The Ties That Bind

by Warren Adler

  "And kiss my future good-bye?"

  It was she knew, a fatuous idea. Of course, he would not risk therapy. The sacrosanct patient-doctor privilege was always in jeopardy from a disgruntled therapist or even his spouse or the offspring who inherits records, particularly tapes, and uses them to fulfill a personal agenda for revenge or profit. No, Farley would be far too cautious for that.

  "It might have headed off a repeat performance," Fiona snapped.

  "There was no repeat performance," he shot back. "Besides, I found self-therapy much more helpful. I've worked it out through insight and personal control."

  A self-cure, he meant, which Fiona believed was highly unreliable. Besides, it also fit in nicely with her theory, which she had not yet rejected.

  "You injured me, you know," Fiona said.

  "I know. It's taken me years to resolve my guilt. But then, here you are. Safe and sound. None the worse for wear."

  Of course, she could not bring herself to tell him of the traumatic after-effects of his little caper and its present manifestation. Seeing him sitting across from her in this room in her own house only added to the intensity of the old memory.

  "You did it, Farley. Your fingerprints are all over it."

  "Fingerprints?"

  She watched his eyes. Did she detect confusion ... or fear?

  "Impossible, Fiona. I wasn't there."

  She had meant fingerprints in a symbolic sense, but she made no move to correct his misinterpretation. Let him stew over that one, she decided.

  "Come now, Fiona. I was a prosecutor once. That kind of evidence demands action. Besides, if you had my prints, I'd be sweating out an interrogation at police headquarters. The reason you haven't my prints is that I was not present at the scene, despite your wild theorizing."

  "Weren't you?"

  He shook his head as if he were pitying her.

  "I understand, Fiona, where your suspicion is coming from. It's simply not true. The thing I did to you..." He paused obviously searching for just the right phrase. "...is..." He paused and shook his head.

  "Is what, Farley?"

  "It's part of it..."

  "Along with the graffiti?"

  "Yes," he admitted. "I told you, I went too far."

  "With me and her," Fiona snapped.

  "With you. It was meant to be theatrics."

  "The tie-ups, the blindfold and the gag, the leather, the paddle."

  "They're props of the game. You know that, Fiona. Do I assume that it ... our incident ... was your only exposure?"

  "Yes, it was."

  "If I recall correctly, some parts of it were quite stimulating for you."

  She felt a flash of heat rise to her face and a familiar sensation surge through her body, which she fought off acknowledging. She cursed her vulnerability.

  "I stick by my theory, Farley."

  "I understand your strategy, Fiona, and I'm here to tell you it won't work. In the first place, I am innocent. In the second place, I doubt if any evidence has surfaced to remotely connect me with the crime." He paused, waiting for her response. She deliberately kept her silence, not wishing to confirm his statement as truth. She might have said something like "Not yet. You seemed to have done a thorough job of clean-up," but she held her peace.

  "It won't work, Fiona," he continued. "I'll admit, from what you tell me, that there was some similarity to ... our episode. I also understand your wanting to avenge yourself. The fact is that you apparently have no evidence and I won't confess to something I have not done. I must admit your strategy with Letitia worked, but it won't work with me. I wasn't there." Again he shook his head. Then he sighed. "The very nature of my job makes me vulnerable. I was always grateful for your silence, Fiona. Such a revelation would have killed my appointment to the Court dead in it's tracks. You could have stepped forward then, Fiona, and floored me. You didn't, for which I am eternally grateful. You still can harm me, but you could also harm yourself, which brings us to a stalemate of sorts. Although I have more to lose than you."

  "Still a snob, aren't you, Farley?"

  "I'm just being realistic. Equate a Supreme Court justice with a homicide detective. Where do you come out?"

  He was right, of course. To accuse a Supreme Court justice of a crime of this magnitude without evidence would result in certain suspension for her. Not necessarily for him, although he would have to ride out the storm. There were, after all, no witnesses to corroborate her story, which he would deny. He would accuse her of fantasizing, hellbent on destroying him for some yet-to-be-concocted political reason.

