by Warren Adler
"I hope your instincts are better than mine," Gail said sadly.
"Now who's shouldering blame?"
"I should have seen Barker slipping over the edge."
"In this business, every move you make has consequences. Not to mention all the moves you don't make."
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Gail muttered in frustration.
Fiona knew that abandoning her pursuit of Farley would be a long-term, perhaps ultimately debilitating, irritant for her. If it were an ordinary case, she might have gone along with the Eggplant, preferring to accept what looked to be unanimous verdict by everyone, including the media. But her personal involvement severely complicated the issue, which made the case for those who believed that only the most dispassionate view of people and circumstances was the hallmark of a great homicide detective. Under the circumstances, she definitely did not qualify.
She'd just have to live with it, she decided. Like having to bear unrequited love. About the only satisfaction she could derive from this episode was that on a strictly legal basis the death of Phyla Herbert could be characterized as a case of involuntary manslaughter. More like an accident than a planned murder.
At least she hoped so. It wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all, if the perpetrator had set out to murder Phyla Herbert, knowing that the physical shock that he had engineered would trigger a fatal asthma attack.
She allowed such a thought to dissipate. She would not have folded her cards so quickly if this was a case of premeditated murder. Not that Farley could, in her mind, ever be absolved of guilt. Worse, he would now be free to do this to other women. It was galling to think he was going to get away with it.
"Well, we did rattle the bastard's cage," Fiona said.
Fiona punched in the computer to look at the new case the Eggplant had served up. She read the details.
"Like shoveling shit against the tide," she said. She pushed the print button and got the specs, putting the paper on Gail's desk. Then she looked at her watch. Their shift was over.
"My daddy told me there would be days like this," Fiona said, suddenly feeling spent, tired. She looked at Gail Prentiss and smiled. "New adventures await."
They left headquarters and walked together to the official parking lot where their private cars were parked. They kissed each other on the cheek before they got into their respective cars and sped off into the night.
18
Back home, Fiona checked her messages. As she expected, there was one from Harrison Greenwald. With trepidation and some reluctance, she called him back.
"You're driving me crazy, Fiona. Is there a future in this? If so, when? If not, why?"
She noted his agitation, but what could she do? Give me time, she begged him in her heart. At the same time she searched for a response that might defuse his irritation.
"As Scarlett said, 'I'll think about it in the morning.'"
"Which morning? Tomorrow morning?"
"I'm not sure," she answered.
"Are we over, Fiona?" he asked after a pause.
"No, darling. Far from it."
"Keeping me on the hook, eh, Fiona?"
"I hope so, darling," she paused, knowing she was courting the danger of losing him. "I can see the light at the end of the tunnel," she said feeling foolish.
"What tunnel?" he asked. "It's not like you, Fiona. Let me in on it, please."
"Not now, darling."
"If not now, when?"
"Trust me," she sighed, feeling hollow, defeated. He mumbled a response that she could not make out and hung up.
She was exhausted and, once again, put this crisis with Harrison on hold. Soaking in the tub, she tried to empty her mind, squeeze all tension out of her thoughts, hoping that the heat of the water would chase it out of her mind and body. Rubbing herself down with a towel, she flopped naked into bed and was asleep the moment she hit the pillow.
Unfortunately, a dead sleep was not in the cards. The door chimes were persistent. Whoever it was had no intention of going away. She looked at the digital clock. It was a little after eleven and she calculated that she had been asleep for four hours. It was hardly enough.
Still fatigued and slightly disoriented, she moved down the stairs cursing people who would have the temerity to visit at that hour. It was not unusual for a uniform to show unannounced on orders from the Eggplant and drag her to a murder scene, which was what she expected as she carelessly and without thinking flung open the door.
It was Farley Lipscomb. One look and she was instantly awake.
"You."
"Me," Farley said. She backed up as he came in, discovering that she had left her piece upstairs. He was, she noted, dressed without any thought of disguise, a topcoat and no hat. When he opened his coat, she noted that he was wearing a tuxedo. Obviously, he had just come from a formal event.
"This is an appeal, Fiona. Please don't feel threatened."
"I don't," she lied, heading into the den. She heard him following behind her. In the den, she turned to face him.
"Drink?" she asked.
He shook his head and remained standing. She went to the wet bar and poured herself two fingers of Scotch, taking a deep sip. She sat down on the couch. As she did so, her dressing gown had split showing her thighs. Noting his eyes, she quickly pulled the edges together.
"Does Letitia know about these nocturnal visits, Farley?"
"I'd appreciate if you leave Letitia out of this."
"Still frightened that she'll find you out?"
"She's not part of this."
"No. She never was. I remember to what lengths you went to hide your little ... peccadillos."
"I would never embarrass her. You know that, Fiona."
"I've always been curious, Farley. Does she know ... about your ... preferences?"
"She's an innocent in this, Fiona. Leave her out of it. She's been my wife and helpmate for more than thirty years."
"Helpmate? Now there's an old-fashioned word. Yes she has, Farley. She certainly has blazed a trail for you."
"For which I am grateful. I also still love her."
