The Ties That Bind

by Warren Adler

  "Truth? You don't know the meaning of that word. I talked to the woman herself."

  "Probably on welfare with nine kids."

  "She's an accountant, Barker," Gail said triumphantly.

  "She signed her name to an agreement..."

  "Cash for silence," Gail hissed.

  "I'll sue her ass." His nostrils flared and flecks of saliva rolled down his chin.

  "There was also another part of that original agreement," Gail said. Fiona turned quickly. Gail raised her hand as if to say "Don't interrupt. I know what I'm doing."

  "I don't have to sit here and take this," Barker said.

  "If you require, we could always make it more official," Gail replied.

  "And I could have a lawyer present."

  "You have one. Yourself." Gail said.

  "Very funny."

  "We were talking here of truth, Barker," Gail said. She had quickly changed modes, back to the soft gentle woman, a role she had so efficiently perfected. Who is the real Gail Prentiss, Fiona wondered.

  "So far you haven't exactly been a paragon in the truth department, Barker," Gail continued. "Look, here are the facts and Mr. Herbert can easily corroborate them. Part of the deal was that you get yourself a therapist to deal with what was and perhaps still is a problem..."

  "Now I see where you're headed," Barker said, jumping up. "You're going to use my past to frame me."

  He was extremely agitated, but he made every effort to get himself under control.

  "I did go to a therapist," Barker said. "And may I remind you that there is a confidentiality in that relationship..." He broke off in mid-sentence. Fiona remembered what Farley Lipscomb had implied about his own so-called self-therapy. Medical records, her experience told her, leaked like a sieve.

  "Just relax, Barker," Gail said softly. "What we're trying to do is eliminate you as a suspect." She shook her head and shrugged. "Mr. Herbert believes you did his daughter. What we're trying to do here is absolve you from all suspicion. He is a very powerful man. He can hurt you. If you are innocent of this crime, convince us. You can only do that by telling us the truth. So far you've been evasive and, I must say, a bit too theatrical in your attitude. Tell it straight. That's all we ask."

  Again she had changed roles. Now she was playing confidante, the good cop, wanting to save him from disaster. Fiona had to hand it to her. She was good.

  Barker sucked in a deep breath, then sat down.

  "Yes, I kept my part of the deal. But that didn't mean that the woman told the truth. She lied. I didn't rape her. She wanted it the hard way..."

  He suddenly froze, obviously wishing he hadn't put it that way.

  "She begged me to do it that way. It was like a game. I was only sixteen, for crying out loud."

  "She was fourteen," Gail sighed.

  "Going on forty. She was experienced. I wasn't."

  "And the others?" Gail asked.

  "What others?"

  He seemed suddenly disoriented. Fiona had raised those episodes reported in the fax and he had admitted to them with some changes of emphasis. Was he now denying that? Or had he forgotten that he had offered a general confession to past misdeeds.

  "The college women. The woman you once lived with. You admitted harassment, Barker. Remember?"

  "Each of those incidents can be explained," he said, but it was obvious that even his own sense of conviction was running out.

  "What are we to think, Barker?" Gail said. "You have a history of rough sex." She shot a glance at Fiona. "Or am I exaggerating?"

  "Some women like that. Molly ... that's the lady I lived with when I was going to Georgetown. She was a glutton for it. I hated participating. I hated it."

  "But you went along?"

  "That's the way she got it off."

  "Then one day it got out of hand..."

  "Yes, it did. Molly pushed me for more. Then more. You can't imagine how horrible it was." His eyes seemed glazed as if he were looking deeply inside of himself, plumbing his memory. It struck Fiona that Gail's instincts about Barker were at least partially valid. He was prime suspect material. She sensed the first signs that her own theory was beginning to disintegrate.

  Gail suddenly turned toward her and motioned with her head that they should again leave the room. When they were back in the squad room, Gail spoke:

  "Still a nonbeliever?" Gail asked.

  "I'm getting there," Fiona admitted.

  "Let's lay it out for the Chief. Fiona, it adds up. We've got an MO. We've got prints."

