The Ties That Bind

by Warren Adler

  "I still intend to enhance this investigation."

  "And don't think we aren't appreciative," the Eggplant said. "We need all the help we can get. Believe me, Mr. Herbert, we're determined to find this monster."

  "We'll keep you totally informed," Gail said, determining that she had gotten permission to embellish the point. "And we'll cooperate with you and anyone of your choice."

  Herbert seemed afflicted with a sudden attack of exhaustion. He was done in, spent. Fiona suspected that he was the kind of man who would devote himself body and soul to bring his daughter's assailant to justice. It was easy to see that his daughter was everything to him. Her death had kicked the props of his life out from under him. Finding the person who had done this to his daughter would now take over his life. It was, Fiona suspected, his way of coping with grief.

  For the moment, the fight was out of him. He was facing the reality of what must be done in the next few days, the trip back home, the arrangements, the funeral, the reality of loss. They set up a time and place to meet three days hence.

  "I'm sure by then we'll have something to sink our teeth into, Mr. Herbert," the Eggplant said.

  Herbert grunted acknowledgment. But it was to Gail, just as he left the office, that he directed his most cogent remark.

  "You cannot believe how much she meant to me," he said. His eyes moistened. Grief took charge of him. He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

  7

  Phelps Barker was preppy down to his socks, which were yellow with a pattern that struck Fiona as something she had seen on fraternity theme ties. He also wore red suspenders and a striped tie on a buttoned-down oxford blue shirt of the kind purveyed by Brooks Brothers for wannabe men seeking power and influence. He was as transparent as unpolluted air.

  With jet black hair, perfectly parted, a straight nose and strong clefted chin, he wore his assured future with an arrogant smirk.

  A perennial fraternity boy, Fiona decided, an eager participant at chug-a-lug and a heavy advertiser of his sexual exploits, mostly exaggerated. Her own memories of fraternity boys were of beer-smelling breath and premature ejaculations.

  They were sitting in the leather-and-walnut atmosphere of the Federal Club, which had been Barker's choice for their meeting. Perhaps the buttoned-down golden boy wanted to lavish a bit of intimidation on the blue-collar wage earners. This was the attitude Fiona brought into the club. She was not in a good mood.

  After waving them to their seats, Barker snapped his fingers at a liveried waiter, who reacted swiftly to the signal.

  "They make lovely whiskey sours here, don't they, Walter?"

  "For the ladies?" Walter asked.

  "Coffee would be fine," Fiona said.

  "Same for me," Gail said.

  "And one whiskey sour for Mr. Barker."

  "You got it Walter."

  Walter scurried off.

  They had spent the day retracing Phyla's steps in the hours before her death, interviewing the people noted in her date book.

  Both the female lawyers at Energy and Interior had similar reactions to the young woman. Phyla was bright, charming and self-confident and both woman had, independently, come to the conclusion that Phyla was interviewing them, not the other way around.

  "Everything came down from the top," Chelsea Adams said. In her mid-thirties, blonde and freckled, with green eyes and acne covered by makeup, she was with the enforcement division of the Energy Department. Fiona pegged her as a once wide-eyed do-gooder who had come to this place to clean up the planet only to find little interest in serving that cause among the bureaucrats who ran the agency.

  "I'm not saying she wasn't qualified. She had it all, great marks, personality, all the right credentials. Above all, she had juice. We had the impression we had to receive her like royalty."

  Of course, Chelsea Adams was resentful. She was Brooklyn Law School. She needed the job. Once she had cared. Now she was a cynic, although there was a visible reservoir of decency and compassion.

  "Did I like her? Yes, I liked her. Was she qualified? Yes, she was qualified. In the end, I think she spotted both the futility of trying to make a name in this place and the fact that this is not the best career stepping-stone in town, which is what she was after."

  The woman's knowledge about what had happened to Phyla came from stories in the Washington Post, which, thankfully, were hardly as complete or as graphic as the real truth. The paper had said that Phyla had been trussed and stabbed numberous times by a sadistic pervert. It did not mention the trauma of the dildo.

