by Warren Adler
For a moment Barker dropped his mask of devil-may-care sophistication. "Shit. She should have come. Probably have had a lousy time, but at least she'd be alive in the morning." He sucked in a deep breath and shook his head.
"So you gave her directions?" Gail pressed. "To where the party was being held?"
"Yes, I did. Wrote them down in case she wanted to attend the festivities."
He was obviously trying to find his way back to his original persona. Fiona speculated that he might be offering the explanation to cover himself in case the directions had been found among her effects.
"And she never showed up?"
He shook his head, but there was something tentative in the gesture.
"Was there a big crowd?"
"Yes," he said. "It was a mob scene. A friend's house in Bethesda, jammed to the rafters. Shared by four guys who all had their own circles."
"Would she have known anyone there?"
"Maybe. School chums. Youth-on-the-march types."
"Like you," Gail suggested.
"Rungs behind, darling. Rungs behind."
His old arrogance was being restored, although the contrived casualness seemed less sure.
"How can you be so certain that she would have had a lousy time?" Gail asked.
"I've been trying to tell you that she was basically a loner. Very serious and focused. She did not, in all the years I knew her, show any signs of a light heart." Walter brought another sour and Barker immediately took a deep sip.
"How long did you stay at the party?" Gail asked.
"Still on that kick." He grew thoughtful. "I think I left around eleven. Some of the guests were already getting speechless and a bit too raucus for my tastes."
"What are your tastes, Phelps?" Gail asked, using his first name for purposes of sarcasm. Why was she pushing so hard, Fiona wondered. Did she know more than she had let on?
"Well, well, aren't we getting a bit personal here?"
"I hope so."
Gail fired away, obviously enjoying herself, although Fiona was at a loss to explain her motive. It seemed more like a fencing match between them. Was he really hiding something? Fiona wondered.
"Is it possible you might have missed her?" Gail asked. "...in the mob scene."
"I'm a trained observer, Madame Detective," Barker sneered.
"Booze dulls the senses, Phelps," Gail said, looking pointedly at the half-empty whiskey sour on the little table beside him. He followed her gaze.
"I was perfectly sober that evening," he smirked, turning to Fiona in search of an ally.
"Hardly likely," Fiona said, looking at the whiskey sour. As if in defiance, he picked it up and finished it off.
"As you can see, I appreciate good booze. Cheap wine and a couple of kegs are the fare at these events, accompanied by a wheel of cheese melting under the lamp. This is what passes for hoity-toity in that crowd."
"Did you leave alone?"
He forced a chuckle, but again he hesitated enough to sow doubt.
"No one worth cutting from the pack," he sneered. "It was my weekend for self-love."
"You went straight home?"
"Normally that's where the art is practiced."
He leaned over the table, picked up the whiskey sour glass, noted it was empty, then clicked his fingers again. His cheeks had flushed and the alcohol seemed to accelerate his inherent nastiness, although his tongue maintained its clarity. He did not strike Fiona as a happy drunk.
"Then you went to sleep?" Gail prompted, giving no ground to his sarcasm.
"Yes. The boredom of the evening left me somnolent and aching for oblivion."
"Did anyone see you go into your place? It is an apartment?"
"A townhouse on Capitol Hill. I don't think I was seen. All the muggers had apparently taken the night off."
"So you have no corroboration," Gail said, her remark deliberately accusatory. Her eyes seemed to bore in on his. Her tenacity was awesome.
He shook his head and studied Gail's face for a long moment, then he turned to Fiona. "Is she serious?"
"I'm afraid so," Fiona replied.
"Alright then," Barker said, stretching out his arms, wrists together. "Cuff me and take me downtown for questioning. Better yet put me in a lineup. It'll be a gas."
"I like that idea," Gail said, exchanging glances with Fiona. She wasn't fooling. She was onto something, pursuing it with highly focused energy.
"I don't believe this. Are you hounding me for attitude or genuine suspicion?"
