The Ties That Bind

by Warren Adler

  As she drove to headquarters, she did not allow the fruitless day to upset her. It was a longshot idea. Farley would have worked out a clever way to avoid being seen. She recalled how he had disguised himself for their long-ago trysts and had instructed her to register and pay the bill. If Farley had been the perpetrator, she concluded, he would have figured out a way to evade recall. The fact that no physical evidence of consequence had been found buttressed her theory that the man who did this deed could be Farley, or someone equally as knowledgeable in the area of evidence.

  The master stroke of his earlier cleverness was his calculation that Fiona would out of embarassment remain silent. A revelation of his prospensity, even then, would have ruined him. He could not be accused of lacking insight into his victims. Even in the office, he had been scrupulous about how their affair had been handled, always behind locked doors, after hours.

  A private bathroom in his office was also available when danger beckoned, a footfall, a voice. This was a man who knew how to cheat, how to evade scrutiny, although he had on occasion taken a risk if it meant to serve an overwhelming and immediate need. Fiona had no doubt that she was merely one of a long line of women who had been his prey. After that awful day, this was the way she always saw him in her imagination, a vicious predator without a conscience.

  As she neared headquarters, she directed her thoughts to the planned encounter with Farley at the State Department event. She had no clear plan, except to attempt to engage him. That could be the most difficult part of it. He could ignore her, palm her off, withdraw. She would have to improvise.

  In the squad room, she called Harrison at his office and tendered the invitation.

  "Well, well," he said, his tone pregnant with defensive sarcasm.

  She was still in her mode of sexual disengagement, made even more so by her recent recollections. It would pass. Hadn't it passed once before?

  "Stick with me, Harrison. I'm going through a stage," she told him.

  "No kidding. I've spent the last two nights analyzing it. Another guy, perhaps?"

  "Nada."

  "Disease?"

  "Double nada."

  She tried to keep it light, understanding his confusion. It crossed her mind that she might conquer her frigidity, fake it. Daisy had reminded her of that ancient instruction. No way, she decided. Revulsion would consume her. Her previous recovery had happened naturally, healed by time and nature. It could only happen that way again.

  "Call it a sabbatical in a nunnery," she told him, reaching for humor.

  "I don't know, Fi," he waffled.

  "It'll pass, Harrison."

  "I'd feel a lot better with an explanation," he said. "Put me at my ease. You know how I feel about you, Fi."

  "There's a mutuality here, Harrison," she said. "But I have an impediment."

  "I'll understand, Fi. Only tell me."

  "Not yet," she told him, hating the byplay, wanting him to say nay or yea to the State Department event. She could always find another escort. He might have sensed her thoughts.

  "I'll meet you at the entrance," he sighed.

  She hung up and started to insert a record of her day into the computer. It was full of holes, little white lies. No mention of the pictures she had produced. Thankfully, the Eggplant was not present. Most of her colleagues were out on cases. As usual, the murder count was grim, six new ones overnight. The epidemic continued. There was no end in sight.

  Late in the afternoon, Gale Prentiss strode into the squad room, breathless and intent, reminding Fiona that she hadn't been in touch all day. She slumped exhausted into a chair behind an adjoining desk and dropped her pocketbook on the floor beside her. But her face was redolent with satisfaction and she quickly showed signs of recovery.

  "Lots to report," Gail said, swiftly shuffling through her telephone messages. Then she punched in a number on the phone.

  "Goose eggs all around," Fiona said, as they exchanged glances. Gail nodded acknowledgment, then spoke into the phone.

  "Daddy, you okay?"

  Gail listened with deep concentration, her lips pursed, her nostrils widening in frustration.

  "It'll pass, Daddy. I know it will."

  There was a long pause as Gail listened. A gloom seemed to engulf her.

  "Daddy, you can't diagnose yourself. What do you mean a couple of weeks at the outside ... alright, Daddy, I'll be by later."

  She hung up and sucked in a deep breath, her eyes moistening.

