by Warren Adler
She would have to meet Farley in a casual, nonthreatening manner, which meant a social context, where she could observe his reactions and attitude first hand. Any objective conclusions, she knew, would be based more on the subtleties of silent communication than on hard information. The idea begged comparison with Gail's gut reaction to Phelps Barker and those mysterious messages she was picking up. Except that Fiona had the considerable advantage of painful personal experience.
Not long after dawn, as she watched the lightening sky against the large oaks that rimmed her scrupulously maintained property, she got the first faint glimmer of how to accomplish her objective.
With the Supreme Court in session and the Washington social whirl in full swing, she could, with little effort, find out at what events Farley Lipscomb and his very social wife were scheduled to spend their evenings. A Supreme Court justice was always a trophy guest, a fact that had surely enhanced Letitia Lipscomb's already awesome social reputation.
At the first respectable moment of the morning, Fiona called her friend Daisy Hodges, a former inmate, along with Fiona, of Mount Vernon School for Girls, still a bastion for the young daughters of the power elite. Daisy had married a real estate developer who had sold out at the top of the breaking wave of recession and was now pursuing her own social agenda in a huge house in Spring Valley.
Daisy had acquired clout and social cachet from her father, a member of the Kennedy Cabinet. She had embellished it by marrying well enough to spread her bucks like manure around the Washington social scene. Now an accomplished hostess, Daisy's home was the scene of constant action, a must-attend for the currently important on the Washington merry-go-round.
Fiona still maintained a place on the social circuit. Between "relationships" she was often invited as the "extra" girl to even up a dinner table and she received a good share of invitations to the best houses and embassies. She entertained occasionally as well, in the large elegant house she had inherited from her parents.
Wise in the ways of Washington, she pursued a minimum of the social niceties just to keep her image afloat in that world and her presence welcomed in her own right. Those that knew her profession accepted her as a socially acceptable eccentric and let it go at that.
Many of the present Washington elite, like Daisy, were childhood friends of Fiona. Those in her age group were rising rapidly as the Washington cadre, meaning those who were the mainstays of social power and who had the wherewithal to entertain the top rung of the invading armies of eager power seekers who arrived in town with each succeeding administration.
Bonded by girlhood confidences of a most personal nature, Fiona knew that, despite their life choices, Daisy and she would always consider each other "best girlfriends," having pledged to each other a fealty that would carry them through to their graves. From time to time, although they could drift for months without contact, Daisy would avail herself of Fiona's sympathetic ear and, once or twice, at low points, Fiona, too, had sought out her friend for hugs and sympathy. The passage of time diminished nothing between them.
"Daisy!" It was ten minutes before eight. "Did I wake you?"
"Wake me? Donald already did that. He's a glutton for a morning poke."
Knowing it was Fiona, she could let her hair down and did. They had, back in their teenage days, confided everything to each other. With maturity had come private secrets, which was natural. But their trust in each other was implicit. Daisy knew about the long-ago teenage affair with Farley, although not about the incident that ended it.
In those days, before AIDS, a sexual scalp, particularly belonging to someone high in the power pecking order, was an honored trophy. Daisy, who was sexually active at fifteen, a prodigious Lolita, had accumulated an exhibit hall full of scalps. Marriage, three children and skyrocketing social status had tamed her considerably, although there were complicated circumstances early in her marriage.
In recent years it was Fiona, with her checkered love life and inability to form lasting liaisons, who provided the spice to their confidences.
"How's the flatfoot?" Daisy asked. She was one of the few of her childhood friends who actually approved of her choice of profession, on the grounds of it being both dangerous and adventuresome.
"Still running after the bad guys."
"Lucky you." Daisy's voice indicated that she was stretching langorously. "I could use a bad guy right this minute."
"I could talk dirty, Daisy."
"Wouldn't be the same, Fi."
They exchanged a series of inquiries. Fiona inquired after the health and status of Daisy's offspring and husband and Daisy pumped Fiona on the hard facts of her love life.
"You and Harrison Greenwald still in thrall?" Daisy asked.
"Sort of," Fiona admitted.
"Meaning declining interest?"
"I'm into a celibacy phase."
"Poor thing."
Because of her errant flippancy, the real purpose of her call generated a twisted and inaccurate impression.
"I'm interested in seeing the Lipscombs in a social context, Daisy."
"You little devil. I thought that was over..." There was a short silence. "Was it fifteen years? No more."
"You're a filthy minded slut," Fiona said, reverting to the words and intonation of their school days.
"Always was. Always will be. Who was it that introduced you to the joys of masturbation?"
"God, Daisy."
"And the proper way to fake an orgasm."
"It's entirely unrelated to the big 'S', Fiona said, falling into the rhythm and idiom of their teenage speech. "I'm working on a case that could use free judicial advice, given casually, a kind of pre-opinion that I don't want to have in an official capacity. You get my drift."
"Ah, the joys of the traveling Washington crap game. If the great unwashed only knew how things worked in this town. All those cute little competing agendas. I love it."
"You're the chess player, Daisy. Move my piece into position."
