by Warren Adler
Fiona felt little satisfaction in knowing the bald truth of Adam Burns’ mysterious meanderings prior to his death. Although it might put the lie to any suggestion that Burns was actively pursuing some conspiratorial plot against the President, it would still leave the matter of Burns being eliminated for his views open to continued speculation with the resultant media hype. And it will have destroyed the aspirations of one woman and the illusions of another. The truth was that she empathized with both women.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the backrest. She felt enervated and generally depressed. She wanted to go home, take a hot bath, as if that would wash away the scum of her day’s work, then overdose on alcohol, and disappear from planet Earth. Before she could ask Izzy to drive her home, he pulled up at a strip shopping center, parked the car, and turned to her.
“I’m not convinced,” Izzy said.
“You think the girl was lying?” Fiona murmured, only half listening. “Really, Izzy, no way.”
“Something bothers me, but I can’t put my finger on it. We’re missing something, Fi.”
“That girl was telling the truth, Izzy.”
“Maybe so, but still.” He bit his lip and rubbed his chin. “Parsons saw something.”
“He saw yellow, only yellow.”
The effort at enhancing a hazy-eyed witness account into the testimony of certainty was always a challenge. She knew she had reached the point of mental exhaustion.
“Well,” Izzy said, “we did stumble onto one possible piece of the puzzle.”
“Doesn’t fit, Izzy. Merely supposition. But we did discover something going on around the edges. We’ve torpedoed that lady’s career. Maybe it’s a sister thing, but I feel for her. A late passionate affair with a younger man—I know women who would kill for the experience.” She snickered. “Poor choice of words, Izzy.”
“Look at it from his point of view. Why her?”
“Figure that out, Izzy, and you’ve solved one of the great mysteries of mankind. Desire. Lust. Love. Christ, Izzy. I think I’ve had it for the day. Take me home. I can’t think straight at the moment. I feel like shit.”
Izzy quickly moved the car out of the mall, and in less than ten minutes, he deposited her in front of her house.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow for the meeting with the two mystery men,” he muttered as he drove away.
Chapter 28
Respect your subconscious, someone once said. Fiona was hard put to find the source of the remark, but she had come to believe in its wisdom. Often she had gone to sleep pondering what seemed like an insoluble problem and had awakened with an idea that brought her closer to the truth. Sometimes it came more slowly and other times, like now, it burst into her consciousness like an explosion.
Izzy picked her up early, and she hesitated sharing it with him until it had matured in her mind.
“Headquarters first, before we meet with our government guys?”
“Stop by the Cathedral School, Izzy. I’ve got this idea percolating.”
“If you remember, I checked yesterday. The kid was in school all day.”
“I know,” Fiona said.
“What are you thinking?” Izzy asked.
“I’m not sure,” Fiona said, “and I don’t want to prejudice your analysis. Not just yet. It’s not completely worked out in my head. Give me the space, Izzy. Sometimes I’ve got to work out the scrabble game in my head all by my lonesome.”
Now getting used to her moods, Izzy did not question her.
“Your call then. I’ll follow.” He grew silent as he drove. “No hints?”
She didn’t answer.
They arrived at the school when the classes were in session. She had wanted to speak with the teachers who taught the morning classes.
“I spoke with them yesterday,” Izzy said.
“The coach then.”
“Not ready, Fi?”
“Almost,” she admitted. “Bear with me.”
“I’m bearing but I don’t like it.”
Fiona and Izzy found the coach in his office, poring over papers. He looked up and shook his head in apparent disgust.
“Not you again! I’m beginning to feel persecuted. Maybe you can tell me what exactly you are looking for? You know who got rid of that poor girl’s father.”
They let him talk. She hadn’t looked at the Post that morning nor turned on television nor checked her phone messages. She was working in total isolation and she liked it that way, at least for the moment. She felt as if she was hacking her way through an impenetrable jungle.
“We hear you have a reputation as a tough taskmaster, Coach,” Fiona said.
“I have that reputation, Officer. Focus and discipline is what wins games. My girls better toe the line or they’re off the team.”
“No exceptions?”
He hesitated, and his eyes narrowed.
“What are you getting at?”
“Do you ever give a pass to a hot player?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Late for practice, an occasional no-show. If a player is really important, really great, are you a bit more forgiving?”
She exchanged glances with Izzy, who seemed confused.
“I don’t know what you’re driving at.”
“Believe me, Coach, I am not being critical. We’re just curious. Among your players is there someone who doesn’t quite toe the line that needs constant reinforcement?”
The coach grew thoughtful then nodded.
“On occasion some of our girls need to be reminded of the rules. That’s only natural with teenage girls. I try to be strict but understanding.”
“Does any one player stand out in that regard? You know what I mean? Tardy sometimes, sick frequently.”
“Only natural.”
“Anyone come to mind?”
The coach grew thoughtful.
“We did have a flu problem a couple of months ago. A couple of players had a tough time. It was pretty bad for a while. Some of the girls not only missed practice but also missed games. Happens with active kids in school environments.”
