by Warren Adler
The force of Fiona’s sudden eloquence elicited a sneering one-word rebuttal.
“Bullshit!”
But it did quiet her for the moment, which encouraged Fiona to continue, her own rage still not fully vented.
“With all due respect, Madam, we are exploring the possibilities that there was another motive for your husband’s demise….” She deliberately avoided the term suicide. “Like, for example, that he might have been having an affair.”
The color drained from Mrs. Burns’ face. Her lips began to tremble, and her eyes blinked wildly.
“You people… you people.” She could not find the words. She had been standing, but now she collapsed onto the couch.
“People do strange things, Mrs. Burns. I’m not stating a fact, not even a theory, just a possibility. Think about it, all the deceptions. We’ve been over them before. Your daughter was impacted by a sudden change in his behavior. You’ve stated that you did not see any change. Do you stand by your assertion? Think about that. Think hard.” She watched the woman on the couch through a long silence. Her pallor remained ashen, and she closed her eyes as if she was in pain. “Think intimate, Mrs. Burns.”
The woman seemed catatonic. The last time the question was raised, she had been enraged. They waited hopefully for the woman to react. When she did, the body language spoke denial, but when words came, they told another story.
“You really think that?” Mrs. Burns whispered. “Not Adam. No way.”
“I said it was a possibility,” Fiona said, cutting a glance at Izzy, who remained silent but looked pained. Had to be done. Fiona tried to convey the idea silently.
Suddenly Mrs. Burns frowned. Her cogitation looked painful. A nerve palpitated in her jaw. Then she seemed to deflate, bit her lip, and nodded while her eyes watered.
“Yes,” she whispered. “He did show less interest in that. I mean… well, I had always done my… you know… my duty in that regard. He did his, as well. Okay, there weren’t sparks, but we had a certain routine. Damn it, why must I tell you this?” Her nostrils quivered. “I hadn’t thought….” She shook her head, then looked up at Fiona through eyes brimming with tears, which dripped down her cheeks. “No. Never.”
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Burns. But as far as you know, did he ever?”
“No. He would never.”
But her sense of denial was softening as she struggled with the idea. Fiona could see her growing hesitation and waited through a long silence.
“Did you ever suspect him of being unfaithful?” Fiona asked gently.
Mrs. Burns shook her head.
“Never. Not ever. He gave me no cause for concern in that way.”
“You did say less interest, Mrs. Burns. It does imply signs.”
She withheld answering, but Fiona could tell she was considering the possibility in earnest.
Mrs. Burns looked pitiful, tearfully searching Fiona’s face, as if waiting for further explanation.
“We’re only trying to get to the bottom of this, Mrs. Burns. We don’t make moral judgments, but while everyone is thinking government hit, we have to pursue other angles. That’s our job, finding the truth,” Fiona said gently. “It has the earmarks of someone hiding a guilty secret.”
“It seems so far from what kind of person he was,” Mrs. Burns said, as if she was addressing no one in particular. Her voice was reedy and uncertain. “He was an honorable man, always full of ideals, devoted to his family. He believed in ethical conduct, morality. Not in the corny sense. He was a true warrior against hypocrisy. He….” She stopped abruptly.
Fiona listened patiently, more in sorrow, since she interpreted the remarks as another aspect of denial, as if her dead spouse’s perceived value system could chase away any thoughts about the possibilities of his adultery.
But the little speech did restore her aplomb and hasten her recovery from the consequences of her confession. Like a dog shaking itself from sleep, she sat up stiffly and returned to the reasons why she had demanded their presence.
“I can’t stop you from prying, although I keep insisting that you’re barking up the wrong tree. Frankly, I’d rather we dropped that subject. The reason you’re here, the real reason,” she said haughtily, “is that you crossed the line in interviewing my daughter,” she said, with less invective than her opening blast. “And I intend not to let the matter pass.”
“Maybe so,” Fiona conceded, determined not to let the interview end abruptly. “But you’ve got to admit that if his carpooling assignments were a high priority for your husband, his sudden absences were an aberration.”
“Meaning, in your imaginative scenario, that he was using the time to pursue a clandestine affair?” Mrs. Burns was fully recovered now, having totally regained her attitude. “I say you’re reaching, trying to destroy his reputation. I will not let it stand.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Burns,” Fiona said in an effort to keep the idea in play. “It is an unavoidable theory.”
By then, Mrs. Burns had calmed down and, quite obviously, could not summon the same indignation that greeted them at first. It was sinking in, Fiona thought. It was too late for denial. It seemed obvious that Mr. Burns was not doing his homework, and the recall was making his widow rethink her accusation.
“Just stay away from my daughter. Is that too much to ask?”
“Okay then,” Fiona said, changing her tack. “You be the source then. We’re not here to in any way damage your husband’s reputation or add to your daughter’s trauma. Please try to understand. You be the source then.” She paused and studied Mrs. Burns’ face. She seemed to have created a mask to hide her inner angst. “How many parents are involved in your carpooling agenda?”