"Look, Barker," Gail said. "If you can account for your time Saturday evening, it will make matters simpler for all of us. We have a horrifying, ugly crime on our hands. It can't be cavalierly dismissed with wisecracks. You knew Phyla Herbert. You admittedly invited her to a party."
"So you're harassing me because I told you the truth," Barker said, serious now, all flippancy gone. "Not very skillful interrogation, I'm afraid. I can understand your frustration about your inability to find the real perpetrator. Phyla Herbert was a long-time friend. Your implications that I somehow did her in are absurd. Besides, bondage is not my sexual preference."
Gail shot a glance toward Fiona, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Bondage?
"We haven't used that term," Gail said.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Barker said. He was lashing out now. "A woman trussed, mutilated, probably sexually violated? I can read between the lines. And I do understand this little game. Well, let me tell you something, girls. I don't need an alibi for Saturday night. I came home and went to bed." His cheeks grew redder. He was angry now, an anger accelerated by the alcohol he had imbibed.
His voice rose for a moment, attracting some nearby club members who looked up with annoyance. Sensing this, he lowered his voice and, eyes steady, stared into Gail's.
"I did not, could not, would not abuse Phyla Herbert in any way, sexually or otherwise, and I resent any inference that I might be capable of such an act."
Walter, who might have momentarily retreated until the fracas had died down, now emerged with another whiskey sour, which he placed on the table next to Barker. He nodded his gratitude, then reached for the drink, putting it quickly down when he noted that his hands shook.
Gail had certainly rattled Barker. But why? Fiona wondered, content to be on the sidelines as Gail pursued her as yet inarticulated theory. It surprised Fiona that she held no resentment for Gail going off on what seemed like a tangent. Hadn't she done the same? Without consultation?
"When you invited her to the party, did Phyla indicate that she had a previous engagement?" Gail asked, her voice modulated into softness, as if she had changed the style and direction of her interrogation.
"Not in words," Barker replied with equal control, greatly relieved that Gail had set aside the matter of his alibi. "The fact is that Phyla always seemed to have a previous engagement."
"Or maybe she simply did not want to party with your upwardly mobile friends," Gail said without sarcasm.
"Actually you have a point," Barker answered, reaching for his drink. His hand was steadier now and his attitude less belligerent. In fact, he was almost docile.
"Phyla would rather be with people who had arrived than with a bunch of full-of-themselves wannabes," Barker said, sipping his sour, then neatly, with enough ceremony to call attention to his steadier hand, returning the glass to the table beside him. "Fact is, her father could set her up with almost anyone to look after his little girl and dispense an evening of dinner and advice."
"Like who?"
"Any number of big shots."
"Be specific."
"Congressmen, senators, even members of the Cabinet."
Fiona suddenly found herself afforded another opening.
"Supreme Court justices?"
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"Any justice in particular?" Fiona asked casually.
"You're really hung up on that aspect, Sergeant," Barker said, looking at her with eyes that gleamed, showing the effect of the s
ours.
It was apparent by then that the interview had lost focus, although Gail made no move to go. Fiona was the first to stand up.
"We'll be needing you at some point again," Fiona said. Gail, with some reluctance, also stood up. As a mark of politeness, Barker also stood.
"I didn't kill Phyla," he whispered.
"We never said you did," Gail said. But it was clear from her face that she had not completely dismissed the thought. "But I do believe you should reassess your position with regard to your whereabouts Saturday night."
"That again," he sighed.
"It's not going to go away, Barker," Gail said.
"Look," Barker said. "Like me or not, in this town careers are busted by perception. You could bomb my future with your implications, especially if the media gets to play with it."
"Phyla Herbert's future was bombed," Gail murmured as they moved away.
Before they left, they saw him resume his seat, reach for his sour and snap his fingers for Walter.
"You were really pushing him, Gail," Fiona said. They were in the car heading back to headquarters. Fiona was driving.
"He had an attitude problem that needed some work."
