by Warren Adler
“He sent a note to his wife’s computer,” Fiona said. “She’s about to give it to the Post.”
“Have you read it?”
“No, Chief. We need a warrant.” She paused. “Better tell our new best friends.”
“Stick around and keep me in the loop.”
She pushed the button, ending the conversation. The front buzzer sounded. Fiona opened the door to Harrison Bolger, a photographer, and Brady, followed by Izzy. Dolly stood in the doorway of her small office.
“World works in mysterious ways, Fi,” Bolger said.
Brady put out his hand. Fiona took it.
“How is she taking it?” he asked.
“See for yourself,” Fiona sighed.
Dolly turned and walked into her office. The men and the photographer followed. Izzy turned to Fiona.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Must be a biggie to bring out Brady.”
“It is.” She explained about the note on the computer. “Whatever is in it is about to be public domain.”
In a few moments, the photographer came out of the office and without a word to Fiona left the house.
Waiting, Fiona felt powerless. Soon, they came out of the office and without a word Dolly went upstairs.
“Is she alright?” Fiona asked Brady.
“She’s fine. She’s coming with us,” Brady said. “We’ll see that she’s taken care of.”
“One tough lady, Fi,” Bolger said.
“She’ll be in good hands. I guarantee it,” the editor said.
Dolly came downstairs with a rolling suitcase.
“I have to do this, Fi,” Dolly sighed.
“Can you handle it?” Fiona whispered.
“I’ll have to, Fi,” she said, stifling a sob, but remaining clear-eyed.
“You’ll have to identify….” Fiona began but could not continue.
“I know, Fi.”
“You could always stay with me, Dolly.”
Dolly nodded.
“I’ll be fine. They think it’s better for me this way. I think they’re right.”
The two women embraced for a long moment.
“God, Dolly,” Fiona whispered. “I have no words.”
“I know, Fi. I know. Phil wanted this, and I’ve got to do it.”
The executive editor took the rolling suitcase, and they accompanied Dolly to a car and drove away. Just as they left Dolly’s driveway, the media trucks began to arrive.
***
For a long time as they drove back to headquarters, Fiona was silent, trying to sort out the events of the past few hours. The impact on her personal life was profound. Throughout her career at homicide, she had drawn a circle around her personal life—then this. Her carefully drawn boundary had disintegrated.
“I’m not comfortable with any of this,” Izzy blurted suddenly.
“Who is?”
He shook his head and made a clicking sound as he drew in breath.
“I’m talking about Burns.”
“Burns?” Her thoughts had been concerned with Dolly and Phil.
“Do people change their behavior so abruptly?” Izzy asked. “Like there was a dividing line, before and after. Before, he was happy with his assistant. He begins to disappear from the office at odd hours. He assumes a disguise. Then he gets rid of his assistant, he suddenly alleges that he has a knee problem, and begins wearing a brace. But he has no knee problem. He suddenly takes subways, although he brings a car to work. He stops showing up for his regular turn at carpooling his daughter.”
Fiona didn’t comment, but continued to dwell on her friend Dolly’s dilemma and a growing discomfort concerning her relationship with Larry. Was her anger misplaced? After all, the Post did have confidentiality rules. It wasn’t that exactly—something deeper perhaps, something that transcended the intimately personal. She dismissed that aspect, which brought her to the issue of spousal confidentiality, surely a thorn in the side of national security.
On the one hand, the government expected those involved in sensitive national security business to withhold from their spouses any confidential information concerning their work. On the other hand, when a troubling business event affected the sacrosanct relationship between a husband and wife, a serious lover or a deep friendship, where confession and absolute transparency was a necessary palliative, what was one to do? Was pillow talk verboten?
Although she was very young at the time, she could remember the story of the Pentagon Papers and the attempt by the Nixon people to raid the records of David Ellsworth, a psychiatrist, to break the knot of physician confidentiality on a political enemy. The Washington Post, being the true house organ of the Washington movers and shakers, blared the story with loudspeaker intensity. In the case of Phil and Dolly Owens, that territory was being revisited once again. Indeed, Fiona thought, there was a déjà vu quality to all of the Post’s stories, including the one now being promulgated.
In Larry’s case, he was protecting the confidentiality of his employer, which quite obviously trumped his relationship with Fiona. Nature of the beast, she thought, which included her own occupation and its security caveats. She sighed audibly.
“What is it, Fi?” Izzy asked.
“I feel so bad for Dolly Owens,” Fiona replied. There was no doubt in her mind that Dolly was determined to avenge her husband’s death and in the process deliberately destroy the careers of a person or persons unknown, largely based on her husband’s dying testimony—another Ping Pong game of accusation and denial, raw bloody meat for the media.
“Did you hear anything I said, Fi?” Izzy asked.
“I heard, but I’m afraid the Eggplant is correct. The Feds will have to step in big time.”
“I agree,” Izzy said. “Nevertheless, I have this itch about Burns’ demise.”
“I’ll say this for you, Izzy. You do stay on message.”