Mrs. Burns bit her lip, started to speak, seemed lost in thought for a moment, and then nodded in what was a reluctant consent.
“The girls are mostly fifteen. They don’t have licenses and no legal access to cars.” She got up from the couch and was gone a few minutes while Fiona and Izzy exchanged glances.
“Buttons pressed,” Izzy said. “She’s in denial.”
“Big time.”
When Mrs. Burns came back, she showed them a list of carpoolers.
“I count fifteen,” Izzy said, looking over the list.
“Two men,” Fiona said, “the rest women.” She noted the name of Carol McGrath without her title. “Some of the names seem familiar.”
“Two are the wives of senators,” Mrs. Burns said. “One is the wife of a congressman. Oh yes, and there is Judge McGrath, the mother of Deirdre.” She seemed oddly businesslike, as if relieved that they were off the previous subject.
“Are you normally friendly with these people?” Izzy asked.
“We are cordial. I wouldn’t say friendly. I’ve met most of them and am on speaking terms, since we are sometimes called upon to substitute. Some of us wait around until the girls are finished. Some go on about their business, then come back and pick them up. We are all dedicated parents.”
Seeing Judge McGrath’s name on the list suggested a question.
“You said your daughter was once friendly with Judge McGrath’s daughter?”
“Very.”
“Then suddenly there was a parting between them?” Fiona prodded gently. Something was beginning to work itself out in her mind.
“It certainly baffled me. But then the hormone rush makes them do weird things.”
“Like what?” Fiona asked.
“Like breaking into temper tantrums for no reason or having a low threshold of anger or becoming rebellious and surly or just breaking into tears for some imaginary slight. My oldest daughter came through with flying colors. She’s a student at Harvard, an A student. I think the death of her father was tough to take, but she is pretty level-headed.”
“And Lisa?”
“She needs a lot more t
ender loving care. She was the apple of her father’s eye. I have my parental work cut out for me. I’ve had to curtail my real estate activities.”
Izzy continued to look over the list. Suddenly he asked: “Have you had occasion to meet Judge McGrath among the carpool parents?”
“Yes. She is quite wonderful and has been very sympathetic and supportive, a very kind lady. Actually, we hadn’t met before. When the girls were closer, the father would drop her off at our house most of the time. I would do the same. But we never became what you would call friendly.”
“They say she could be a Supreme Court possibility.”
“I don’t know about that. She’s more liberal than we were, but we never mix politics and parenting—not in Washington. I can only say she was very nice. We’ve had coffee together waiting for the kids.”
“And the others?” Fiona asked.
They were chatting amiably now. Mrs. Burns had completely reigned in her earlier hostility.
“They were all quite sympathetic and concerned. But the Judge was particularly sympathetic—you know what I mean—reaching out.”
“Did you discuss all the chaos going on? The political ramifications? The accusations? Your own ideas about this?”
Mrs. Burns looked at them curiously. “Of course, they do know what I think about how my husband died. Everybody knows. I have been liberally quoted in the media. And I will continue to make my point.”
“You may be right after all, Mrs. Burns,” Fiona said. “But we do have to explore every angle.”
“Yes, we’ve been through that.” She looked at her watch. “Now, I’d appreciate if you left. Lisa will be home soon, and I would rather she not see you. More importantly, do not bother her again.”
Without replying, Fiona and Izzy stood up, said their good-byes, and began to head toward the door.
“Before you leave,” Mrs. Burns said. “I don’t believe one iota in your absurd theory.”
Neither Fiona nor Izzy turned to reply.
Chapter 21
They stopped at a bar and asked the bartender to turn on CNN. Clips of the press conference offered a telling guide to where the case was going. Chief Hodges stood beside an FBI agent who was the main star of the show, fielding questions from a variety of media people. Nevertheless, he did allow the Chief a few minutes in the spotlight. In his wisdom, he was evasive and said that so far nothing had as yet come to light to suggest that Mr. Burns was murdered.
The FBI stepped into the fray quickly and said they were involved because of issues of domestic security, but it was obvious that they had been pressed into service by a panicked Administration reacting to the media avalanche and the revelations about the people named by Philip Owens. The press conference had ended. From the bar, they called the Chief and reported the results of their interview with Mrs. Burns.
“She as much as admitted that things had cooled sexually between her and her husband. It qualifies as another change in his behavior patterns,” Fiona said. “I’m ready to place a bet on infidelity.” She looked at Izzy, who nodded.
“Where to now?” Hodges asked.
“Izzy and I are noodling. But we’re on it.”
“So are the Feds. But they’re on another path entirely. Keep rolling,” the Chief said. “I’ll check in with the Homeland boys. They’re positive that the three named by the late Mr. Owens were playing their own game. They tell me the President is livid. I’d love to bust this case before anyone else does. So would our two buddies. Noodle fast, guys, and avoid this place. It’s crawling.”
He was telling them to stay away, meaning that they were to duck the FBI and keep their findings between the five of them as long as they could. She was certain that he was providing the Homeland Feds with all of the information Fiona and Izzy had gathered to date and would soon fill them in on this new theory.