  "If you did it, I'll find out, Farley. I'll connect you."

  Lipscomb shook his head.

  "These things can become an obsession, Fiona. Why not leave well enough alone? What we did is over, over years ago. You're fixated on it. Let it go. It won't do either of us any good."

  For a man accused, even obliquely, he was remarkably calm. In the lamplit room with its muted shadows, he looked a lot younger than he was. She knew she was doling out bravado. But how could she admit her frustration? Worse, she was genuinely concerned that Gail and Thomas Herbert, in their hyper-zealousness, could cook up a case based on circumstantial evidence and destroy what could be an innocent man.

  "Maybe so," she admitted. "But I'm not going to let it go until I'm sure."

  He studied her for a long time.

  "I feel very sorry for you, Fiona. Perhaps you haven't yet come to terms with your own sexuality."

  "Are you now practicing psychoanalysis, Farley?"

  "If memory serves, your response was ... fervent." He looked at her intensely, his expression one of rebuke. "Perhaps you need to learn a new lesson."

  His voice recalled the old memory, troubling now because she reacted to it, as she had then. It was incredible, the idea of it. Despite his protestations, she saw, he was still into it.

  "I don't need any lessons from you."

  "Yes you do, you bitch."

  She stood up suddenly.

  "What are you trying to do, Farley?"

  "You filthy slut," he said, getting up from his chair and moving toward her. She remained seated as he came toward her, unable to act, mesmerized by his oncoming form.

  He stood over her, fists clenched, his face somber, stern. Grabbing her by the arm, he lifted her roughly from the sofa. She felt her heartbeat pounding in her ribcage, ribbons of perspiration rolling down her back. His face was close to hers, their eyes met.

  "You're going to get exactly what you deserve for doing this to me."

  Then suddenly his arm reached back and he slapped her hard across the face. Her head swung in the direction of the slap and he slapped her again in the opposite direction. She felt helpless, paralyzed with humiliation.

  "You like that, don't you, you cunt," he shouted, striking her again with the back of his hand.

  She stepped back to avoid his blows, struck suddenly by the grossness of the idea. He was trying to bring her back to the old game and, for a moment, a brief moment, she had been disoriented. Now her head cleared and she reached into the pocket of her robe where she had put the .38. Drawing it out, she pointed it directly at his face.

  "I wouldn't, Farley. You cannot imagine how much pleasure it would give me to blow your head away."

  He stepped backward. She could see the fear in his eyes.

  "Alright," he said, his hands in front of him, palms up. "Just calm down."

  "I'm very calm. All I'm looking for is an opportunity to pull this trigger."

  "You've got it wrong, Fiona."

  "You know I don't."

  He kept his hands up and stepped a few steps backward.

  "May I leave now?" he said, clearing his throat.

  "You mean you're willing to deprive me of the pleasure."

  He did not reply, walking slowly past her, watching the barrel of the .38.

  "I'm going now," he said, clearing his throat.

  "I'll be seeing you. Soon."

  He let hims
elf out of the door and closed it quietly, moving soundlessly through the darkness to wherever he had parked his car.

  Slowly, she put down the gun and dropped it into the pocket of her robe. The interview with Farley had planted a seed in her mind and, as she moved up the staircase to her room, she felt it begin to germinate.

  With her mind churning, she looked at the rumpled bed with distaste. The idea of lying there in the darkness, unable to quiet her thoughts, filled her with anxiety. She paced the room, trying to understand the events of the evening, especially the vulnerability she experienced when Farley suddenly snapped on the ritual language of the bondage-and-discipline theatrical script.

  The response it had triggered in her was frightening. She had thought that she had left all that behind years ago. The idea of it sapped her resolve, made her feel further disoriented, raising questions of confidence.

  This was definitely not the way a homicide detective was supposed to react. There had to be dispassion, objectivity, an emotional neutrality. Personal involvement could be counterproductive, bias the investigation, skewer judgment. Perhaps, in the final analysis, she was not cut out for this type of work. The intrusion of such a negative thought seemed to shake the foundations of her life. A massive depression seemed on the way.