"True. But do you really believe he could be part of it?" Fiona asked.
Gail pondered the question for a long time.
"He's hiding something, Fiona."
"Maybe so. But there is no evidence. No fingers pointing." She looked toward Gail. "Except your intuition."
"Unconscious reasoning," Gail said. "It has its place. There's more there. I know it."
"He's an obnoxious little frat boy twit," Fiona said. "But I don't see him involved in this one."
She did not want it to sound like a total rejection.
"Notice when he broke stride," Gail said, "when I asked him if he had left the party alone."
"But he said that Phyla never showed," Fiona retorted.
"That's exactly what he said. Another signpost of his edginess."
"Alright, maybe he did go home with someone. Surely he would not want her involved."
"Or him."
"Then let's be broadminded. Say 'him.' None of which has anything to do with Phyla Herbert. His sexual orientation has no relevance in this situation."
"Sexual conduct is always relevant," Gail said. "And sexual deviation and perversion invariably lead to ugly consequences."
"Invariably? That's a pretty blanket indictment of people with different strokes."
Fiona was clearly offering a rebuke. And she could tell from Gail's stoic reaction the underlying motive. A certain rigidity on matters sexual, an extreme, unyielding moral posture, without any leavening or tolerance. She had seen such attitudes before in black women of education and achievement.
It was more than simply a heightened sense of morality. It was an aggressive conviction, a commitment to the idea that sex was between loving married partners only. Perhaps, too, it was motivated by a need to distance oneself from a bigot's perception that all blacks were moral cripples.
The idea gave Fiona a deeper insight into Gail Prentiss's motivation for joining the police, namely a firm sense of moral certitude and self-righteousness that brooked no deviation.
"How many times have we seen it in our trade, Fiona?" Gail said. She was not backing down. "Sexual violation of the innocent and unprotected, with murder a frequent companion. Rape. Child abuse. Sodomy. Sadism. Masochism. The statistics are appalling and those are merely reported figures."
Fiona could see that she was winding up for a debate, something she wished to avoid at all costs. Her respect for Gail Prentiss was not diminished, but the possibility of greater candor between them was. Fiona and her lifestyle would definitely not meet with her approval. It crossed her mind that Gail might still be a virgin.
"We both know that intuition is important, Gail," Fiona said. She saw the unfairness of her position, keeping from her partner the true nature of her suspicions about the identity of the perpetrator. It was against every caveat in police work, especially in homicide.
She was aware, too, that the moment would come when Gail would begin questioning her about her fixation with the Supreme Court and her constant allusions to the justices. Fiona was certain that it had not escaped her notice and was bound to surface. She hoped it would be later rather than sooner, when she had gotten further along in her quest, but the possibility of revelation filled her with dread.
"I need to follow this line, Fiona," Gail said. It was obviously eating at her.
"That's pretty obvious," Fiona replied. Where was the harm in that, she asked herself, searching for some rational way to soothe her guilt.
"Look, Fiona. We're partners and I'm new here. And I really want to make it with you. I know you're good and, with all modesty, I know I am as well..."
"It's okay, Gail. I don't need the speech. You've made your point and I won't stand in your way."
"Stand in my way? I want you to join me. Phelps Barker knows a lot more than he's saying."
"I just don't believe he was the one," Fiona said with obvious conviction. "In the absence of any evidence."
"I'm not accusing him. I'm only saying he seems to be hiding something that could be relevant."
Round and round it went. Fiona drove steadily through the traffic. The discussion seemed pointless.
"You're probably right," Fiona sighed, swallowing her deception and offering complete surrender. No matter how hard she searched her mind, she could not find an acceptable way to enlist Gail Prentiss in her pursuit of Farley Lipscomb.
"So I have your permission to follow-up?" Prentiss said.
"You don't need my blessing, Gail" Fiona said.
"How about your help?"