"Dear Farley. He's became very self-important and scholarly. Still attractive. Remember how he used to flirt. He was quite a bon vivant. I can understand how you could drop your bloomers with a guy like that. Even today. He can turn it on, I'll say that for him.
"You ever see him do that?"
"Do what?"
"Turn it on to impress some sweet young thing."
"Are you contracting me to observe, Fi?" Daisy giggled.
"Just curious."
"At least, Fi, you have indulged yourself with all three branches of government, a true constitutionalist." Daisy giggled. "But pre-Supreme Court doesn't really count, does it? I mean you didn't exactly crawl under that black robe."
"What is it with you this morning, Daisy?" Fi asked, noting that Daisy was into one of her wiseacre fits.
"I'm suffering from an orgasm deficit, dahling. My man has left me bereft. He's becoming the bing-bang man," Daisy roared into a laughing spell, obviously enjoying the lack of control and decorum normally required of her present status and position.
"Let me know ... dahling ... when you can work me in."
"Gotcha."
Fiona hung up, her spirits lifted. Daisy could do that for her with her wonderfully irreverent wisegal talk. Jumping into the shower, Fiona got ready for what she sensed might be a another dead-end day, while looking forward to the results of Daisy's research.
The phone rang while she still dripped moisture on the bathroom tiles. She picked up the portable that lay beside the sink. It was Gail Prentiss.
"I'll be seeing the guy that hosted the Saturday night party, Fiona. He's a congressional AA. We're meeting on the Hill."
"Great," Fiona said with mock enthusiasm.
"I'm heading to the Mayflower," Fiona said. It seemed the only logical destination. She would go through the motions at her own pace without Gail's second guessing. Perhaps, too, there might be a hidden lead that, she hoped, could point her in Farley Lipscomb's direction.
They made arrangement
s to compare notes at headquarters later in the day. Then Fiona called the Eggplant and filled him in on what they were doing, which, while not satisfying him, led him to believe that they were making the right moves.
"We need this one, FitzGerald," he said.
She reassured him, hating herself for dissembling. The irony was that she had dissembled before, mostly in the interest of keeping him momentarily placated. But this situation seemed more a betrayal, a step down from what would ordinarily be considered a simple white lie.
As she was leaving the house, the phone rang again. It was Daisy.
"A six-to-eighter at the State Department open rooms tonight. I've put you and Harrison on the list."
"Harrison?"
"I just assumed..."
"Of course," Fiona said. Yes, she decided, it would seem less official if she brought a date. "You do have clout, Daisy."
"I've contributed enough antiques to those rooms to furnish a palace," Daisy said. Her official day begun, she was less playful than earlier.
"You think Farley will be a sure show?"
Names were a commodity in Washington, often used as a lure for others to attend this or that event. On most occasions the owner of the famous name did not show up for the affair.
"He's both a sponsor and a presenter. Some award. I forget which."
"Will you be there, Daisy?"
"Three things on the schedule. It'll be dash in, dash out. I'll probably miss you."
Fiona was about to say her good-byes, when another thought intruded.
"Daisy. Have you ever heard of a Tom Herbert?"
"Herbert. Herbert," Daisy pondered aloud. "Oh yes," she said. "That poor man. The one who's daughter. My God was that awful."
"Yes, it was."
"What a ghoulish business you're in, Fiona. But yes, I've met Herbert. Chicago. Very well connected. In town frequently. On the social circuit. He's single and straight, a rare commodity. As a matter of fact, I think I fixed him up once or twice. Fran Thompson, it was. The widow of Senator Thompson. I think they were an item for a time, then it terminated for whatever reason. I forget. I'm sure the fellow is a mess, considering what's happened. She seemed like such a nice girl."
"You met her?" Fiona asked, startled by the assertion.
"Oh, yes. Herbert brought her around from time to time. Are you on this case, Fi?"
"As a matter of act..." Fiona replied.
"From what I've read, it was real kinky."
"Yes, Daisy. It was."
"I'm not pressing. You probably can't talk about it."
"Not at the moment. But as soon as we catch the man, I'll give you the blow-by-blow."
"Goody, goody," Daisy said. "You never know about people. Herbert has to be devastated."
"He is," Fiona said, considering a follow-up, but restraining herself.
Fiona heard another phone ringing in the background. Daisy excused herself and hung up.
But the conversation had confirmed that Tom Herbert was indeed plugged into the Washington social scene. In this arena it did not take a leap of faith to find a connection between the Herberts and Farley Lipscomb.
9
Throughout the day Fiona went through the professional motions of an experienced homicide detective. What she needed was authenticity that would pass muster with the Eggplant and especially with Gail Prentiss, who would undoubtedly arrive back at headquarters with a hatful of suspicious clues designed to justify her theory about Phelps Barker's perfidy.
In a room behind the Mayflower registration desk she interrogated the assistant manager and a steady stream of hotel employees who had worked on the days that Phyla Herbert had been a guest at the hotel. On the drive in, she had come up with yet another idea. Perhaps one of the employees might have seen a man fitting the description of Farley Lipscomb sometime Saturday night.
