by Warren Adler
What he gave her, aside from the complete cooperation of his body, which she acknowledged was beautiful, with a level of remarkable endurance that suited her perfectly, was a kind of soothing, fatherly wisdom and, ironically, the fruits of a fine mind. He did not have Dr. Benson's natural compassion, but he was able to articulate ways to face fate and its vicissitudes.
This was something that her father had once provided, the sense of moral protection, the understanding of life's foibles and how to meet the challenges of one's own vulnerability. Fiona had adored her father, and all the men in her life since his passing years ago were a replication of him in some form or other. If there were sexual implications, she did not acknowledge them as such. In this, perhaps, was the root of her tight bonding with Gail Prentiss.
The most admirable thing about Fiona, as articulated to her by Harrison, was her honesty, her forthrightness and the logical way in which she expressed herself. Unlike many of Fiona's suitors, who hated the fact that she was a police detective, Harrison reveled in it and showed a deep interest in those cases whose details she shared with him. He was far enough removed from the process so that her revelations would not be considered a violation of police procedures.
"Do we have a suspect here?" Harrison said, putting a hand up as if to shade his eyes, while rotating his head in a mock search.
"I'll explain," she said. "I promise."
"Everything?"
"That, too."
She took it, as she knew he would, as a commitment. What it required was a build-up of courage. They grazed at the buffet table and picked up glasses of white wine, standing around while they ate and observing the surroundings, speaking little. Harrison must have known she was concentrating deeply. She needed, more than ever, to instigate a confrontation with Farley Lipscomb.
It would be a chore to engage him, she realized. Undoubtedly, he was playing the game of indifference. She allowed herself to believe that it was a conscious pose of shrewd evasion.
There had to be a way to draw him out, create some litmus test of his guilt ... or innocence. Seeing him, after recovering from this brush with her own vulnerability, had forced her to clear her mind of all extraneous hubris. She must concentrate on jarring him out of the clever facade the had erected, rattle his cage, cause him to react.
She watched him walk to the microphone, smooth and confident, in full possession of himself, the wise prince to be fawned over and lionized. He knew how to handle that role well. His persona seemed created especially for the purpose.
Fiona recognized the under secretary of state, who had come in late by a side entrance, a man of lesser presence than Farley, bringing with him the laudatory words of introduction while Farley Lipscomb stood modestly to one side. After a burst of applause the associate justice made the customary self-effacing remarks and bade welcome to his Russian friends, lifting his glass, his voice smooth, its timbre silken.
He was so good at it that Fiona found it difficult to superimpose this other image, the one that she carried with her, the laughing, sneering monstrosity, delighting in her defilement, urging her on to a disgusting refrain as he plunged the hard, vibrating object inside of her, ordering her to relish the pain, to love the pain, to feel the pleasure of the pain.
A film seemed to descend on her vision, which she found difficult to blink away, and Farley finished in a misty cloud. She had lost the content of the windup of his speech, but by then she had begun to take command of herself again. I am a cop on the trail of a killer. Nothing less than that. Alright, there was a lot more, and she would use that anger to prod her action. Hatred, she had learned, was a great motivator, especially when it was personal, the target clearly defined.
After a reciprocal toast by one of the Russian judges, the formalities were declared over and the socializing began in earnest. Fiona watched Farley move through the crowd, working the room with practiced efficiency. Harrison had met a colleague and was deep in conversation, although his eyes followed her protectively.
She insinuated herself into the wave of people sliding like a pulling tide toward the associate justice as he moved against it, dividing his attention appropriately to each person in turn. His wife moved in her own orbit, a master of brief small talk, as she passed from person to person.
Although Fiona fixed her stare on the oncoming Farley, he made no sign of recognition until he was directly in front of her. Lifting his eyes, he smiled generously, showing no sign of anxiety, an unruffled presence soaking up the plaudits of the crowd.
She had calmed down by then, steeling herself for what she knew would be a battle of wills. Tenacity, she realized with heroic intensity, would be her only real advantage. She would surely be outgunned by his deviousness, his intimidating cleverness, and, of course, the power of this reputation and mesmerizing persona.
But nothing, nothing was going to impede her confrontation. In a split second she had decided to go directly to the heart of the matter. Risk everything. Under the spell of that compulsion, she felt helpless.
"It was so nice seeing you again," he said with old-fashioned, chivalric politeness. She was conscious of the sea of people behind her waiting to touch the hem of the great man. But she stood her ground, determined to make her presence indelible.
"I know what you did to Phyla Herbert," she said, her gaze concentrated on his face. Farley looked at her blankly, showing no sign of any emotion, not an iota of fear or hint of anxiety.
"Phyla Herbert?" he responded, shaking his head briefly, offering a genuine look of puzzlement.
"The Mayflower Hotel, Saturday night," she said, which instantly struck her as redundant. Did she have to remind him of the scene of the attack?
"I'm at a loss..."
"What you did to me years ago."
It was, she knew, a bold, perhaps foolish, gambit. There seemed no point in subtlety. She needed to pound into his solar plexus, astound him with surprise and direct accusation. He looked at her with a strange mixture of confusion and rebuke, his smile broadening as if in mock exasperation for some childish infraction on her part.