  "Since I read the story, I haven't been able to sleep. Wasn't it awful? I hope you get him."

  They heard substantially the same story from Jane Braker at Interior. The clout from the top, the feeling of being interviewed, the sense that Phyla did not think that Interior, like Energy, was upwardly mobile enough.

  "What exactly do you mean by 'clout from the top'?" Fiona asked.

  "I presume the Secretary. That's what my boss got from his boss."

  Fiona let it pass. What she was really hoping for was a credible link with Farley Lipscomb, a doubtful possibility at best. The clout from the top obviously came from Phyla's father.

  "What kind of a job do you think she was interested in?"

  "Not here. That's for sure."

  "Then where?" Fiona had pressed.

  The woman shrugged.

  "Probably Justice. Maybe tax work. That's where the big money is, once you serve your time."

  "U.S. Attorney's office, maybe?" Gail coaxed.

  "Only if she could stay in Washington. She wasn't interested in the boonies."

  "How about the U.S. Supreme Court, clerking for one of the justices?" Fiona asked, hoping the inquiry was taken as casual.

  "Does Famous Amos make chocolate chip cookies? Now there's a stepping-stone."

  Neither of the women lawyers knew Phyla Herbert before meeting her that day. Both expressed similar views and both would have recommended her for hiring if she was interested.

  Phelps Barker provided a more personal vantage point. He knew Phyla, as he put it, "forever." They grew up together in Winnetka. Barker's father was a prominent physician who served the wealthy clientele of Winnetka, the Herberts included. It was Dr. Barker who attended Phyla's mother during her terminal illness. Throat cancer, he averred, with a shrug.

  "Too much booze and 'backy," he said, lifting the whiskey sour that Walter had served and sipping it with delight.

  "You don't know what you're missing," he said, winking.

  He was cocky, full of himself, with the kind of flashy, white-toothed smile most people call "winning." He could not take his eyes off Gail Prentiss, a not uncommon reaction.

  "Would you characterize your meeting with her as business or social?" Fiona asked. Barker tore his gaze from Gail and, with obvious reluctance, shifted his eyes toward her.

  "A little of both. She was a buddy." He shook his head. "God, I can't believe it. Multiple stab wounds. Was she raped?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "It seems a logical question. I mean that's the obvious conclusion, isn't it?"

  He showed some discomfort when Fiona deliberately didn't answer his question, studying his face.

  "Was she interested in a job at Justice?" Gail asked. Showing relief, he eagerly turned toward her, flashing a smile.

  "I can't say for sure. With Mr. Herbert's connections she could get any job without sweat. Her principal concern was where it could lead. Smart girl."

  "And where does it lead?" Gail asked.

  "Why do you think we come here, or haven't you heard? This is an obligatory hitch for a lawyer on his way up. We're here for contacts, connections. Government service is strictly a résumé enhancement."

  "Did Phyla need that?" Fiona asked.

  "Hell no. There was an open door in her father's firm. Do you happen to know how powerful that firm is? You know how many lawyers they have?"

  "I've heard," Fiona said.

/>   "You think the government is run by the people?" Barker sneered. "It's run by the big law firms. Wake up, America."

  "You sound contemptuous," Fiona said.

  "Contemptuous? That's the problem with you people. No insight. I lust for success, meaning money, maybe power. For that, I'll do almost anything. The game plan calls for three years max at Justice, then into the trough."

  "Is this what she was after?" Gail asked.

  "Who knows? Maybe. She had things to prove to Daddy."

  "And herself," Gail snapped.

  "That, too," he acknowledged.

  Fiona felt herself deliberately holding back, waiting for that particular moment when her own questions would have their greatest impact.

  "Did she say anything to indicate she wanted a job at Justice?" Gail asked.

  "Actually no," Barker said. "Now that you mention it."

  "Did she give you any idea where she would prefer to work?" Fiona interjected, seeing her opening.

  "Not really."

  "She didn't say that she wanted to work in Washington?" Fiona pressed, looking for the link.