"You're my partner," Fiona said, reiterating the point, but dreading an arrangement that meant hours of nonproductive make-work in what Fiona believed was the futile pursuit of Phelps Barker. She was more inclined to spend her time trying to find a link between Phyla Herbert's murder and Farley Lipscomb.
"Problem is," Fiona said, mulling a way to disguise the deception, "we'll have to divide the labor, work different sides of the street. Clearly, this case needs more personnel. Only there's not enough to go 'round. While you work the Phelps Barker angle, I'll fish around elsewhere. It won't do to get hung up on a single track."
The mixed metaphors were troubling, and Fiona knew they needed elaboration.
"For example, I'd like to touch base with that assistant manager again and go over the hotel guest list."
They had, of course, requested the guest list, which would require painstaking scrutiny and, perhaps, another dead end. But it did have an acceptable logic. Peripherally, she could see Gail's consenting nod.
"We'll stay in close touch," Fiona promised. "The Eggplant will want daily verbals."
Fiona could not find the courage to turn from her driving and look at Gail. It hurt her to know that she was being disengenuous. After a long silence, pregnant with smoldering cogitation, Gail said:
"I am confused about something, Fiona," she said.
"About what?"
Fiona braced herself. She knew what was coming.
"This business about Phyla wanting to work for a justice of the Supreme Court. It seems well ... disconnected."
"Disconnected?" Fiona replied, searching for an appropriate answer. It was too premature for a valid answer. "Popped into my mind. It just seemed to fit. People who have clerked for Supreme Court justices have had hot careers. Phyla seemed a logical candidate."
"It's just ... well, you seem to have something in mind."
"Nothing specific," Fiona lied, trying her best to remain casual and vague. She forced herself to keep her eyes on the road, hoping that her answers would put the matter to rest, at least for the moment.
"It just seems to keep coming up," Gail pressed. Did she sense that Fiona was hiding something?
"Comes from growing up in what used to be called the power structure," Fiona said. "There's lots of reflected glo
ry in working at the Court. And since there are only nine justices, a young lawyer gets to enjoy a certain exclusivity that sets him or her apart in any future endeavors."
Fiona caught herself trying too hard, rambling, a dead giveaway. She wondered if Gail would notice.
Of course she would, Fiona decided. Gail was too smart not to notice.
8
The worst part of the case was the obsessive way it had intruded on Fiona's life. Re-intruded, she corrected. It was like a disease long in remission that had emerged again, more destructive, virulent and unforgiving, packing a greater fury than on its first unwelcome visit.
Tossing in her bed like a cork on a white-capped ocean, she slept in gasps of exhaustion. Periodically she awoke in a cold, syrupy sweat as images of that day, returning in oblique but unmistakable configurations, swirled in her mind. Even the terrible physical pain that had been inflicted came back to plague her body. It seemed worse in recall.
She hated being alone in her bed, yet feared that a call to Harrison Greenwald would strike him as a summons to a sexual event in which she simply could not participate. Even the idea of such a coupling of the flesh was appalling. Harrison, she knew, would not take kindly to rejection, especially without explanation.
What she needed, she told herself, was to concentrate on ways to reach across the clueless void to find the truth. Was Farley the perpetrator or not? It did not take much insight on her part to understand that, in her heart, she wanted him to be the guilty party. Vengeance, she speculated, would be sweet. Justice would be done. And she would, at last, be released from the prison of her own guilt.
Yet she detested these feelings. They were unprofessional and inhibiting. Besides, there was a code of ethics to uphold. Even the perpetrator of the most beastly crimes was innocent until proven guilty.
An official confrontation with Farley Lipscomb, a man in a position of such prestige and veneration, was out of the question. Even the barest hint of suspicion, without good reason and foolproof back-up evidence, would call down the wrath of the department on her head. But did this rule out an unofficial confrontation?
She went downstairs and made herself a strong cup of tea, hoping it might soothe her mind and stimulate those portions of the brain involved with imagination and gamesmanship. By morning, after a couple of hours sleep, she came up with a logical course of action.
