Immaculate Deception (16 page)

"Who said anything about blame?" Fiona said. From
their expressions and the way they exchanged sly glances, she could see they
thought they were winning. She sucked in a deep breath and cleared her throat.
"If that's what she said, this business of not seeing Frankie. I just
don't believe her."

Curran stood up and thrust a finger in front of her face.

"Now that's out of line."

"You men and your waving fingers."

She had meant something else, of course, but she held back.
No sense in inflaming them beyond reason. She needed to pack a real wallop, one
that hit them rationally, not just emotionally.

"We have two theories, gentlemen. One is that she did
indeed get in to see the congresswoman. We don't know how." She looked at
McGuire. "She might have used your key."

"Who told you I had a key?"

"Somehow she got past the desk man," Fiona said,
ignoring his question, "and got into Frankie's apartment. There, she did
confront the congresswoman. Frankie refused to reconsider her decision. Miss
Dellarotta begged and cajoled. When finally Frankie was still unmoved, she
appeared to backtrack, apologized, then consented to a cozy little drink. Then
came the little episode of the cyanide."

Curran, who had sat down again, rushed out of his chair
once again.

"I can have you thrown right out of this city."

"On what grounds?"

"I'll find them."

"Good. More grist for the mill. The media will eat it
up."

"Who said anything about the media?" McGuire's
complexion suddenly matched Curran's.

"Pregnant mistress begs lover's wife for
divorce."

"Is that a threat, sergeant?" Curran said coolly.
He was not easily intimidated.

"Of course, it's a threat. I strongly suggest you heed
it."

"Goddamned little bitch," Curran muttered.

Suddenly Fiona stood up. She could feel the churning begin
inside of her, the rising sense of indignation, the blood pumping in her
temples. She was the same size as Curran and she looked straight into his eyes.
There was no emotion there. The man was ice cold.

"This whole situation stinks of cover-up and
corruption," she said, slowly and pointedly. Curran's response was merely
to look at her, his expression a frozen wasteland. Considering how he had
jumped up to protect McGuire, she had expected more emotion. Her insult had
been calculated. It would have had a mule's kick for any police chief in the
country. But this one was beyond that, hard as nails, as cold as a bear's cave.

"You got it wrong, Fiona," McGuire said solemnly.
"Bob Curran is above reproach. Everybody knows that. If we have any
weaknesses up here we take care of our friends. The man's a friend."

"Then it looks funny," Fiona said, unyielding,
but believing him.

"I don't care how it looks, sergeant," Curran
said. "The man's had his share. No need for any more. If he believes
Beatrice, then I believe her."

She was, she knew a sucker for this kind of loyalty among
friends. In a political context it was rarer than a heat wave in winter. It
softened her and she sat down again.

"I promise you," she said. "I'll be fair
with her. I will not upset her. But you both know, I have got to speak with
her."

McGuire lowered his eyes and looked at his hands. Curran
looked at her, his features immobile. Suddenly McGuire raised his eyes.

"You be careful with her," he said.

"Of course," Fiona replied.

"It's all right, Jack. We'll see to it," Curran
continued to stare menacingly at Fiona.

McGuire got up and left the room. He was back in a few
moments with Beatrice Dellarotta. The contrast between her and Frankie McGuire
was dramatic. She had a hawkish dark Mediterranean face. Large brown eyes with
dark circles under them, lips that curled into a cupid's bow. Her jet black
hair was long and shiny. She wore a blue silk flowing dressing gown, but it did
not hide the fact that she was already showing her pregnancy.

Curran stood up when she came in. McGuire was surprisingly
attentive, dancing around her, leading her to the leather chair, his touch and
look reassuring. His devotion seemed truly without guile.

Fiona had also risen, accepting McGuire's introduction
respectfully. She took the woman's hand, which was warm and responded to the
pressure of greeting. McGuire pulled over another straight-backed wooden chair
and sat next to the woman. Reaching out, he took her hand. It was, indeed, a
tableaux of great affection.

"Believe me Miss Dellarotta, I..."

"McGuire," Beatrice interrupted, barely above a
whisper.