They nursed Cokes, much to the dissatisfaction of the bartender.
“It’s a sure bet, she won’t tell the FBI what she told us,” Izzy said.
“Does it snow in August?”
Besides, Fiona thought, they’d be running on another track. She was growing increasingly certain that Burns was involved in an affair, which would best explain the changes in his behavior and the disguise.
“Suicide might make sense for a man with such upright ideals, a family man devoted to his children,” Izzy said. “He might have assumed that he was under surveillance because of his critical rants and was afraid of being blackmailed and coerced to curb his vitriol.”
“And they had contacted him and threatened to blow his little sex caper sky-high and ruin his reputation and his marriage.”
“No way out,” Izzy said, “he took the dive.” He chuckled, “Hold water?”
“If they knew, they also knew the lady he was doing.”
“If he was. Or maybe not a lady.”
Fiona upended her Coke. “I’d bet he was fooling around.”
“And there he was,” Izzy speculated, “caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. He was in deep love, itching to make the break, afraid of losing his kids, afraid of breaking up what he had, brooding, not knowing where to turn. Finally, it became too much for him, and he cracked. The train was coming. Over and out.”
“Or the paramour had a secret, threatened a breakup. Burns balked. One little quick push, problem solved.” Fiona chuckled.
“Or this one—the wife got wind, did the deed.”
“She was showing a house, Izzy. Proof positive.”
“Sure. She Googled ‘hit man’ and bought her guy.”
“That is exactly why the government conspiracy has legs,” Izzy said, smiling. “It is powered by conspiracy, a very saleable commodity in this town.”
“So is sex,” Fiona said.
“Yes, Ma’am. Sex is sexy.”
Her eyes met Izzy’s. She waited for any further comment, but none came. Out of the deep pit of memory, she dredged up what might have been her father’s dilemma.
She must have been a preteen then, and it was something she overheard in her own home. Loud talking must have awakened her then it subsided, but since she was up, she crept out of her bed and tiptoed to her parent’s bedroom. The door was closed, and she had put her ear to the keyhole. She could not see them, but she could hear them.
“I don’t give a damn about my career.” It was her father’s voice, gravelly, intense, and angry.
“Do you give a damn about me and Fiona?”
“Don’t you understand? I love her. I need her.”
At that point, she heard footsteps moving toward the door, and she had quickly padded back to bed, somewhat confused. She was probably no more than ten years old and was not of an age to fully comprehend what was going on. Years later, through observation only, she felt certain that her father and his secretary were intimately connected, a common occurrence even today despite the dangers. Wives of celebrity politicians coped, often overlooked, and sometimes accepted the libidinous nature of their powerful men. Hilary Clinton came to mind.
“On the other hand,” Fiona said, “he might have been protecting a more recognizable individual.” She dwelled for a moment on that point. “Let’s opt for straight. A woman. Where would he have met her? On the job? Maybe. Another journalist met at press conferences? Maybe. He had sources, some surely female. But why the disguise? Was he protecting himself alone? Or the lady? And if the lady, was she in disguise as well?”
“Only if she had something to lose as well,” Izzy said.
“Like who?”
Izzy rubbed his chin, grew silently thoughtful, then scratched his head and took a paper from his jacket pocket. He spread it on the bar and patted it smooth.
“Mrs. Burns’s list of carpoolers. We have to start somewhere.”
“That’s reaching, Izzy.”
“Probably,” he acknowledged.
<
br /> “Seems so banal. Looking for the motive of a suicide, just to prove everyone else wrong.”
“Wives of Senators,” he mused. “Recognizable big government names. Hell, even a Supreme Court possibility.”
They looked at each other and nodded.
“Thinking what I’m thinking?” Izzy asked.
“Talk about a risk,” Fiona said. “The Judge would be a long shot.”
“She was never available as a sub, Desmond said.”
“She’s on the list,” Fiona said, exchanging glances with her partner.
They spent the rest of the day canvassing the various people on the carpool list. Desmond was right. It was tough going. Comments ranged from, “I hardly knew him” or “I rarely talked to him” to “Why are you asking me this?” Most of the women they talked to were quite busy juggling their jobs, social obligations, and family chores. Some were young and attractive and might be possibilities, but nothing quite made it into their intuition bank. By the time evening rolled around, they had talked to most of the women on the list with the exception of the Judge, who was apparently hearing cases and had no time to see them. Fiona left her number.
Chapter 22
In the press of events, she had forgotten all about Larry and their earlier disagreement. She was surprised to see him sitting in her den and watching television. Observing him suddenly, the warm smile of his welcome and his obvious concern chased her ambivalence, and she felt comfort in his embrace.
“Drink?”
She nodded, kicked off her shoes, and slumped on the couch. Reading her message of need, he mixed vodka martinis and poured them into two stem glasses, popped in olives, and handed one to her and sat beside her.
“To the great news of the day,” he said. She clicked glasses reluctantly, remembering what had disturbed her earlier. She drank a deep sip, feeling the delicious warmth slide down her gullet, taking comfort in the activity. He put down his glass and massaged her feet.