  Then, suddenly, a telephone's signal shuddered into the jumble of her thoughts. As a reflex she noted that the digital clock registered a few minutes after midnight. It was Gail Prentiss.

  "I'm sorry Fiona. I had to call."

  "It's okay, Gail, comes with the territory."

  "I just got home from Dad. It was on my fax."

  "What was?"

  "We got our match, Fiona. We put Phelps Barker in Phyla's room."

  13

  The pleasantness of the surroundings belied the seriousness of the events. From Thomas Herbert's suite, the sun streamed brightly through the undraped windows, which framed the White House. Beyond could be seen the Jefferson Memorial and the Washington Monument. Picture-postcard Washington, Fiona thought, wedding-cake perfect.

  But when her gaze drifted from the view to Thomas Herbert's somber face and Gail Prentiss's dark intense expression, the pleasantness disintegrated.

  "It's enough to bring him in for questioning, but not enough to hold him," Fiona said. For the past half-hour she was saying the same thing in different ways and Thomas Herbert was growing increasingly angry.

  "He was there. He lied. He's undoubtedly guilty," Thomas Herbert said. He, too, had been saying the same thing repeatedly. "He needs to be sweated, skillfully interrogated."

  "He will be," Fiona said.

  "I want Officer Prentiss to do the questioning."

  Fiona and Gail exchanged glances.

  "Sergeant FitzGerald is very experienced, Mr. Herbert," Gail said.

  Herbert must have realized he had put Gail in an awkward position and grunted something about commitment.

  "We don't presume guilt, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said.

  "I know my constitution, Sergeant. But the police have another agenda, to bring forward a convincing case. The man is clearly guilty."

  "If he is, we'll make the case, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said, holding back her anger. In the face of this hard evidence, her own private theory was certainly under attack. Nevertheless, last night's confrontation with Farley Lipscomb had given it some additional credibility.

  "No 'ifs,' FitzGerald. This man is a menace. He cannot be allowed to walk the streets preying on other young women."

  It was the painful cry of every relative whose loved one has been the victim of a terrible crime. In emotional shorthand, it meant vengeance and Thomas Herbert was no shrinking violet in that respect.

  "I want him put away forever."

  "I can't blame you," Fiona said. "If he's guilty."

  "That 'if' again," Herbert said angrily.

  "We'll do our best, Mr. Herbert," Gail said. Her tone seemed to mollify him.

  Herbert looked at his watch, then picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  "This is Herbert." He listened as someone talked at the other end. "As soon as possible, you hear?"

  He hung up, then glared at Fiona.

  "You bungle this, there'll be hell to pay," he sneered. Fiona could understand his pain and her responses were as gentle as she could make them.

  "We won't, Mr. Herbert," Fiona replied, trying to muster enthusiasm, but there must have been still something in her response that troubled him.

  He glanced toward Gail, an obviously committed ally. She lowered her eyes. Fiona suspected that they had had extensive conversations on the subject.

  The telephone rang suddenly. Herbert answered it.

  "Send him up," he growled.

  Fiona looked at Gail, who did not return her gaze, which seemed curious until the Eggplant strode into the room

  "Good of you to come, Captain," Herbert said. The Eggplant nodded, looking uncomfortable as he sat down. They were grouped around the table. Herbert had provided coffee and Danish, which the Eggplant refused. Fiona knew him well enough to see that he was fuming underneath. Obviously, Herbert had leaned on him through his superiors. Fiona also knew that the fact that he had answered the summons made him seem subservient, a perception that infuriated him.

  "We were discussing Phelps Barker," Herbert said. "His fingerprints prove conclusively that he was in that room the evening of my daughter's murder."

  Herbert was, of course, technically incorrect, but the Eggplant held his peace. Fiona could tell it was not easy for him. Herbert's attitude was overbearing, superior, a master and servant thing, which the Eggplant's ego could not abide under any circumstances. She admired his discipline.

  "Add to that his sexual history. I had to intervene on a rape accusation, which cost Mr. Barker's family a considerable sum."

  "Yes," the Eggplant said. "I've been filled in on that."