  "Courage and dignity. Sometimes I hate it," Gail said, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. "The man's dying and he's giving me timetables." She shook her head. "He has to analyze every damned thing. Cold logic. That's him. He's infuriating."

  Fiona let her calm down, not knowing what to say. She turned away, affording Gail a long private moment.

  "I was right, Fiona," Gail said after a long pause. There was no boasting in the assertion.

  "Right about what?"

  "Phelps Barker."

  Fiona made no comment, waiting for the explanation.

  "Bottom line. He was with her Saturday night."

  "No way," Fiona blurted, then realizing her error, she quickly backtracked. "I mean I'm surprised."

  "I'm not," Gail said, her yellow-flecked eyes now sparkling with a sense of victory. "I mean, I'm not psychic. I'm just surprised that my intuition was so on target and so easily confirmed."

  "Barker told you this?" Fiona asked. Gail's information was beginning to sink in, badly shaking her Farley Lipscomb theory. An errant thought intruded to chill her. Had they begun a journey where an innocent man would be mangled by the criminal justice system? It was every homicide detective's nightmare.

  "Not yet," Gail said. "But he will. We have a witness. A young woman who was at the party, probably had her eye on Phelps. Barker wasn't exactly lying about the time he left the party. But as he left, he met Phyla Herbert coming in. Probably said the party was a bore, persuading her to leave. They left together."

  "You sure it was Phyla."

  "She described her minutely. Phyla, as we both know, was a genuine redhead. Only then did I show her Phyla's picture. In color. She did not have to ponder the answer."

  "How did you find her?"

  Fiona cautioned herself. A negative stance would put unwelcome questions in Gail's mind and shake her feeling of alliance and comradeship.

  "Grunt work, Fi. The host gave me names. I found her myself. She was a writer at the Voice of America. Sixth try. Beginner's luck, I guess."

  "Let's not be humble, Gail," Fiona said. "You followed your hunch."

  "She had followed Barker," Gail explained, growing expansive. "Then she stood by the window, and saw Phyla. She wasn't aware of anyone else watching. They were otherwise engaged in the festivities."

  A number of questions crowded into Fiona's mind, questions she would have to ration out cautiously.

  "She apparently didn't know about Phyla's fate and I didn't tell her. In fact, I said I was looking for the woman as a witness in another case. I wanted to leave her with the impression that Barker was peripheral. I did, however, caution her not to call him."

  "So Barker is still in the dark?"

  "I wanted to consult with you first. It's a confrontation that we should do together," Gail said. She looked at her watch, as if signaling that they should be interviewing Barker as soon as possible.

  "In the morning when we're both fresh would be fine," Fiona said.

  "He'll be fresh as well, Fiona" Gail said with some disappointment.

  "I do want to be there and I can't make it now."

  "You don't think it's a priority issue?"

  "He's not going anywhere, Gail."

  But Fiona was, her mind on tonight's confrontation with Farley. She needed to make that connection before meeting with Phelps Barker.

  "I really think we should hit him when he least expects it."

  "I'm sorry, Gail. Besides, I don't think the Chief will authorize the overtime."

  It was
yet another statement that could be categorized as a little white lie. It was true that the Eggplant was being very stingy with overtime, in fact, penurious. To grant it required paperwork and justification. Yet in high-profile cases like this one, he would be open for persuasion.

  "I take full responsibility. Tomorrow morning first thing."

  Gail pondered the idea for a moment, then shrugged with resignation.

  "Whatever you say," Gail said.

  Fiona began to gather up some of the papers on her desk prior to leaving. She had to go home to dress. It would not do for her to approach Farley wearing clothes that looked as if she were on duty. The meeting had to be casual, coincidental. She had to look the part.

  But there was a question that could not wait.

  "Do you think he did it?" Fiona asked.

  Gail's long graceful fingers stroked her chin as she considered the question through a long pause.

  "Can't say, Fiona. No record. No bad stuff. Not officially. But who knows? The thing is, we've put him where the action is and that's something."

  "We can't deny that," Fiona agreed.

  "Neither can he," Gail snapped.

