by Warren Adler
The telephone rang again, and she remembered that she had turned off her cell, which she had turned on again without checking it. In the back of her mind, she knew who would be on the other end of the line.
“Ready to smoke the peace pipe?” Larry said.
“I don’t smoke,” she replied, relieved. It had been their first major disagreement, but hearing his voice she knew that it had not yet ended between them, not completely.
“Really, Fi, I was thinking about it all day. Have we fallen over the cliff?”
She contemplated an answer through a long pause.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“I’m here,” she said.
In the pause, she was debating with herself as to her true feelings about Larry. Although she could deny that it had ended, she felt that they had traversed some dark tunnel and that she was not the same going out as she was going in. Worse, she saw his value to her in yet another dimension, beyond the physical and emotional. He was high enough in the Post to be a source of intelligence, providing she had not closed that door by her conduct the night before.
She did not like this aspect of her thoughts. There was something deceptive and self-serving in the idea of maintaining their relationship for other motives than pleasure and companionship.
“You did not answer my question, Fi,” he said.
“I know,” she said, unable to be decisive, hating herself for the thought.
“I overdramatized,” she blurted, knowing she had crossed some ethical Rubicon.
“My comparison was uncalled-for. I’m sorry. The memory still rankles.”
There it was again: The damned baggage of past hurts. She had it, as well, but kept it hidden. Unfortunately, it was her destiny to get her lovers on the rebound. She’d have to work harder on accepting the painful residue or declare herself off-limits to any relationship. Her insight told her she was not built for aloneness. She needed the physical and emotional comfort only a man could give. It enhanced her, but then so did her job.
She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, probably wondering, surely baffled. The truth was that Larry, like the others, was only for the moment, the now.
“Let’s leave it there,” she said hoarsely.
“Agreed.”
“Bring two steaks and a good bottle of red. I’ll make the salad.”
“I just left.”
She felt suddenly like Mata Hari. In her mind she called herself Hattie Mara and giggled. Two birds with one stone, she thought, feeling jonesy and loving the girlish mysteries of the sorority term for horny. She understood the signals. Face it, Fi. She needed to get laid.
***
In bed later, after their strenuous lovemaking, which had calmed her down and cleared her mind, she felt all doubts recede. She was even open to trading authentic information.
“What do you suppose he was up to?” she purred, awaiting his reaction.
He lifted himself on one elbow and studied her face.
“You said it, not me.”
“When you analyze it thoroughly, it’s logical. According to the White House minions and their cohorts, and some of the people you quote, the man was spreading a malignant virus. How do you stop it at its source?”
“You amputate,” he said.
“Let’s play make-believe. Maybe he saw it coming and was looking for a counterstrike.”
“A reach—movie stuff.”
He squeezed her hand in what she interpreted as fond agreement.
“And who benefits?”
She was amused by his answer. He was being sucked in.
“The ultimate beneficiary is obvious,” Larry explained. “Of course, he couldn’t be that blatant. Certainly, he would preserve all deniability. Maybe not even know. You know the old wheeze: Don’t tell me. Do it, but I don’t want to hear it.”
She paused. It was time to solidify her position, trade legitimate analysis.
“Nothing we’ve found so far corroborates such an idea,” Fiona said. “What we do know is that the man was involved in something… tracking something.”
She was tempted to tell him about the knee but held off. That was proprietary. Besides, they had already established that the man was deliberately being deceptive.
“Come on, Fi, Bolger told you what we have—the Administration’s counterpunch. Accusing the dead man of plotting an assassination—we think it could be the biggest story in decades, bigger than Watergate.”
“You have proof of this?” Fiona prodded.
“The whistle blowing is breaking our eardrums: nothing worse than deliberately maligning the reputation of a dead man. Worse, he can’t fight back.”
“I assume you have proof.”
“We’re separating the wheat from the chaff. And we’re not the only media gearing up. We just want to be first.”
“Bolger hit us yesterday. He was following us.”
“Part of the game.”
“You knew?”
She fought her anger.
“He’s the new designated Bernstein.”
“Where’s Woodward?
“We’ve got a team of Woodwards on it, Fi. They’re chasing down every lead, crawling over every source. Unfortunately, the rules have changed, and we have to watch our ass. We don’t want to see any of our reporters in the can. But Don Grant wants no expense spared, and we’re all behind him. It’s no secret, hence my candor.”
“So you think the assassination story has legs?”
“It’s a maybe, but the speculation makes it one big story.”
“Always the story,” Fiona sighed.
“Above all else, it’s an eyeball multiplier. And any good story requires suspense.”
“And red herrings.”
“That, too.”
“That’s your turf. We’re plain old cops, and at this point we’re still inclined to keep it open.”
“As a suicide?” Larry taunted. “That’s a conclusion.”
“So is murder.”
“We’ve declared nothing, only possibilities. You’ve got to admit to any reasonable person, our speculations are pretty close to the bone. Everybody has a hook in. We want to get the bite first. It could be the story of the century.”