"That's another hard one to swallow, Farley."
And yet, studying his face, he seemed to radiate sincerity. Despite his age, he was still enormously handsome. He looked exactly like what anyone would want a Supreme Court Justice to look like.
Fiona had always characterized Farley's marriage as one of convenience, so prevalent in Washington. An ambitious woman devotes her entire life to promoting the career of her husband, thereby reaping the social rewards of status. Letitia Lipscomb certainly qualified in that department.
"I promised myself years ago that I would never embarrass her. Never. That has always been my principal fear, Fiona."
"And, of course, nothing to do with your career."
"It's all the same thing. I am her life. Anything that happens to me, careerwise, happens to her."
Was he trying to make Letitia the issue in this? She was hardly worthy of sympathy. Was he really attempting to portray himself as a good family man, a devoted husband? Did he seriously believe that she would buy that?
"I don't appreciate what you did today, Fiona. Getting me involved in this ... this spectacle. I told you the other night. I was not with this woman. I am not a liar. Why do you persist in trying to implicate me? It is a very destructive tendency on your part and I resent it. You are out to destroy Letitia and me."
"I am out to prevent a miscarriage of justice. And I think we can dispense with this Letitia business. It's you..." She stopped herself, hoping he would see her as coldly logical rather than obsessive. By his very presence, she had already determined that she was on target.
"After all these years..." He sighed, taking a deep breath. "As I understand it, the guilty party committed suicide."
"I'd say the guilty party is standing here in front of me."
He shook his head in resignation, as if he pitied her.
"Poor Fiona," he whispered. "Corroded by a desire
for revenge. What can I say to you that will convince you that you are wrong?"
"Nothing. My memories preclude ever believing you. I saw that woman. I remember myself."
"I've admitted that what I did to you was ... beastly. I went over the line. I betrayed your trust. I was out of control."
She studied him.
"You were a very bad boy, Farley," she said, crossing her legs, the edges of the dressing gown opening slightly.
"I admit that," he said. She watched the shift in his eyes.
"And you're still a very bad boy, aren't you, Farley?"
He seemed to hesitate, showing a brief tremor of confusion.
"I ... I..." He groped for a response and cleared his throat. She tapped one of her slippered feet impatiently.
"I don't believe you, Farley. Nothing you can say will ever make me believe you."
He shook his head and looked at his hands.
"I know myself, Fiona. I'm not a fool. And we both know my ... my interest. I am an associate justice of the Supreme Court."
She continued to tap her foot. Finishing her drink, she put the glass on the table and stood up.
"You're filth, Farley. Trash."
She hoped her tone showed just the right level of contempt. As she moved forward toward him, he took a step backward.
"You'd love me to, wouldn't you, Farley?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.
"Oh, yes, you do, Farley. You'd love me to punish you, wouldn't you?"
"I swear it's the truth about that girl. I swear."
"But you deserve to be punished, right, Farley?"
"I might, yes. But not about her. Not her."
"But you have been bad from time to time?"
As she advanced toward him, he kept moving backward until he was against the wall. Was he fighting it or faking it? She wasn't certain. She was trying to pick up the rhythm of the remembered theatrics. His response did not surprise her. For her part, she knew she felt no emotional or sexual excitement. But was she fooling him? Apparently.
"It's awful. Having to hide my identity, appearing in disguises in strange cities. Not often, Fiona. I swear. And never, never to hurt someone. Indeed, most of the time, I am a bottom, needing the discipline, the punishment." He looked at Fiona imploringly. "My God, Fiona, it is the only way I can keep my sanity."
Fiona paused and studied him. He looked genuinely involved.
"That part I understand, Farley," she told him gently. "But the other..."
"What can I say that will convince you?"
"I'm not sure if you can, Farley."
From his expression, he seemed to be traversing a galaxy of emotions. On the surface, he was falling into the pattern of a bondage and discipline addict. He was responding to that. But she sensed that another part of him was fighting it, resisting, but not successfully.
No one would believe this, she thought. An associate justice of the Supreme Court. Yet, remembering what he had done to her and what she believed he had done to Phyla Herbert, she drove herself forward.
"It's not fair. I mean ... you must know my record on the Court. I am considered the linchpin, the balance, neither too liberal nor too conservative. My decisions concerning women are the most enlightened in the history of America. I am refocusing agendas, creating new ways to look at the modern world. I'm good, Fiona, articulate, compassionate, magnanimous. My interpretations are a model of clarity. Don't you understand? I'm important. If my health holds, I could be good for another twenty years. What point would there be in bringing me down?"
He was whining, begging as if she were someone all-powerful. He was appealing to what he perceived was her power. Then she felt her effort at dominance begin to dissipate.
Was she wavering? Perhaps Phelps Barker was the perpetrator. Perhaps she was being motivated by a false premise, a disorted mindset, based on her own unique experience. But Phyla Herbert's corpse told her it wasn't unique. Phyla's experience was a mirror image of her own. Except that she had not died. Phyla Herbert had been unhealthy, was an explosion waiting to happen. Anything could have triggered it.