  "But no confession. And it's still circumstantial. The Chief will turn us down," Fiona protested lamely.

  "Barker is the man," Gail said. "We could push him further."

  "He's a lawyer in the Justice Department. We make a mistake on this, we're dead meat." Fiona was surprised at her own assertion of bureaucratic fear.

  "We're close, Fiona."

  "There's got to be more. Maybe a search of his apartment..."

  "If we don't book him, Herbert will go through the roof."

  "It's not his call. Frankly, Gail, I don't know why you keep deferring to him."

  "He's a victim." She hesitated and, watching her, Fiona wondered if she was going to change her pose yet again. "I understand his pain."

  For everything there is a reason, Fiona thought. There was something fundamental to this message that Gail was sending, something deeply embedded inside of her, obviously stemming from something ravaging in her past. Fiona allowed a long silence to ensue between them as if waiting for Gail to say something more. She didn't.

  "Let's not rush to judgment on this, Gail," Fiona said gently. "Barker's not going anywhere. His apartment might just cough up enough to make the case."

  "I don't agree. We have enough to make an arrest," Gail pressed.

  "Let's call it insurance."

  "How about delay?"

  "Where's the harm? It's unlikely he'll skip."

  Gail studied Fiona and rubbed her chin. What was she seeing? Fiona wondered, not without a tinge of guilt.

  "What is it, Fiona?" Gail said suddenly.

  "What is what?" Fiona replied defensively.

  Their eyes met until, finally, Gail shook her head.

  "I'm your partner, Fiona," Gail said. "Let me in on it."

  "On what?" Fiona began, but she knew that Gail was on to her.

  "Alright," Gail said gently. "I've deliberately held things back. Not out of malice or ambition. I hope you can see that. Frankly, I was trying to shake you up, force you to tell me what's really going on..."

  She was having difficulty getting the words out with her usual smooth articulation. "I ... I know about those pictures, Fiona. The ones you passed around the hotel."

  Fiona had, of course, expected that to surface, although she had never worked out the response in her own mind. She felt adrift now, spinning in an eddy of confusion.

  "Do you know who they were?" she asked finally.

  Gail paused and studied Fiona's face.

  "I haven't seen the pictures," Gail replied. "But Harold Barton, the assistant manager, did some research on his own. He thinks they're members of the Supreme Court."

  Framing a response was difficult, although Fiona did feel the urge to confide, to unburden herself. Could she trust Gail?

  "Can we let it lie for a while, Gail?"

  "We have," Gail said. "Maybe too long."

  "I need time," Fiona whispered. Even to her own ears, the words sounded like an appeal. Finally, Gail nodded.

  "Okay," she said with a shrug of resignation. "We'll put Barker on hold."

  "Not for long," Fiona said. "I promise."

  When they returned, they found Barker sitting there, abject, his head slightly bowed, all the arrogance wrung out. He lifted his head expectantly.

  "If we need you again, Barker, we know where to find you."

  He was obviously relieved and managed a thin smile. Inexplicably, he remained seated as if he could not find the energy to pull himself up. />
  "I've something to ask," he said. "A favor."

  "Then ask," Fiona said.

  "I ... I don't want to be destroyed by this. I've got a good record with the Justice Department, a good reputation. I'm a damned good lawyer, real aggressive helping people, fighting discrimination."

  He looked toward Gail, playing to her race. To her, Fiona was sure, it was a blatant and rather transparent attempt at ingratiation, probably a turn-off. Fiona saw it as a genuine plea.

  "If my superiors get wind of it ... worse, if it hits the media, it could bury me. Not only my job and future. My parents. My brothers. I mean, this could strike deep. I don't know if I can handle it."

  "That's not our intention," Fiona said, exchanging glances with Gail, who remained silent.

  "I didn't kill Phyla. I couldn't kill anyone."

  Fiona had heard that before, sometimes from the most vicious murderers in the face of overwhelming evidence. She found herself wanting to believe him, wanting to keep her theory about Farley Lipscomb alive.