  "There will be more," Herbert said. "I have a private investigation ongoing in Illinois."

  "I'm aware of that as well," the Eggplant said.

  "We'll have the bastard dead to rights," Herbert said.

  "Circumstantially," Fiona said, more as a reflex. She had not intended any comment. The Eggplant scowled at her, obviously wishing that she would keep her mouth shut.

  "It would seem," Herbert said with unveiled sarcasm, "that Sergeant FitzGerald is less than enthusiastic about the course this case has taken." He turned to Fiona. "I think she is more inclined to believe that this man is innocent of the crime committed against my daughter."

  "Please, Mr. Herbert, Sergeant FitzGerald is an experienced homicide detective with an outstanding record. Our people are instructed to doubt until they arrive at critical-mass evidence."

  The Eggplant's remarks seemed to stoke Herbert's anger. He shot a glance to Gail.

  "What do you think, Officer Prentiss? Or are you intimidated by your superior's statement?"

  "I do not intimidate my people," the Eggplant snapped. Herbert was getting under his skin. The fact was that the Eggplant could be characterized as a master at intimidation, especially suspects, although occasionally underlings. It was, the staff knew, more bluff and noise than meanness. Mostly, they made excuses for this flaw in his management style.

  Herbert's attitude triggered Fiona's police-bonding mechanism and her temper.

  "Besides," Fiona said angrily, directing her remarks to Herbert, "we don't intimidate easily, whatever the source."

  "I think we're getting offtrack," Gail said in an effort to defuse the situation.

  "Way off," the Eggplant mumbled.

  "We have Barker in the room, Chief," Gail said. "Under the surface, he's fragile. If he's our man, I feel certain that we can crack him."

  "I'm sure we can, Officer Prentiss," the Eggplant said with surprising calm. It amazed Fiona how Gail Prentiss commanded respect from everyone around her. It was a rare gift, a special talent.

  "And your view, Sergeant FitzGerald?" Herbert asked. He was back on that.

  "I
t is clear that Barker lied when he denied being in Phyla's room. But..."

  "There it is," Herbert exploded. "The but. He was there, woman. He forced her into this disgusting situation, raped her and killed her."

  Fiona started to speak, but the Eggplant silenced her with a glance.

  "There is no evidence of rape in the conventional sense," the Eggplant said. "And our pathologist says that she died of natural causes."

  "Then the conventional sense is wrong, Captain. I know my daughter. She was exemplary in her conduct."

  Herbert hesitated, on the verge of breaking down, trying valiantly to hold himself together.

  Dr. Benson had reported in passing that the girl was apparently very experienced sexually, definitely not a virgin. A quick exchange of eye contact with the Eggplant told her to leave that one alone.

  "She was penetrated with savage brutality and..." Herbert went on, somewhat recovered, although his lips trembled and his eyes had reddened. Pausing, he took deep breaths to get himself under further control. "And it is clear that she wouldn't have died if she had not been subjected to this ... this degrading infamy."

  "I understand," the Eggplant began.

  "No, you don't," Herbert interrupted.

  "We will do our best to ascertain the truth," the Eggplant began again, keeping his voice modulated to a monotone.

  Thankfully, he was interrupted by a telephone call. "Yes, it's on," Herbert said to the voice on the phone. "Good."

  He hung up. As soon as he did so, a different kind of ring, indicative of a fax, began in the bedroom.

  "I've asked my investigative team to come up with a preliminary report on Barker. It's coming through now. I can tell you that I've spared no expense. I already know some of what is coming. It is not a pretty picture."

  He got up and went into the bedroom. As soon as he was gone, the Eggplant spoke.

  "We bring him in for questioning as soon as we leave here," he said.

  "He's at his office," Gail said. "I've already checked."

  "And be careful," the Eggplant warned. "By the book."

  "Of course," Fiona said. She hoped that she did not show any negativity. Barker had to be interrogated. There were also questions that had to be asked of Herbert, questions pertaining to his and his daughter's relationship with Farley Lipscomb. Somehow, she had to manage it without causing an explosion.