “I for one believe you guys.”
“Ditto,” Izzy said.
The Chief made no comment. As always it was: Show me.
Chapter 15
After the men had left, Fiona poured herself another drink and started to sort things out in her head. She was willing to acknowledge to herself that they had not hit a wall, but she was uncertain of where to go next. Someone out there knew where Burns went when he was not playing squash, when he did not attend his daughter’s practice sessions or soccer games, and why he had donned his disguise and taken the subway. To where? To see whom? To do what?
This was the part of her job she loved the most. Unraveling puzzles, discovering motivation, analyzing people’s responses. Who spoke the truth? Who lied? It was more art form than science, although advances in pathology and forensics were bringing both aspects closer together. The healthy knee was a case in point.