  Fiona nodded and their eyes met. Gail could not hide her annoyance.

  "People carry dark secrets inside themselves," Gail said, as if she were addressing someone unseen. Fiona felt suddenly vulnerable, the cliché hitting home, as if she were transparent to the probing intuition of Gale Prentiss.

  "Tomorrow then," Fiona said, forcing a smile, starting to leave the office.

  "I'll set it up," Gail said, reaching for the phone.

  "Do that," Fiona sighed. But before she moved out of the squad room into the corridor, she looked back briefly. Gail Prentiss was hunched over her desk speaking into the phone. If body language was accurate, it revealed a woman determined, obsessed with an idea, single-minded, perhaps fanatic. She had seen that kind of tenacity before. Sometimes in herself.

  Gail Prentiss was going after Phelps Barker's jugular.

  10

  The public rooms at the State Department consisted of a large ballroom and a number of exquisitely appointed salons created from donated antiques.

  Fiona entered with Harrison Greenwald, whom she had met in front of the building. Wearing a short cocktail dress, she was appropriately decked out for the event, totally transformed from the suited blandness of her police work clothing. Harrison looked distinguished, his graying curly hair blending nicely with his white shirt and striped blue tie.

  She allowed herself to be cheek-kissed, the accepted Washington form of social greeting between men and women. It was irritating to discover that even this harmless touching of flesh on flesh made her cringe. She hoped Harrison had not noticed, but he was an astute man and she could tell from the suddenly saddened look in his large brown eyes that he had picked up her signal.

  "Just bear with me, darling," she said in a comment meant not to be specific to the kiss, but a general assessment of her condition. "It will pass. I promise you."

  He nodded without conviction and they proceeded to the elevator, his usual ebullience muted. Upstairs, the rooms were crowded. The event was apparently in honor of a number of prominent judges from Russia's highest courts, who were currently touring the States and had alighted in Washington to be lavishly entertained by their American peers.

  They entered through a reception room where a receiving line consisting of honored guests and the hosts of the evening, Farley Lipscomb and his wife, were suitably placed. They greeted the steady stream of guests with practiced ease. The Lipscombs were the last on the line of seven, busily attentive to each guest who paused briefly to shake hands and utter the appropriate greeting and small-talk niceties.

  As she moved along the line, a fist seemed to close on her chest, her knees shook and the remembered pain of that awful afternoon palpitated her sphincter muscle. She felt beads of sweat roll icily down her back and, oddly, moisture sprouted on her scalp, dampening her hair.

  She must have changed color as well. Harrison, moving behind her in the line, asked: "Are you okay, Fiona?"

  "Of course," she snapped back at him, then turning, forced a smile. "I'm fine."

  "Good," he said, not entirely convinced as he inspected her face. It hurt her to be unduly cruel to him, a man she adored, and who had been a kind and considerate friend and lover. Please, she begged him silently, endure this.

  They moved first from Russian to Russian, the majority of whom smiled politely, although two attempted a brief conversation in badly broken English. She felt herself growing faint as she approached the Lipscombs, mightily fighting with herself to remain upright, to stay cool.

  She passed through the line like a robot, forcing a smile, watching Farley peripherally. She was already feeling the spell of his flashing azure eyes. Actually, she had forgotten their power. They seemed to magnetize their images, as they watched, intense and focused, mysterious and predatory behind his high cheekbones. Once, they had the power to arouse her to an erotic heat seldom experienced since.

  Although his hair had become steel gray and the lines had deepened around his mouth, his Prussian posture had remained ramrod straight and she was certain that his vanity had prodded him to maintain an exercise program that kept his muscles hard. As she moved closer, she imagined she could still ingest his distinctive aura. Her knees weakened as she moved forward.

  Yet, for a brief moment, she sensed the faint prod of forgiveness, as if she was willing to accept blame for what had happened to her. Hadn't she consented, perhaps wishing for the pain, as if his infliction of it was as necessary as her surrender? And suddenly he was there, tall and straight, his glance like blue searchlights boring into her, heating her brain, rendering her mute.