“Owens’ suicide is open and shut, no doubts at all. Burns’ act, I’m convinced, was an act with a personal component, something far removed from government influence or intrusion.
“Suicides are always personal.” Said Fiona pedagogically. Without a clear documented intent and incontrovertible evidence of self-infliction, like Phil Owens’ calculated demise, it is difficult to connect the dots. Sometimes there is family history, some weird genetic fault that goes from grandparent to parent to child… or even further back. Hemingway is a good example—father, sister, himself.”
To herself, she sounded pretentious and scholarly. A paranoia virus invading the figurative bloodstream of all branches of the government was usurping the events surrounding the death of Adam Burns.
“I just don’t think his death had anything to do with politics or the Administration, and that all this media hysteria is manufactured manure,” Izzy said, as if he was reading her mind.
It occurred to her that while she was involved with her private conflicts—the death of her friend, the agony of his spouse, another friend, and her own tenuous relationship with her present lover—her Talmudic partner continued to fixate on the case at hand.
“Okay, Izzy,” she said, focusing her attention. “Let’s have it.”
“Here’s what I register. Months ago, things changed in varying degrees for a small group of people: Charlotte, Jack Perkins, and presumably Mrs. Burns. When asked about her so-called intimate relationship with her husband, she reacted suspiciously. Do you buy that, Fi?”
“I suppose I could,” Fiona said, “but that’s pure speculation. The alchemy of sex is too mysterious and complex to be understood, especially if the principals don’t come forth as articulate witnesses. Who can say when or why a man can’t step up to the plate, with or without Viagra? A woman has the luxury of fakery and products of the oil industry to buttress the illusion. You get my drift, Izzy?”
“Put another way: his
wife no longer turned him on.”
“And she was missing the action.”
“And he was seeking a solution elsewhere.”
So much of this speculation depended on gender perspective, Fiona thought. Some women needed sex as regularly as they needed their morning caffeine fix. She counted herself as someone who might easily fit into that category. Men often didn’t have a clue about such female needs. Their motives were often different, pure orgasmic pleasure, manhood validation, the self-aggrandizing glory of exhibiting their hard-ons, a delight to some, a turn-off to others. In this case, about all they could deduce from Mrs. Burns’ attitude was a pattern change.
“Okay, then,” Fiona said, “let’s say because of this mysterious need three people were primarily impacted.”
“Four, perhaps more, certainly Lisa, their daughter. Dad was distracted elsewhere. She was not happy about that.”
“Okay then, four people impacted. So what are you suggesting?”
“Only that Burns’ meanderings might not have had anything at all to do with politics, government, his columns, whatever, and all this huffing and puffing is pure fantasy.”
Fiona pondered the idea.
“That, Izzy, is not our focus. That is their focus—them, the info hustlers, the political opportunists, the big-time power guys. All we have to do is answer the central question—suicide or murder? We’re homicide cops, remember? We don’t have to prove why the man committed suicide, only that there is no evidence to conclude otherwise. As for murder, motive and opportunity might be present, but the perp is seriously missing.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice to rub their arrogant noses in their own ignorance and posturing?” He smiled and nodded. “Don’t you just love the idea of making them eat their words, humiliating the pompous narcissists who think everything in this town revolves around politics?” Fiona smiled. “And those media guys who think the sun rises and sets daily when they inflict their immortal words of alleged wisdom on the unsuspecting and gullible public.”
“You amaze me, Izzy. You are one aggressive cat.”
“You forget I’m a black Jew. We take it from all sides and have learned how to fight back.”
“How can one forget the obvious?” Not every tree bears the same fruit, she thought suddenly. “But I do agree with your take on the media, Izzy—self-righteous hypocrites.”
“And they’re especially happy when they’re shoving it to somebody, anybody.”
She imagined she could hear Larry’s voice in rebuttal.
“That’s their business, finding someone to fuck over.”
Izzy looked at her obliquely as if surprised at her sudden vehemence.
Chapter 19
The Post’s coverage, as expected, was voluminous. The in-your-face headlines telescoped the story: “Treasury Secretary, Two Others Accused of Fraud in Creating Nonexistent Presidential Assassination Attempt. Assistant Secretary Kills Self, Implicates the Three in Death Note.” There were pictures of Phil, the Treasury Secretary, and Dolly, as well as the President, shown holding an impromptu press conference in the Rose Garden, where he expressed shock at the conspiracy in his name and offered condolences to the Burns family.
In addition to the Treasury Secretary, the other two coconspirators mentioned were an administrative assistant to a senator from Texas running for reelection, and an assistant to the White House Press Secretary. All denied the accusation. Despite the denial, the President had immediately asked for the resignation of the Treasury Secretary and had fired the Assistant Press Secretary. The Texas senator had fired his assistant. It was a genuine fourteen-carat Washington Donnybrook. The media went wild with speculation and harvested, as predicted by Larry, a cornucopia of eyeballs.
While Phil’s death was validated as a suicide, Burns’ death was still considered an open question and had attracted both the FBI and CIA. As predicted, the role of MPD was considerably diminished. Most of the morning was spent in briefing sessions, with Chief Hodges and Fiona bringing the agencies up to snuff on what the investigation had discovered so far.