“Not without a fish on your line.”
“Hell, it’s only been a week or so. We’ll get this story, baby. Guaranteed. Just like Watergate, only nastier. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“You sound like a kid in a candy store,” Fiona said and meant it.
“Yeah. That’s the feeling.”
“Even if it’s not true, just speculation and bullshit?”
“Who cares? The story is everything. True or false, it’s got legs.”
“Are you saying you don’t care if it’s true, factual… all that garbage about honest journalism? Makes you and the whole enterprise no better than a bordello—you’re whores, the whole pack of you.”
He looked deeply into her eyes.
“Okay, so we’re whores, but we give our customers what they want. Do it right, and they come back for more. Forget bias, morality, and all that highfalutin bullshit. They want sensation, intrigue, conspiracy. The story is everything. Were you born yesterday?”
“We have nothing, Larry,” Fiona muttered, regretting it instantly. “You’re baking bread with horse shit. It may have nothing to do with anything political. Must everything in this town have a political spin?”
“You doubt it? Okay, then show me another angle. In this town, the seven deadly sins come under the banner of politics. Sex, bribery, every form of corruption, evil doings, lies, betrayal, you name it. It’s all politics. Name of the game.”
Now he was fishing, Fiona thought, priming her pump. Her fit of conscience receded. She wanted to laugh out loud.
&nb
sp; “You know what you are, Larry?” Fiona said, exasperated.
“What?”
“A fucking hypocrite.” She meant it and knew it was a harbinger of their future.
He chuckled and put his tongue in her ear.
“It’s that second word that is the operative motivator.”
He put his hand on a breast and played with her nipple.
At that moment, she gave him a temporary pass. She was not into missed opportunities.
***
Awaking early, while Larry slept, she showered, dressed, and made coffee. What she had learned as “Hattie Mara” is that the vaunted Post had, so far, no concrete leads and nothing to reveal except speculation. The paper retrieved from her doorstep offered a front-page story with the headline Congress to Probe Burns’ Death by Harrison Bolger, with the usual clever implications but the surprising avoidance of anonymous sources, although he did quote a number of Senators who voiced what can only be described as “dire possibilities.”
The White House, she noted, wisely made no comment. There was also an editorial that commended Congress for its willingness to investigate the “strange circumstances of the death of Burns.”
She noted that he could not resist a snipe at the Homicide Squad by writing that “thus far, MPD Homicide had no viable leads and were repetitive in their stonewalling.” Obviously, they were holding the so-called assassination story for timing reasons, but she calculated that it would be next on the list.
She flicked on the television news and got a similar version of the story told by a television reporter with the subway entrance in the background.
Izzy’s car was waiting when she walked out the door.
“See the Post?” he asked. “They haven’t launched the big one.”
“It’s on deck,” she muttered, without expanding the point.
Izzy and she had not yet reached that confidential point between partners where their personal lives could intersect. She did not mention her discussion with Larry.
On their way to headquarters, Izzy’s cell phone rang. It was Hodges. She realized suddenly that she had forgotten to charge her cell phone. Izzy handed her his cell phone.
The Chief was furious.
“Keep that fucker charged, Officer,” he shouted into the phone. She let him fume until he barked at her.
“Get down to GW Memorial Hospital pronto. Something about our friend, the subway driver, getting clobbered in a crash. Name of August Parsons.”
“On our way, Chief,” Fiona said, signing off, then putting her phone on the car’s charger. She noted that there were a number of voicemails besides the Chief’s. They were all from Dolly Owens, and they grew increasingly hysterical.
“Please, Fi. Please! I need to see you. Where are you?”
She quickly punched in Dolly’s number.
“What is it?”
“Not on the phone, Fi. I’ll meet you, anywhere.”
Fiona looked at her watch, calculating the time frame to get to and visit with Parsons and then meet Dolly.
“Say an hour. Georgetown. The lobby of the Four Seasons.” It was a few blocks from the hospital.
“See you then, Fi. And thanks.”
“Trouble?” Izzy asked.
“Not sure,” Fiona replied, worried. Dolly seemed anxious. For her, this was out of character.
***
August Parsons lay on his hospital bed with his leg suspended in a cast and his head bandaged.
“He’s lucid but pretty banged up,” the doctor on duty told them. “Apparently, someone broadsided him on a busy intersection. He’s lucky, but I’m afraid he’ll be out of commission for a month or two.”
Fiona stood over the reclining patient. A nurse was helping him to some water from a bent straw.
“I guess it’s my time for crashes,” he sighed, grimacing in pain as he tried to change position. The nurse admonished him to stay still and freshened the bedclothes. “Actually, I was on my way to a hearing on you-know-what. Then this. I’m one lucky guy, right?”
“Doc says you’ll be fine,” Izzy said.