"I'm sorry," Fiona said, somewhat confused.

"We were married three days ago," the new Mrs.
McGuire said. It would have been less than a week after Frankie died.

"I didn't want it to happen this way," McGuire
said. "But as you can see..." He waved his hand toward Beatrice.

"I'll be thirty-seven next month," Beatrice said,
clearing her throat. Fiona reacted, of course, thinking of herself. She looked
deeply into the woman's dark eyes. I know, she said to her silently, reminded
of what she hoped might be happening to her.

"I understand," Fiona said sincerely.

"I wanted this child to enter the church with
dignity." She looked toward McGuire, lifted his hand and kissed it.
"We know how it looks. But what is one to do. It could have been..."
She checked her words, swallowed, her eyes moistening. Fiona waited until she
found her voice again. "God's will," she whispered. "That's the
only way to explain it. I certainly did not want to see her dead."

McGuire patted her hand.

"Of course not, sweetheart."

Again she swallowed, took out a tiny handkerchief from the
pocket of her dressing gown and dabbed at her eyes.

"I did go to Washington. I was angry and hurt. It
wasn't as if I was the other woman in its worst sense. Jack had already left
her bed. It was over when we met." She took a deep breath to calm herself
and wrapped her arms around her swollen belly and smiled. "He just jumped."

McGuire reached out and touched her belly, concentrating.

"There it is again."

"It's a miracle. A wonderful miracle."

Fiona nodded, but was too emotional to speak. In a few
months, she hoped, she too might feel that miracle. A shiver trilled up her
spine.

"As soon as I landed I knew I couldn't go through with
it. I lost my courage. I could not bring myself to suffer the indignity of
begging this woman..."

"I told her that," McGuire said.

"I took a cab. But as soon as we crossed the river I
asked him to let me out. I walked around a little, had a cup of coffee. Then I
walked some more and finally I took a cab back to the airport and went back to Boston."

When she had finished she looked at McGuire, as a child
might do to a parent after a public recitation. He responsed by nodding and
patting her hand. Up to then, despite the presence of Curran, she had assumed
that their overly protective stance was a kind of natural paranoia.

Fiona could understand McGuire's unwillingness to upset his
pregnant sweetheart, keep her out of harm's way, exposing intimacies that both
of them would have preferred to remain private. On that basis, she could accept
Curran's presence.

But there was something in Beatrice's tone and manner which
put her on alert, triggered her suspicion. She looked at Curran who caught her
gaze and kept it. He had the look of a predator. She could detect not the
slightest fear and uncertainty. Something is definitely wrong here, she
decided.

"And you never set foot in Mrs. McGuire's
apartment?"

"That's what she just told you, sergeant," Curran
said.

"Do you remember where the taxi dropped you off?"
Fiona asked gently.

Beatrice hesitated, then looked at McGuire. She seemed
suddenly uncomfortable.

"I was so agitated..." Beatrice began.

"It was a strange city," McGuire added.

"Do you remember where you had coffee? What did the
place look like?"

"Just an ordinary coffee shop," Beatrice
shrugged.

"In what sense ordinary. Small. A counter. Do you
remember what kind of person served you. Black? White?"

She saw both men exchange glances. Curran nodded as if to
say: Don't worry. I'm here.

"Really, I draw a blank. I ... I was so over-wrought,
you see."

"Do you remember anything about the taxi ride? Did you
pass any familiar landmarks, any monument. Could you see the Capitol dome, the Washington Monument?"

"I saw that. Yes I saw that," she said. McGuire
still held her hand.

"Was it on the left? On the right?"

She seemed to struggle with that for a few moments.

"I'm not sure," she said. She looked at McGuire.
"Is it important?"

"Not really," Curran said. He seemed to have
determined that the best way to get rid of her was to let her do her number.

"When you got out of the cab were there many people
around? Could it have been Georgetown?"

"I wish I was sure," Beatrice said, looking at
Fiona. "I want to be cooperative. Really I do. But consider my condition
and my emotional state."

"I am, Beatrice. I am quite sensitive to it."

"I want to do the right thing," Beatrice said.