To this end, she had gone to the main branch of the public library and obtained a book that had some informal pictures of the various current justices of the Supreme Court. Then she went to a one-hour photo shop and had three of the pictures of individual justices, including Farley's, blown up and carefully cropped to eliminate any sign of their judicial raiments.
She knew the process was dangerous, rife with hidden minefields. Someone might recognize the man as a member of the Court, which could light the fuse that would snake its way into the various Washington media offices. The resultant explosion would rock the town. Any hint that Farley Lipscomb was under suspicion of such a bestial act, without anything more than the flimsy evidence of a picture recognized by a casual eyewitness, would have all the earmarks of a frame-up.
She knew she was playing with fire. The Court was a powerful instrument of American democracy, a sensitive tuning fork, which set both the limits of freedom and the ideological agenda for the entire country. It was the holy citadel of the great American experiment and with only nine people to carry such a burden, the slightest ripple of impropriety, no less one of such staggering proportions as that involved in death and sexual perversion, would have the impact of a poisoned dagger stuck into the heart of the system.
Fiona, a child of the system, was aware of the dangers. Indeed, even if she had hard proof, such a revelation could have personal implications of monumental impact to herself, a fallout that could injure her forever.
She could tell herself that moral purpose had its own reward, that retribution could be both cleansing and satisfying and, perhaps, she might escape the fate of exposure. But was the risk worth the victory? Would it trouble her to see Farley, if he was the perpetrator, be free to try again?
This was very much in her mind as she began her interviews at the Mayflower, pictures in hand. A few of those whom she had paraded through the office had only the vaguest recollections of Phyla Herbert. The bellman who had taken up her bags and explained the workings of the airconditioning and the pay bar had remembered her as aristocratically polite, a woman who said little and produced a two-dollar tip with the aplomb of someone used to receiving good service.
"She was cool, polite and indifferent," the bellman, a middle-aged, experienced sizer-upper explained. Had he seen her after she had checked in? No recollection. It was the very essence of this kind of grunt work where tipping was the only real mode of communication.
"I have a daughter," he explained, as if to provide himself with a shred of dignity and compassion. He studied the pictures with great concentration.
"In this business middle-aged men are like Chinese waiters. They all look alike." He shook his head. "Sorry."
The chambermaid on duty during the days of Phyla Herbert's stay was a San Salvadoran who barely spoke English. She needed an interpreter, a sallow-faced young man hastily recruited from the room service department, whose English resembled pig latin. The woman was frightened, had turned ashen and her lips trembled.
"She no see," the young man said, after a spirited exchange in Spanish. "Says she do room in afternoon after lady gone."
Fiona set the pictures on the desk in front of the woman. The woman studied them with glazed, indifferent eyes.
"No, notheeng," the young man said.
Earlier she had shown the pictures to the assistant manager, neatly turned out in a morning coat and dark pants with a razor-sharp crease. His features were delicate, and he wore a tiny Band-Aid where he had cut himself shaving.
"They look vaguely familiar," he said, tapping his teeth with a manicured forefinger. "But I can't say they ring a bell."
He had arranged for other hotel employees that were on duty to be present. One was the bartender, a handsome black man with graying hair, who had been on duty in the cocktail lounge. When shown the pictures, he shook his head, but only after an inordinate time of study. Fiona had the impression that he secretly might have recognized one or two of the three, but it was highly unlikely that an old hand like him would court the kind of hassle that went with the identification.
"Are you sure?" Fiona pressed.
He shook his head.
"And the young woman?" Fiona asked, after providing a brief description.
"Sorry."
She interviewed a number of the waitresses, security people and other employees on duty at the time. Long shots, she knew. There was no payoff. Phyla hadn't ordered any room service. Only the security people had vague recollections of seeing Phyla, but their comments seemed more for self-protection than informational.
Again she reviewed the guest list of the hotel, which had been partially filled with a convention of pediatricians, most of whom had left town on Sunday evening. The hotel had provided a computerized list and the names were being run through a central data system for any MO matches, which so far had revealed nothing of any consequence.
Using the phone in the hotel office, she spent a couple of hours calling people who were checked in on the same floor. It was the evening of the major convention social event and most of the people had spent a long evening at the event. None of them acknowledged hearing any strange sounds.
The assistant manager, his name was Harold Barton, provided her with a tray of coffee and a sandwich from room service and sat with her as she ate.
"May I see those pictures again?" he asked.
She handed him the envelope and he slid out the pictures and studied them carefully, tapping his teeth as he had done before.
"Who are these men?" he asked.
"Are they familiar?"
"I'm not sure. Are they sex criminals, suspects?"
"Is there one more vaguely familiar than the others?" Fiona asked.
"I wish I could say."
"We need to place one of them at the scene," Fiona said, hoping to jog his memory. It was the one hopeful sign of the day.
"I realize that, Sergeant," Barton said. "May I keep them for a while?"
"Sorry. Can't do that," Fiona said. She was taking enough risk by flashing the pictures for even this quick glimpse. Of all the people she had shown them to, Barton, who had more opportunity to mix with the upper crust public, was the most likely to have recognized them.