“I guess I was concentrating on the event so much, I wasn’t paying attention. At least, I think so. I’ve been reliving it in my head, just as I’ve relived that other….” He grimaced in pain and gritted his teeth. “The thing is I was, or thought I was, paying attention. I was just slowing down at the yellow light then when I should have braked, I must have continued to move. I don’t know why. Next thing you know, this SUV comes barreling at me. He did have the right of way, but I was still moving, you see. I just can’t recall the events clearly. I know I slowed down for yellow. It’s that yellow color that I keep seeing, like a haze, a sunburst, or something, but that’s all I can remember.”
“Trauma does strange things to people,” she said. “You had a rough patch the other day.”
“I’m even drawing blanks over that one. Maybe I was not paying attention because I was so damned tired. I wasn’t sleeping. Here they give you pills that knock the hell out of you. I’ve gone over that other thing a thousand times. Why didn’t I see it coming? Why? It’s bugging the shit out of me.”
“Never mind that,” Izzy said. “Just get on your feet. And if you can think of anything, anything at all….”
“Yeah,” Parsons muttered. “The more I try, the harder it gets to recall.”
“Don’t push it,” Izzy said.
“There’s something there,” Parsons mumbled. “I know it. Something.” His eyes closed and he dozed off.
“He goes in and out,” the nurse said.
“We need to talk to him,” Izzy said. “Something is bugging him, something deep inside his memory. Sounds to me that he’s blocked something he saw.”
“Stick with him, Izzy.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll be back.”
She got to the Four Seasons just as Dolly’s white Jaguar pulled up and was taken by the parking valet. She looked harassed, wore no makeup and a kerchief on her head, indicating that her hair was not as well groomed as usual. They embraced.
“I’m so sorry, Fi.”
“I’m here, baby.”
She nodded and they found a deserted spot in a far corner of the lobby. Dolly looked around her furtively, checking out the other people passing through or seated at other places. Obviously nervous, she had the look of a hunted animal.
“It’s Phil. He’s got a problem. It’s making him crazy. He’s depressed and very, very upset, not sleeping, not himself.”
She looked around her again. Her voice had sunk to a whisper.
“What is it?”
“He couldn’t keep it in. He’s not supposed to say, but he told me. You’re in it, Fi. Who else could I talk to? Who else can I trust? Phil believes his career is on the line. More than that, he’s scared.” She opened her purse and took out a tissue, wiped her tears, and blew her nose.
It’s the Burns thing. They want him to… the way he characterizes it… to cook the books.”
“You’ll have to be clearer than that, Dolly.”
“I know, I know. What they want….” She drew in a deep breath. “…they want him to find the link between Burns and an assassination threat on the President’s life.”
“A link?”
“Actually a hint of a link, as if his shop is looking into the possibility. You know how it works. The media seizes it, and it keeps going until the idea sinks in. You know what I mean, Fi? He’s in charge of the Secret Service.”
Fiona studied Dolly’s face. Her lips were trembling and her eyes flitting from side to side in terror.
“Is there a hint?”
“That’s the point. Phil told me he and his people have combed through every conceivable threat. This is all top secret, really secret. He’s not supposed to… he has hinted that there are many, many threats, anonymous let
ters, calls, e-mails. God knows what, especially in this climate, all hush-hush. People can be awful. Of course, there is a whole host of countermeasures and intelligence. Fi, he does not confide in me about that. These are only assumptions.”
She was clearly defensive, knowing the role of the wife of someone with top-secret clearance on matters too sensitive even to discuss. Fiona was certain Dolly was straddling a fence on this issue. Fiona remained silent, letting her work it out.
Fiona watched as Dolly bit her lips, breathing deeply. She stopped talking abruptly, and her eyes scanned the lobby area fearfully. When she spoke again, Fiona had to lean close to hear.
“I know only one thing, they’re making my husband crazy.” She looked around her again, her nostrils dilating as she sucked in a deep breath. Clearly the woman was in the midst of a panic attack. “The problem is, Fi, there is nothing there. No link. Nothing.”
“He told you this?”
She nodded.
“I had to press him, Fi. I went beyond… too far. I’m his wife. I wanted to… I needed to know what was bothering him.” Her whisper was barely audible. “He told me. I now think he believes he has betrayed his trust. He is brooding about it. He acts as if he’s caught in a trap. He…”
“Are you saying…?” Fiona interjected suddenly, realizing that she was talking above a whisper. She quickly modulated her voice downward.
“Are you saying that they want him to find a way to manufacture a threat and involve Burns in it?” Bolger’s assertion slid into her mind. Did this mean that what they had was true?
“Phil could never… no way. The thing about Phil, Fi—you’ve known him for a long time, as long as me—one thing he’s not is devious. He is a man of high principle and integrity. He couldn’t do anything against the grain. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do,” Fiona acknowledged, remembering again, the awful experience of her first time. Perhaps, that too, was against the grain, some subconscious sense of moral failure. However that event related to the current dilemma, she suspected that Phil could not be a party to a fraud.
“But, Fi, sometimes they twist you so hard….”
Fiona looked into her friend’s face, a mirror of her emotional agony.