  Her throat constricted. She literally found her vocal chords paralyzed.

  "So good to see you again, Fiona," he said smoothly, betraying not the slightest hint of anything resembling heat or discomfort or, especially, guilt. It was the rooting of her feet into the ground that saved her from toppling. But it was the touch of his flesh, the hated touch, as if it were maggot-ridden, with running pustules that recalled the old abuse, the humiliating agony, the whirring sound of that terrible spear of pain that recalled the moment.

  "Been a while, Farley," she said, recovering her sense of place. "Farley", not "Judge," spoken through tight lips, was, she hoped, the message that carried the still festering depth of the old anger.

  "Has it?" he replied with polite indifference, still smiling, exhibiting not the slightest tinge of discomfort as he kept his eyes focused on hers, his smile thick with practiced ingratiation. His expression showed no recall, no history, a blank slate of memory, as if she had been just another slab of flesh on his sexual cutting block.

  "It's really wonderful seeing you again," he said, trying to pass her off with the slightest nudge toward Letitia Lipscomb, who was just winding up the greeting of a portly man she recognized as a Cabinet member.

  Only then, panicked by the briefness of their meeting, did she find the words that she hoped might make some impact on him. Deliberately, she resisted his attempt to move her toward Letitia.

  "I'm actually a cop now, Farley. Homicide division here in DC," she said, trying to arrange her features in a way that might suggest suspicion. He reacted as if he hadn't heard, his eyes already drifting to Harrison, who stood behind her.

  "How nice," Letitia Lipscomb said, as Fiona reluctantly moved in front of her. Lips met cheeks in a perfunctory greeting.

  "You're looking wonderful, Fiona."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Lipscomb."

  Letitia Lipscomb was the controlled social expert that she always had been, at the very top of her calling as the wife of a Supreme Court justice.

  As she stood before her, Fiona's mind crowded with possible questions. Did he practice these abominations on you? Did you know about him and me? Have you any idea that the man you share your life with is a perverse monster? Or, more specifically, was he with you Saturda
y night?

  What ironies lay just beneath the surface of these mental meanderings. The persona her husband showed the world, which was reflected in his well-reasoned articulate decisions, was of a man tuned in to compassion, the leading liberal thinker on the Court, great and devoted friend of her gender, more giving on the issue of human rights for women than any other. The right to choose, the right to equal compensation, toppler of barriers. A sadist? A sexual deviate? A murderer? Who could possibly believe that?

  "It is so nice seeing you again," Letitia Lipscomb said, nudging her forward, turning to engage Harrison, coming up behind her. Letitia did not break her stride, concentrating her attention on Harrison. When he had been run through the line, they moved to the ballroom and into the milling crowd.

  A groaning buffet graced one wall of the ballroom. At a spot directly across from the buffet was a lectern on which was a microphone for the use of the speakers.

  "Why are we here?" Harrison asked.

  "I thought it would be fun," Fiona began, unsuccessfully avoiding Harrison's skeptical glance. "Scratch that."

  "A case?"

  Fiona nodded, feeling uncomfortable. For a brief moment, dismissing the idea almost as soon as it surfaced, she contemplated a modified form of confession to Harrison Greenwald. On rare occasions, mostly in moments of post-coital serenity, she had offered confidences about her life, always edited with tact and caution.

  Harrison was one of the those philosophizing Jewish men, an over-analyzer of psyches, especially his own. His wife and he had separated because of career displacements. She had been a doctor involved in research at UCLA. Childless, they had apparently simply drifted apart. Separate agendas had created separate lives, which indicated to Fiona that their affection and love for each other was not enough to hold them together.

  "She has a fine mind," Harrison had concluded, meaning his wife. Fiona guessed that they had probably talked their way out of loving, intellectualized their relationship, leaving passion bereft. What Harrison needed and Fiona provided was an attentive ear, a good sense of humor and the experience of a strongly sexed woman, which he seemed to have missed completely. To be deprived of the sexual feature of their relationship was undoubtedly cruel and inhuman punishment as far as he was concerned.