  "I don't think she said," Barker said, showing some surprise at Fiona's pursuit. "Hell, that's why she was here. Wasn't it? I suppose she had other meetings arranged."

  "Did she say with whom?"

  "No. But then Phyla is ... was ... very tightly strung. There was no way inside."

  "Did she offer the slightest hint of where she wanted to work?"

  "I can't recall."

  Peripherally, Fiona could see Gail register a restless flash of impatience. She had to be confused by Fiona's oddly meandering and oblique questions. Nevertheless, she pressed on.

  "Any other agency?"

  "I told you. She didn't say."

  "What about..." Fiona hesitated a moment, an action she regretted since it gave what she had in mind more importance than she wished. "What about the Supreme Court?"

  "What about it?" Barker said, confused but curious.

  "You know ... a clerkship to one of the justices?"

  Again, she sensed Gail's restlessness.

  "You're really pushing, Sarge," Barker said, exchanging a glance with Gail and taking another sip of his sour.

  "Just routine inquiries, Mr. Barker," Fiona said. "By the way, how do you rate that as an upwardly mobile situation for a young lawyer fresh out of law school?"

  "A clerkship to a justice?"

  Fiona nodded and Barker grew thoughtful.

  "On a scale or one to ten, I'd give it an eleven."

  "You think she had a chance for that?" Fiona asked.

  "With Daddy's help, probably a damned good chance."

  "Was he close to any of the justices?"

  "I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised."

  "She never said?"

  Barker shook his head.

  "Phyla wouldn't have said. It was a given. Daddy knows everybody. I'd say she wanted to make it on her own."

  "That would be difficult ... I mean, getting a job working for a justice without Daddy's help?" Fiona pressed, sensing she was going too far down that path, but unable to stop.

  "Oh, she had the stuff. But for a job like that you need a direct connection."

  "Like being buddy-buddy with a justice?"

  "Do I have to tell you how the system works?"

  He snickered and winked at Gail, who seemed a confused spectator, watching a game she didn't understand.

  "And she herself never mentioned any direct connection with the Court, with a justice?"

  "No. I'd remember." He paused and studied Fiona's face. "You seem to be working on a single track."

  Fiona sensed the need to retreat.

  "One track of many, Mr. Barker," Fiona said, looking at Gail. "Have you any questions?"

  Gail grew thoughtful.

  "Were they close? Father and daughter?"

  "I'll tell you this, I think her old man would blow up this whole town if it would have helped his daughter. She was everything to him. He must be shattered."

  "He is," Gail said.

  "Was he everything to her?" Gail asked. Fiona caught the personal connotation.

  "Who am I to say? He had juice. She had ambition. If it was my old man, I'd take the juice."

  "But it would be a feather in her cap to get a job on her own, without his help?" Fiona interjected.

  "Listen, ladies. Phyla was the kind of person who could make it on her own, anywhere, anytime. But she knew the value of connections and was willing to use them."

  "Did she tell you that?" Fiona asked.

  "Not in words. Hell, the woman stank of ambition. Sure, she'd like to make it without Daddy. But she knew that Daddy held some pretty good chips and she was willing to play them."

  "Something she said?" Fiona asked.

  "Something she showed. She was not a teller. She held her cards very close to the vest."

  Fiona herself was uncertain where all this was leading. She was trying to bushwhack a path to Farley Lipscomb's door, but no one seemed to be cooperating. Either that or she was bushwhacking in the wrong direction. Inadvertently, Gail came to her rescue.

  "Was she a sexually active woman?" Gail asked. Phelps Barker seemed somewhat taken aback. He reached for his drink and upended the glass. So far he had been more than cooperative, but Fiona could see he did not take kindly to Gail's question. He became instantly belligerent.

  "Are you asking whether or not I balled her?" he smirked. "Phyla? We were buddies. It would take a leap of faith for me to see her any other way."

  "Are you saying she had no interest in you other than as a friend?"

  "Phyla was Madame Purie," Barker said, taking a deep sip on his sour. "She did not seem amenable to ... let us say ... sexual congress."