Fiona's mind became a jumble of possibilities. Was her attitude softening? She searched her heart for the slightest hint of forgiveness, forgiveness for what he did to her, forgiveness for what he did to Phyla.
Was it for herself or Phyla that she was expending such energy? She felt unfocused, her certainty shaken.
"Please, Fiona. Any connection with this would be a calamity for me. Letitia will be devastated. I will be hung in the media, the butt of ridicule, my reputation destroyed. The Court, judging, is now my life's work. For what I did to you, I am genuinely sorry. But I can't take back what I did. All I ask is that you believe me now. I am contrite. I deserve your punishment. I prostate myself before you."
Seeing him in this state restored her resolve. She would make him confess.
"You are scum," Fiona roared, her voice snapping into a dominating mode.
He looked at her. He seemed to be making up his mind.
"Down, boy," she snapped. She wished she was wearing leather and was equipped with other accoutrements of his aberration.
"What?"
"On your knees, dog."
Her voice was commanding as her role defined itself. It seemed to be happening of its own accord as if she were outside herself. He looked at her as a supplicant, then dropped to his knees.
"Crawl over here and kiss my feet, you bastard."
He did so obediently. She did not question her actions or his reaction. Research and her earlier experience had taught her the game plan, the roles and rituals. She felt totally clinical, pushing him.
"Forgive me, mistress," he blurted.
"For what?" Fiona sneered.
"For being arrogant and proud."
"Mistress."
"Mistress," he whined.
Her mind became cluttered with possibilities. She wanted to see him humiliated, groveling, his overbearing, arrogant ego destroyed. Above all, she needed him to confess.
"Into into that corner, you slimy bastard," she commanded, watching him crawl into the corner. When he reached it, he put his head down on the floor like a dog and turned to look at her. Her dressing gown had opened, revealing her nakedness. She made no effort to close it.
"Don't look at me, you filthy monster."
He burrowed his head into the corner. A menu of ideas presented themselves. She realized that she had the power to make him do the most disgusting things that her mind could devise.
"You'll do anything for me, you turd," she cried, testing the power, knowing it was theatrics, yet realizing that she was feeling genuine anger now. Such feelings, she knew, were not supposed to be part of the compact.
"Yes, mistress. Yes, mistress," he whined.
Suddenly, a wave of disgust washed over her. Despite her own experience with him and all she had read subsequently, she felt dehumanized, unclean and, finally, appalled by his reaction.
On an abstract level she could be tolerant and understanding, but as a participant she could not accept either the premise or the psychological explanation for its occurrence. Besides, he had violated the compact, inflicting terrible physical and psychic pain on her, and, she could not be convinced otherwise, causing the death of Phyla Herbert. Nor was there any way of knowing how many others had truly suffered at his hand.
At this point, she could not bear the sight of him.
"Get out of here," she shouted.
"What?" He appeared confused.
"Get out of my sight," she screamed.
"Yes, mistress," he said, crawling out of the room. Who would believe this? she thought. It was beyond most people's experience or understanding. When he reached the entrance to the den, he turned.
"It's over for now. Get up and leave." Her use of the word "now" surprised her. She wasn't quite sure what it meant. What she actually wanted most at that moment was to be rid of him forever.
"Thank you," he said as he
rose. "Perhaps next time..." His voice trailed off. Fiona could see he was back into his normal mode, wearing his judge's mask. Looking at her, he smiled.
"I knew I could trust the old Fiona," he said. "I hope I have earned your forgiveness."
She did not know how to respond. She felt disoriented and upset with herself. Walking toward the door, he turned again. She had followed him partially, then stood rooted in the hallway.
"On the other matter, Fiona. I am totally innocent," he said, holding the knob of the opened door.
"I doubt that, Farley," she said. "Unfortunately, the case is closed."
He nodded without offering any verbal response, then let himself out of the house. She rushed forward and locked the door behind him, hoping he would never return.
19
A dozen times after he had left, Fiona wanted to call Gail. But revulsion was too strong and she did wish to relive the events of the evening. She felt herself on the razor's edge between compassion and hatred. It was time, she decided, to step back, leave it alone. Farley's infestation of demons was punishment enough. Wasn't it?
What she could not deny, however, was that Farley had, using his powers of manipulation, made her vacillate in her certainty that it was he who had brought about Phyla Herbert's death. Had this certainty become an obsession, crowding out all logic, all reality? Must she be doomed to forever rehash it her mind, looking for clues of doubt to explode the obsession?
By morning she was physically and emotionally exhausted, although in the light of day, a sparkling sunny morning, she was able to push the matter aside and pull herself together. She had every intention of throwing herself into this new case. It was time, she decided, to put the matter of Farley Lipscomb away.
Meeting Gail in the squad room, they began to go over the paperwork involving the young black woman. Dr. Benson's report indicated that large traces of cocaine had been found in her body.
"Drug-related," Fiona groaned. These were the toughest cases, largely because they involved drug lords and gangs. This was their method of advertising the fate in store for nonpayment or territorial usurpation. She and Gail could look forward to long, fruitless interviews leading nowhere. The chances of closing a case like this were small.