Fiona exchanged glances with Izzy, who nodded his understanding.
“Any players come to mind, Coach?” Fiona asked.
The coach rubbed his chin, obviously searching his memory.
“A few,” he recalled. He offered a number of names, one of which was Deirdre McGrath.”
“McGrath?”
“She couldn’t shake it, had a couple of bad months, and missed two games, I think, some practice. Great striker. Never really slowed her down.”
“And Lisa Burns?”
“On the money that kid, always punctual. Never missed a game, never late for practice. They don’t get along, but they play great soccer. Amazes me. Teenage girls. You can’t imagine what I have to put up with.”
“Yes, I can, Coach. Been there.”
At that point, Fiona thanked the coach, and she and Izzy moved out of his office.
“I get it,” Izzy said.
“And I have no doubt the absence will be confirmed for the day in question.”
It was.
***
They met the two Homeland guys as promised and managed to get there only ten minutes late. The day was pleasant and sunny, and they stood near the rail of the Washington side of Hains Point. The white Greek Revival buildings gleamed in the sunlight.
Before meeting them, Izzy and Fiona had agreed to tell the Feds the whole story. They listened wide-eyed and, to Fiona’s surprise, were shocked.
“I’m too experienced to say this is beyond belief,” Wallinski said, looking at his partner. “But it does open a chink in the media armor. Our take on this is that the President is still media suspect number one, and nothing short of a miracle, meaning a bona f
ide confession, will slake the public attitude toward this suspicion.”
“Don’t any of you think that the revelation of Burns’ affair with the Judge could have any effect?” Izzy asked. “It does make Burns look less like an icon and a lot more ordinary than he is being characterized. To many he will look like a common sleazeball and fornicator.”
Fiona pondered his point.
“Without a killer, the march of accusation against the Administration goes on.”
“And the Administration’s story will continue to look like spinning,” Wallinski said.
“We can’t worry about that, folks,” Kinney said. “Our job is to find out the truth. What is done with it is not our brief. From here it looks like the Presidential hole is pretty deep. Hell, half of America is not exactly enamored with this administration, and I’m not sure, even with a confessed perp, that it will matter that much. The haters are in full force, and the defenders will run for cover as another Election Day approaches.”
Fiona’s instinctive respect for these two Fed suits was growing exponentially. They were sophisticated and informed and had been given more independent authority than most of the investigative bureaucrats she had encountered—with good reason, she decided.
“I agree,” Fiona commented, “people might say the suspect was coerced, and no effort will be spared to defend the perp. And if she just happens to be a 15-year-old girl, daughter of a fallen angel, the best lawyers in the country will jump to her defense. By no means is this a slam dunk, not even for us homicide flatfoots.”
There was a long moment of silence during which none of the four people spoke.
“Okay,” Wallinski said, the sharp sunlight alarmingly reddening his complexion. He turned to Fiona and Izzy. “You’ve got your work cut out for you today.” He shot a glance at Kinney. “We’ll stand by. No sense giving this to our people until that one piece of the puzzle is either put in place or rejected. We have here a half-done pie, and we don’t want to set the Administration’s cake knives in play until the pie is fully baked.”
“Apt metaphor,” Fiona said, her mind already concentrating on how to pursue this.
“We are dealing with a juvenile,” Izzy warned. “The rules are a lot different. We had better have the parents present.”
“Let’s leave the father out of it for the moment,” Fiona said.
Was this suggestion out of a sense of sisterhood? There was no question about her feeling of alliance with this woman who had succumbed to passion, risking everything. Her eyes roamed the faces of each of her male colleagues as if she was assessing their reactions. If they were opposed to her idea, they said nothing. She interpreted their silence as permission to proceed.
“Bottom line for us guys,” Wallinski said, “is the story, the truth of it or as close as we can get to it before the spin-meisters and the legal eagles get to it.”
“Tough order,” Fiona agreed, “and we could be dead wrong. At this point, it’s purely circumstantial.”
“Or come up against a stone wall,” Izzy said, revealing a burst of pessimism. “We have no idea about this kid. She could deny knowing anything.”
“We’ll see,” Fiona said. “Sure we both need the truth, but our job is to make a case that can stand up in a court of law.”
“And our job is to make a case that will stand up in the court of public opinion,” Wallinski said.
“Fat chance on both counts,” Fiona muttered.
“We’ll stand down until later, “Wallinski said. “Your house like last time.” He looked at his watch. “Say around eight. Okay?”
Fiona nodded, and she and Izzy got into their car and drove off.
Chapter 29
Judge McGrath lived with her husband and daughter in a spacious apartment on Connecticut Avenue. It reflected a kind of warm, cozy family life with photographs on display everywhere of the Judge and her husband’s only daughter. Fiona also noted photos of clearly ancestral groupings dating back to what looked like the beginning of the last century. Dominating the large drawing room was a fireplace, over which hung a full-length portrait of Carol McGrath in her judicial robes.