  "Meaning she rebuffed you?" Gail pushed.

  "'Rebuff' suggests that I might have made some moves on her. No way. She sent no messages. I might have entertained something when I was twelve or thirteen, but any urges, none of which come to mind, would have been self-squelched. In that department, she was not my type."

  "What is your type, Barker?" Gail asked.

  He studied her for a moment, then winked.

  "I'd say that you present enormous possibilities, lady."

  "So you were buddies," Gail said, ignoring his remark. Fiona sensed that this was beginning to look like a pointless interrogation.

  "I told you. I grew up with her. We both went our separate ways after high school. I went to Harvard and Georgetown Law. She went to the University of Chicago, undergraduate and law school."

  "Did she have any boyfriends?" Gail asked.

  "You mean the plural?" Barker asked with what Fiona interpreted as superior, preppy sarcasm.

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Fiona snapped, giving in to a sudden urge to lower the boom on his self-satisfied smugness.

  "It means..." He looked Fiona over as if she was sitting in a hole beneath him. "What was your rank again?"

  "Does it matter?" Fiona snapped.

  "No," Barker said, after a long deliberate pause as he stared into her eyes, hoping she would flinch first. She didn't. "No, it doesn't matter."

  "We were asking about her personal life," Gail said, ignoring the interruption. She was now relentlessly on the man's case. No doubt she was following her own hunch. Intuition was a homicide detective's stock in trade, a kind of art form, and Fiona knew better than to inhibit such vibrations.

  "Her sex life, you mean?"

  "Have it your way."

  "Look, she was, for all us studs, outside the line of fire. By her choice. She was more brain than body. She sent out no signals. Not to anyone I know."

  He snapped his fingers. Walter rushed over.

  "I'll have another sour, Walter," Barker said, pointing to the coffee cups on the table in front of them. "More java, girls?"

  Gail ignored the question. Fiona shook her head for both of them and the waiter disappeared.

  "So you compared notes about her ... her c
harms?" Gail asked.

  "In my adolescent world, all girls were under discussion, including Phyla. There was general agreement that, although attractive, she did not stir the gonads."

  The waiter brought Barker's sour.

  "Thank you, Walter," Barker nodded with the same superior look he had given Fiona earlier. He lifted his glass in a mock toast and drank off a sip. "You're missing a great drink."

  "And where were you Saturday evening, Barker?" Gail snapped suddenly. Did Gail seriously believe he was involved?

  "Me?" He tossed his head back and laughed. "Am I under suspicion?"

  "Yes," Gail shot back with a deliberately intimidating glare. Barker reached for his sour. Despite his air of disconcern, he seemed to be searching for an appropriate response.

  "You can't be serious," he said.

  "But I am," Gail pressed, with a sidelong glance at Fiona, who wondered what she was thinking.

  "Actually, if memory serves, I was at a party in Bethesda," he said. "One of those singles events for the upwardly mobile. Lots of quiche and white wine." He giggled nervously.

  "Why didn't you invite your old buddy?" Gail asked.

  "But I did."

  He finished the last of his second sour and snapped for Walter to bring another one. Walter responded with servile alacrity. It struck Fiona as a sensible ploy on Walter's part to hustle tips from this pompous ass.

  "These are really wonderful," he said. "Are you sure you won't try one?" His eyes roamed from one face to the other and he shrugged. "Your sobriety gives me a real sense of security, ladies. All murderers beware."

  "Why did she turn down your invitation?" Gail asked, her eyes narrowing. She apparently knew all the dramatic tics that were useful in embellishing the questions.

  "Actually, she didn't turn me down," Barker said after an unexpectedly long pause, as if his answer had to be thought out. It was the kind of gesture that could send up rings of suspicious smoke signals. Fiona could see that Gail had responded to the signals, which encouraged her to press on relentlessly.

  Even Fiona could acknowledge that Barker invited suspicion, but suspicion of what? If there was guilt present, it seemed disconnected and irrelevant to the girl's death. Gail apparently thought otherwise.