Her voice was just above a whisper, the words for his ears only. It wasn't that he was deaf to them. He simply did not register the expected reaction. The message of his expression was tolerance for the irrationality of an unbalanced mind, a judicial posture as if he were listening to the ravings of a hallucinator.
"Are you saying that you have no recollection of what you did?"
"I must confess to total ignorance," Farley said calmly, shaking his head with what seemed like genuine perplexity.
"Really, Farley. Phyla Herbert as well," Fiona replied quickly, unwavering, lashing out, showing him he was in danger.
"I'm sorry ... I'm at a loss to understand."
His expression remained unmoved, except for pleasant confusion and benign tolerance. He did not appear to be the least bit frightened by her remarks.
"Seventeen years might dull one's recall, but Saturday night, Mayflower Hotel, Phyla Herbert. Haven't changed your modus operandi, have you, Farley?"
Not the slightest reaction. No fear. No sense of danger. He was acting. Fiona was sure of it. He raised his eyes and looked beyond her, calling to someone behind her.
"Harold. I haven't seen you for an age."
Sidestepping, he left her standing in his wake. She had made her point, she assured herself, and he had shown his own strategy as well. Denial and an attitude of indifference were familiar weapons of evasion for criminals in the face of police action. But the familiarity of the response was tinged with disappointment. Considering the monumental impact his aberration had made on her life, she felt resentful of his denial and insulted by his unwillingness to acknowledge it. In fact, she was furious.
Steady, she told herself. It wouldn't do to lose control of her emotions. She had to assess his reaction, think about it. Did it signify guilt or innocence? Or was she overreacting, fantasizing? Was hate goading her? Was the desire for revenge corrupting her judgment? Would he
react? And if so, how?
Treat this as merely the opening gun in a tricky operation, she told herself. But his indifferent reaction touched a raw nerve. She vowed to muster her own arsenal of weapons, stalking, confrontation, harassment. Perhaps some of it would stray over the line, just enough to push him to react. React how? Confession? Perhaps, but unlikely. This was not a man with a conscience. Carelessness? Fear and annoyance might shake loose his tongue.
Would bringing down his vaunted reputation be enough satisfaction for her? Or would nothing less than imprisonment do it? No either/or on her agenda here. She wanted to see him punished to the full extent of the law ... and beyond. Forever. For eternity.
"What was that all about?" Harrison asked when she had made her way back to his side. She had felt him watching. "You look flushed."
She did feel the heat in her face. But she hoped she had kept the ferocity in her heart well hidden.
"He was a friend of my father years ago," she said, clearing her throat of a sudden hoarseness.
"Was he?"
"He was a lawyer in private practice then. I worked for him briefly."
"Did you?"
She sensed that he knew she was deliberately not filling in the blanks. Thankfully, he didn't pursue it. She felt him sinking into resentment.
They went down the elevator and when they reached the street, he asked:
"Want to talk?"
"Not yet, Harrison," she sighed.
"It's all quite mysterious," he said. "You know I really care about you, Fi."
"I'm betting on that to keep you from walking away," she told him.
"Just a phase," he said. "Is that it?"
She nodded, knowing the gesture was inadequate. Actually, she hated people who used that as an excuse for conduct that hurt others.
"And when will it end ... this phase?"
"Soon."
It was, she knew, a blatant lie. There was no way of knowing. In fact, no way of knowing if it would ever end. Her confrontation with Farley Lipscomb seemed more like an act that would prolong her frigidity than one offering any signs of a thaw.
She said good-bye to him in front of her car with a forced meeting of lips with cheeks. As she drove away, it crossed her mind that this thing with Farley might be pushing her further and further away from reality.
Yet she could not shake her suspicion. Was he guilty or wasn't he? She needed to know. It was driving her over the edge.
11
Barker had begun to perspire, a dark stain spreading under the arms and along the upper chest of his blue shirt, They were sitting in his office, where he had deliberately arranged them around the conversation area of upholstered chairs. In the corner of his office were a coffee machine and a small refrigerator.
"Black for both of you, right?" Barker said.
Fiona and Gail nodded and Barker filled their order, putting full mugs on the table in front of them. Then he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Diet Pepsi.
Fiona knew it was a ploy to put people at their ease, the personal service, the move away from the awesome officialness of his desk. Only this time he was the one seeking to disarm what was clearly, from his vantage, the enemy. Gail had arrived with guns loaded, her yellow-flecked eyes reflecting a steely determination. Fiona, for her part, brought with her the baggage of skepticism.
"As I mentioned on the phone," Barker said, opening the can and taking a light sip, "I'm really pressed today. I hope this won't take" —he looked at his watch and smiled—"more than a half-hour. A big meeting with the boss."
Fiona had been apprised by Gail of the meeting in Barker's office at Justice by a message on her answering machine when she returned from the State Department.
"I'll meet you there at nine," Gail had said, her voice bursting with enthusiasm. "Lots to fill you in on. I think we've got something here."
Fiona, who had suffered through a bad night wrestling with the fury generated by her confrontation with Farley Lipscomb, had overslept, meeting Gail just as both arrived at Phelp's office.