Scattered throughout the room, on the mantle, on tabletops, and on the walls were plaques and trophies celebrating both the Judge’s career and her daughter’s soccer achievements. Family pride dominated the atmosphere, filling Fiona with a poignant sadness. There was a baby grand piano in a corner of the room, and Fiona could hear the plaintive strains of classical music playing in the background.
Lining the walls were bookcases reflecting both professions of husband and wife, medicine and law. The atmosphere clearly reflected the intellectual and cultural life of its occupants.
Fiona noted that the photos of Judge McGrath as a young woman showed a chunky, bespectacled, smiling figure in conservative and rather drab clothing. The images merely buttressed Fiona’s disbelief that such a woman could possibly be involved in a reckless obsessive sexual relationship with a man years younger than herself.
Fiona had been careful and very vague in setting up the appointment in the Judge’s apartment, which required that Judge McGrath rearrange her schedule. She had also offered a sly insinuation that Burns’ daughter was somehow involved in the psychological motivation of her father’s demise, a bit of a stretch. At first, the Judge was reluctant, and Fiona had to impress upon her the crucial nature of the interview while implying that they might need to talk to her daughter, which led to a confrontational exchange.
“I won’t allow that,” the Judge rebuked, “absolutely not.”
Fiona explained that the questions would only deal with her past friendship with Lisa Burns and that they were exploring family relationships concerning the Burns family that might shed some light on the motives for her father’s death. She told the Judge that they were leaning toward suicide or accident. So far, the Judge’s affair had not come to light, although Fiona suspected that the Judge had somehow confessed her sins to her spouse, but that was pure speculation.
Fiona’s real motive, of course, was hidden by blatant subterfuge, but the idea was to put the Judge into a frame of mind that would allow an interrogation of her daughter.
“And the other?” Judge McGrath asked, her voice on the phone a low whisper.
Apparently the Judge was still hopeful that the revelation of her guilty secret might not see the light of day.
“So far, so good, Judge. It has not been necessary to reveal anything.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“None.”
After a long silence and what sounded like a deep sigh, Judge McGrath reluctantly consented to meet them in her apartment. Her daughter, she told them, should be coming home after soccer practice.
“Okay, then. I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t upset her, Officer. She’s been rather high-strung lately. Teenagers are quite fragile.”
She struck Fiona as extraordinarily cool for someone whose career could explode in her face at any moment. Perhaps she had planned to continue on the bench in her present capacity, no matter what happened. There was, Fiona thought, something admirable in such a stance, a virtue that made it difficult to contemplate what she had in mind with her Trojan-horse tactic.
The Judge had timed their meeting to coincide with her daughter’s arrival in late afternoon. It gave Fiona time for her and Izzy to bring a sensitive recorder from the police lab that could be hidden from view. If there was something to be learned, it had better be preserved, although it was doubtful that it could be used in a court of law.
The daughter arrived looking somewhat disheveled after practice, wearing the bright yellow jacket with the school insignia with a soccer ball printed on its back. Fiona and Izzy exchanged brief glances, remembering August Parson’s reference to the color yellow.
Judge McGrath introduced Fiona and Izzy and directed her daughter to a seat on one of the comfortable uphols
tered chairs that flanked the coffee table. She sat on the other chair across the table, and Fiona and Izzy sat side by side on the couch. It was not an ideal interrogation configuration, but Fiona was not ready to complain. She offered what she hoped was a warm unthreatening smile. Izzy, she knew, was operating the hidden recorder. With a blinking motion of his eyes, he indicated that the recorder was now running.
“How was practice, darling?” Judge McGrath asked her daughter.
“Fine.”
“Had a good day?”
“Yes.”
The teenager showed no outward signs of nervousness and seemed relaxed and attentive. She was tall, with her black hair tied in a ponytail, blue-eyed like her mother, and far less chunky than her mother might have been at her age. Fiona had noted from the photographs that the father was tall, thin, and handsome, and it was obvious that the daughter favored her father’s looks.
“These officers are investigating the death of Lisa’s father, Deirdre. They just want to ask you some questions about your relationship with her and your observations about her prior to her father’s death.”
Fiona noted that the teenager was instantly wary. Her expression became skeptical. Fiona observed her closely.
“We’re interviewing all the members of the team,” Fiona said.
The Judge frowned at the obvious lie but did not comment.
“How would I know about Lisa Burns?” Deirdre shrugged. “We’re no longer best friends.” She paused, and wrinkled her nose as if coping with a bad odor. “She is a bitch. I hate her.”
“That is a strong word, Deirdre,” Fiona said.
“I can think of stronger,” Deirdre responded, clearly agitated now.
Even through her tan complexion, Fiona noted a rising flush. She was surprised at the speed of the girl’s anger, as if the very idea of her once-best friend was like lighting a match to dry tinder. Such a reaction boded well for the interrogation. Anger was a strong motivating force for revelation.
“Did she do anything that made you feel that way, Deirdre?” Fiona asked, watching for further signs of a storm of emotion gathering in the teenager.