  "As you can see, we're not going to hold you," Fiona said. "But I can't promise that we won't be talking with you again."

  He nodded and stood up, looking at his watch.

  "They're probably wondering where I am," he said, nodding awkwardly as he moved out of the room. When he was gone, Gail turned to her.

  "There goes a guilty man," she said.

  Fiona did not respond, although she felt almost ready to agree.

  14

  Fiona, Gail and the Eggplant sat in a darkened corner of Benny's Bar sipping their drinks. The Eggplant was exhausted and depressed, hardly in any shape to hear more disheartening news. But, at least, the ambience of the bar was better than the Eggplant's gloomy office.

  Fiona waited until the first shot of Scotch started its mellowing effect on the Eggplant.

  No, Fiona told him, they had not extracted a confession from Phelps Barker. Fiona, with a nod toward Gail, carefully explained that they had not yet arrived at a point where they had enough evidence to hold Barker and that they needed a search warrant to go through Barker's apartment.

  "You think so?" the Eggplant sighed, probably contemplating what additional pain Thomas Herbert would inflict as a result of the delay in arresting Barker. He motioned the waitress to bring another round. Fiona was drinking white wine. Gail was nursing a Diet Coke.

  "What do you think you'll find?" the Eggplant asked.

  Gail shrugged, obviously deferring to Fiona.

  "Maybe a sign that he was into Bondage. Magazines. Sex toys."

  "The thing he used on her?"

  "If we find that, he's nailed," Fiona said with a sidelong glance at Gail, who showed no reaction.

  "You believe he's the one?" the Eggplant asked, turning to Gail. Gail nodded.

  "And you, FitzGerald?"

  Fiona hesitated before answering.

  "If we find things at his place," she said cautiously, "no question."

  "And if you find nothing?"

  "Herbert will fry us," Gail piped. "He expected an arrest today."

  "What's another nail in the coffin?" the Eggplant sighed. He seemed more discouraged than ever.

  "He is not going to be kind," Gail said.

  "It's still not his call," Fiona said.

  Gail nodded, as if she understood. Despite her obvious disappointment in not booking Barker, Fiona was grateful for her not registering any protest.

  "You got that right, FitzGerald. It's mine."

  "You could get off the hook, Chief," Fiona said cautiously.

  "You mean, order his arrest."

  "You're the man," Fiona said. She wondered if she were deliberately goading him to foreclose on her delaying tactics, wanting it to the end here and now.

  "Only if you both agree."

  Fiona glanced toward Gail.

  "Let's get the warrant," Gail said.

  "That settles that," the Eggplant said. He turned to Fiona.

  "As the Seargeant knows, I always back my troops."

  Not always, Fiona thought. Their relationship was sometimes contentious, but always respectful. She had learned a great deal from this egotistical, ambitious, and sometimes insufferable black man. Aside from his professional knowledge, he had, at times, shown extraordinary insight into the motivation of human beings. His hunches were more correct than most, although her record was also formidable.

  It was true that race was the prism through which he viewed life. Indeed, it was a condition, sometimes she considered it an affliction, of most of the blacks she knew, especially those among her colleagues. But there had been moments when his mind, and hers, had met in what could be described as neutral space, a kind of vacuum, without the bacteria of gender, race, ego, ambition and fear to influence judgment. Always, this place was where pure reason resided and where they had made the most profound and cogent decisions in their work.

  Unfortunately, their visits to this place were rare, too rare, although at times they began their journey away from the squad room, in out-of-the-way places, where straight talk was encouraged between them. Like now.

  Certainly, in his present state, he was in no condition to make any wise decisions. A bulldozer of events had flattened his spirit. It took two Scotch-and-sodas to uncork his emotions.

  "It's like a funnel directly over my head, with raw sewage being fed into it and slopping all over me. There are well-armed bands of terrorists out there." He looked at Gail. "They have us outgunned. There will come a point, after they realize the futility of turning their guns on their own, when they will turn them on us."

  "And then?" Gail asked.

  "The reckoning," the Eggplant said, turning to face her. "First must come the reckoning. It will be devastating. Only after that will come the resurrection."