Both Wallinski and Kinney continued to operate in their own clandestine manner outside of openly official scrutiny as a kind of outside/inside contracting firm reporting to their own bosses. They had defined their role from the very beginning of their relationship. “Think of us as wheels within wheels.”
By deliberate design and with the Chief’s and the two internal sleuths’ approval, Izzy and Fiona offered the Feds a thorough briefing as far as it went, leaving out any theories that disagreed with the prevailing view. Privately, she and Izzy outlined to the Chief the personal theory they were following at Izzy’s insistence.
“By all accounts you told me he was a family man,” Hodges had countered.
“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a double dipper,” Fiona told him.
“Unrequited love,” Izzy said.
“A favorite of the suicide set, Chief,” Fiona said.
“Be a gas if you pinned that on the guy,” the Chief said, practically exulting at the possibilities of the idea. “Make the great media gurus and the bureaucratic hotshots look like horses’ asses.”
“Fondly to be wished,” Fiona said. The idea was making headway in her mind now.
“Then get on it,” the Chief said gruffly.
“Got any ideas for starters?” she asked Izzy. “You’re the one with the itch.”
“We’ve talked to all the principals but one.”
“Who?”
“The daughter.”
***
Fiona spent the night alone twisting and turning, unable to sleep. She had not yet cut the cord with Larry, still debating options but knowing where she was headed. Timing is everything, she told herself.
“Not tonight, Larry.”
“I understand, Fi.” She waited through a long pause. “Dolly gave us the big one, Fi. The missing pieces.”
“You’ll sell lots of papers. Wonderful,” she said without enthusiasm, hanging up.
She called Dolly at The Hay-Adams where the Post had put her up. The editor had requested police protection for her security, and the department had immediately complied. Distrust was now the occupational disease of government.
“I did it for Phil,” she said. “He laid it out. It was all there in my computer.”
“Of course you did. It took courage, Dolly.”
“I didn’t feel courageous, Fi. Especially seeing Phil’s… you know.” She cleared her throat and paused, obviously trying to get control of herself. “The Post people have been very gracious.”
“I’m glad,” Fiona said. She had no stomach to rebut the compliment, considering that Dolly had given them a giant-sized bite of the media pie and, above all else, a circulation boost.
“We’ll talk when I get home in a few days, Fi. I’m pretty secure here.” She lowered her voice.
“Have you made funeral arrangements?” Fiona asked.
“I’m having Phil cremated. I plan to scatter his ashes all over Washington. Maybe spread a little integrity over the Capitol.”
“Great idea, Dolly,” Fiona said. “Might help, although I doubt it.”
***
Not wanting to alert Mrs. Burns that they were to interview her daughter, Fiona went into the girls’ locker room while Izzy waited outside. Fiona recognized Lisa Burns, who was suiting up at the other end of the room. She noted, too, that her nemesis, the McGrath girl, was already suited up in her yellow uniform and was arranging her hair in a tight ponytail.
She left the locker room, and they found the coach in his small adjacent office. He was stocky and muscled and spoke with a British accent.
“Have you notified Mrs. Burns about this interview?” the coach asked. “This has been a terrible time for them. All this publicity….”
“This is just routine.” Fiona assured him. She wa
nted to talk to the girl before her mother arrived. “You know what I mean—different point of view, different perceptions. We won’t be long. We understand how such a trauma could devastate a child. I assure you there will be no problem.
“I don’t like it,” the coach said. He looked at his watch. “We’re scheduled on the field in twenty minutes. We’re playing one of the other schools. I would hate to have her upset. She’ll need all her concentration.”
“We’ll hardly be that long,” Fiona assured him.
She watched as the coach went over to Lisa, who looked at Fiona, frowned, and then shrugged. She was suited up in her uniform, which looked lovely on her tall spare frame. Fiona noted that she was quite beautiful, with large blue eyes that showed bright and clear above high cheekbones. Her blonde hair was cut short, and when she walked she showed an athlete’s grace.
With an expression of unmistakable reluctance, she moved toward Fiona, who beckoned her to follow her into the corridor outside the locker room where Izzy was waiting. They found a small, unused room nearby with folding chairs, which Izzy quickly opened. Fiona smiled and introduced her partner. Lisa looked at them more with resignation than hostility.
“I’m Sergeant Fitzgerald and this is Sergeant Silverman,” Fiona said, calmly smiling to offer reassurance.
“I remember,” Lisa said nodding.
“Don’t be frightened,” Fiona said. “We just have to ask you a few questions, nothing to be alarmed about.”
The girl’s response was an indifferent shrug.
“I know you must miss your dad very much. I understand he was a great fan, carpooled you to practice and watched every game.”
She nodded slowly but remained silent.
“Didn’t he sometimes have to rearrange his carpooling?”
The girl looked up suddenly, frowning.
“My dad was a very busy man. He was very famous.”
“But sometimes he was too busy and had to make other carpooling arrangements?”