Actually, she was being assailed by a cloying sense of self-disgust, which was beginning to manifest itself in physical ways. Her appetite, normally robust, had disintegrated into a constant nausea and clot of pain in her stomach. Her heartbeat would accelerate without warning. She had experienced hot flushes last night, worried that it was a harbinger of a change-of-life crisis, supposedly years away. She was also sweating profusely under her dark wool suit.
As they entered Barker's office, Gail, in a chameleonlike miracle of change, presented herself with a benign charm that carefully masked her obvious goal of bashing down Barker's defenses.
The tactic offered a clever new twist to the interrogation, considering the adversarial way in which their earlier interview had ended. Gail now assumed the role of the compassionate, understanding good cop, all smiles and gushing with good cheer. She put out her hand, another contrived gesture of good will. Barker, who must have been confused at first, seemed taken in by this sudden burst of charm.
Fiona decided to maintain a demeanor of strict neutrality, an uncommon role for her. But she was not yet ready to let go of her theory about Farley Lipscomb. She hoped that, no matter how aggressively Gail honed in on Barker, however much his facade was ripped away, whatever layers of perfidy were exposed, none would be relevant to the death of Phyla Herbert. That role she had reserved in her mind for Farley Lipscomb.
"I hope you'll forgive my conduct yesterday," he said. "I was so upset about Phyla..." Apparently he, too, had decided on a new tack, reining in his arrogance and showing a humility that seemed oddly ill-suited to him.
"We understand," Gail said, nodding and blinking her eyes in a gesture of acceptance. She reached over and picked up her mug, taking a deep sip. Fiona let hers stand. She had no stomach for coffee at the moment.
"Somebody you grew up with"—he made a sound of sucking air through his teeth—"to die like that."
"Actually we've had somewhat of a break," Gail began blandly, casting a glance at Fiona who nodded, offering what she hoped was a gesture of assent.
"I'm certainly glad of that," Barker said.
"It puts a whole different complexion on the case," Gail said. "We think we know who was the last person to see her alive."
"Fantastic," Barker exclaimed, taking a deeper sip on the Pepsi, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I never meant to disparage your police work."
"We never thought you did," Gail replied. She put her coffee mug back on the table, suggesting that she was stripping down for action.
"So tell me," Barker began. "How can I help you?"
"A couple of fill-in details is all we need," Gail said.
"Shoot."
Gail took out a small pad and opened it slowly. Mostly for effect, Fiona thought. While she did so, Barker finished off the Pepsi and put the can next to the mugs as if, he too, were also stripping down to defend himself.
"You say you left the party Saturday night at about eleven?" Gail asked gently in review, holding back her power, waiting for the right moment to spring.
"About that time, yes," he said alertly. He wasn't a fool, Fiona knew, and their return engagement surely had made him suspect there was more to this than a purely informational interview.
"And you never saw Phyla again?"
He frowned.
"What are you driving at?" he asked, his benign facade starting to crumble.
"Just trying to get some of these details straight," Gail said.
"Didn't I tell you that yesterday?" Barker asked, his eyes shifting to Fiona's face and back to Gail's.
"Yes, you did," Gail said. "That's why we've arranged this interview."
He was getting the message. The perspiration stain on his shirt seemed to spread.
"I don't..."
"Just give us a straight answer, Barker," Gail said, snapping her voice like a whip cracking as she finally revealed her intent. Two round balls of hot blush suddenly appeared on Barker's cheeks.
"I don't like your insinuation," Barker said.
"What exactly am I insinuating?" Gail asked, all pretense gone.
"Why belabor the obvious?" Barker snarled. "If you have something, spit it out."
"She was seen coming to the party as you were leaving. You were observed chatting, then leaving together."
The revelation was expected to strike him like a hard physical blow. Instead, he seemed relieved. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.
"Caught," he whispered, shaking his head, changing the strategy of his defiance as if he had expected the accusation. "Can you blame me for this little white lie? Where was the upside in getting involved? Good police work, ladies. My congratulations. It was a most unsuitable and inconvenient meeting, I'm afraid."
Back was the superior arrogance of the fraternity boy of the day before. Fiona half-expected him to snap his finger to summon the eager Walter for a whiskey sour.
"We appreciate the compliment, Barker, now we would..."
He lifted his hand to stop Gail from continuing.
"Fate has been cruel. Yes, she did come to the party at my invitation and I waylaid her at the door to tell her that it wasn't her cup of tea."
"And you left together?"
"Yes, we did. I had my car."
He paused, waiting for Gail to offer questions. An experienced interrogator himself, it was obvious that he was going to let Gail lead the way, responding sparsley.
"Where did you go?"
"For a drink."
"Where?"
"A bar next door to the Mayflower. Bentley's I think.
"How long did you stay?"
"An hour, no longer."
"What did you drink?"
"Vodka and soda. She had a Diet Coke."
"How many drinks did you have?"
"Two, no, three."
"What did you talk about?"
"Our futures. The government. The past. I told you we were friends. We talked about what had happened to other friends. Stuff like that."