  "Pretty heavy symbols, Chief," Fiona said.

  "The police department, as we know it, will be obsolete. We will become more of a paramilitary organization, God help us."

  "You paint a gloomy picture, Chief," Fiona said.

  "How can it be otherwise? Murder, you see, has vast political implications. The leadership, the mayor, Congress, even the President, wants quick solutions. Find the bastards, take them out." He shook his head. "Like our friend, Mr. Herbert. He has power. He can exert pressure. In the end, he equates us with the perpetrator, as if we are deliberately covering up the crime, as if we are allies of the bad guys."

  "You got that right, Chief," Fiona said. She, too, was well into her second round of white wine, unusual for her. Gail continued to nurse her original Diet Coke, listening to their coversation, but contributing little.

  "He'll probably bitch to everyone that our little experiment with gender is a big flop," the Eggplant said, upending his drink. He looked at his watch. The alcohol seemed to have mellowed him, taken the edge off his depression.

  "Do you think so, Chief?" Fiona replied.

  "It's my idea, remember," he said, showing a slight smile for the first time since they had arrived.

  "Don't write us off yet, Chief," Gail said suddenly. "We're getting there." She looked toward Fiona. "We just need a bit more time."

  Fiona could sense something in Gail percolating to the surface. At some point soon, she knew it had to be addressed.

  "If we don't lose this one soon," the Eggplant said, rubbing his eyes, increasing their bloodshot condition, "they'll find a way to close down the idea." He sighed. "There's already rumbles. Some of the guys are calling it discriminatory. Shit. Everything in life is discriminatory. Hell, I meant well."

  He put down a twenty and stood up.

  "My share," he said. "Let it not be said that the old Eggplant can be bought for a few drinks." He chuckled again to show that it was a joke. He was already slighty tipsy. Despite his bulk, he was not a good drinker.

  Then he walked stiffly toward the door.

  "Thanks, Gail," Fiona said.

  "For what?"

  "Not pushing."

  Gail stared into Fiona's eyes.
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br />   "You owe me for that, Fiona," she said, looking at her with laserlike intensity, her lips tight. "And I'd like to get paid."

  15

  Fiona made some coffee while she recounted the history of her house to Gail, how she had inherited it from her mother, how important it was to her, how much care she lavished on it.

  Gail had listened attentively. On her father's death, she had explained, she would inherit their big house on the so-called Gold Coast. Gail, Fiona could tell, knew all about the symbolism of houses.

  Like Fiona's house, it, too, was a mansion. It, too, stood for a kind of validation. Fiona's father was the grandson of an impoverished Irish immigrant. Gail's father was the grandson of a slave. The commonality seemed another bond between them.

  Gail followed Fiona to the den and, without being directed, took the leather wing chair that Farley Lipscomb had sat in so recently. Fiona poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Gail. Ignoring the irony, she sat on the couch, in the same spot she had occupied when confronted by Farley.

  "The worst part of this, Gail," Fiona began, after taking a deep sip of the coffee and putting the cup beside her on an end table, "is worrying too much about managing your reaction."

  "Why should that bother you?"

  "I'm a bit of a fraud, Gail. I don't have any female friends ... real friends. All-the-way-friends. I've never really confided in people of my own gender. I mean the real confidences, down to the marrow. The fact is that the only female I think I know is myself. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Before Gail could reply, Fiona continued. "Oh, I've had so-called women friends. We've confided, of course. Maybe I'm asking too much, expecting too much. Can we ever truly know enough about each other to even qualify as true friends? The fact is that I don't think I know very much about women in general. For example, everything I know about real intimacy, even sex, especially sex, I've learned from men. And men have dominated my life. Not me, understand. But my life."

  "Except for my father, I must say that I never learned much from men," Gail said, drawing in a deep breath. "I'm not very experienced in that regard." She forced a laugh. "It might comfort you to know that I don't have any female friends either. Oh, I have acquaintances, family, aunts, cousins. No female siblings, though." A shadow descended over her face.