"Of course, you do, my darling," McGuire said. He
picked up the hand which he was holding and brought it to his lips. There was
genuine affection here, Fiona observed, wishing she could dispose of her
suspicions, feeling queasy. Unfortunately, there was no going back. She had to
play out the string, follow her instincts.

She turned suddenly to Curran.

"We'll have to check out the cabs," she said.
"You'd expect that of your people as well."

Curran looked at McGuire. Again there was the exchange of
collusive glances, but neither made a comment. But Beatrice's eyes flitted
between them nervously. She turned to face her.

"All I want is some geographical point that puts you
far away from the scene. A witness, for example, who saw you at the coffee
shop. Something. Anything. I can't go back and tell my boss that you simply
forgot where you were." Again, Beatrice looked at Curran, her expression
deliberately troubled and pleading.

Curran turned to her.

"Surely you remember something, Bea?"

"I was so overwrought," she began, then shook her
head vigorously. "I just don't remember."

"Was it Georgetown? Did you walk in Georgetown?"
Fiona asked.

"I don't know."

"She wouldn't even know where it is," McGuire
said.

"Did you tell the cab driver where you wanted to go
and then change your mind?"

"I..."

She hesitated and turned once again to McGuire.

"Believe me, I can check that," Fiona said.

"Well, then, check away, dammit," Curran said.
"Stop harassing the lady."

Fiona ignored him and pressed on, concentrating her stare,
trying to hold Beatrice's gaze.

"Did you get to the apartment house, then turn
around?"

"I told you I couldn't go through with it,"
Beatrice said.

"So you went to the apartment house first, then turned
around?"

"I won't have this," McGuire said, getting up,
his face flushed. Yet, he continued to hold her hand.

"I did not kill her," Beatrice cried. Her body
stiffened as she raised her voice. "I did not kill her. I did not."
The veins stood out on her neck.

"Stop this," McGuire said, his rebuke directed
now to Beatrice.

"I only talked to her," Beatrice whined. She had
started to stand up then fell back on the chair. She had turned dead white.
Fiona felt pity for the woman, ashamed for herself. Worse, she worried about
the baby inside of her.

"Some water, please," McGuire screamed, rubbing
Beatrice's hands. Curran ran out of the room.

"I'm so sorry," Fiona said starting to rise.

McGuire reached out with one hand, palm upward.

"No. You've caused enough trouble."

Curran came back with the water and gave it to McGuire, who
lifted it to Beatrice's lips. Concentrating on Beatrice, they ignored Fiona who
felt thoroughly guilt stricken. The sudden admission, although she had
suspected what was in the air, had stunned her.

"It's all right," Beatrice said finally, waving
them away.

"You had better go," McGuire commanded. Curran
was silent, averting his eyes. The man showed no emotion at all.

Fiona got up. Her legs felt rubbery. Her mind told her she
wasn't supposed to go. How could she explain it away?

"I'm sorry, Jack. We can't have this," Curran
said.

"What could I do, Billy?" McGuire whispered.

"Too late now," Curran said. They were still
ignoring Fiona.

"I'm glad it's out," Beatrice said. The color had
returned to her face. "It's a relief. I knew at confession this morning. I
couldn't tell anything but the truth."

"Goddamned priests," McGuire mumbled.

Fiona sat down again, waiting for some calm to set in.

"I did go there," Beatrice said. She looked
directly at Fiona now. "But he didn't know that I was going. Not then. We
talked about it weeks ago when she changed her mind. At first he did suggest I
talk to Frankie. Then he decided it would be too much stress for me. You see,
she didn't know I was pregnant. Finally, I said to myself, I'll go see her,
talk woman to woman. Show her what was happening. Plead with her. She couldn't
be as cruel as all that. She wasn't interested in Jack anymore. She couldn't
be. I'm sure her constituents would understand. People are generous." She
paused, smiled, touched her belly. "There he is again. See he knows I'm
doing the right thing."

She looked at McGuire, reached out and held his hand. A
sweet and loving woman, Fiona decided, knowing that a detective must always
look beyond the personality, keep all options open, eschew quick judgments. The
woman's face was suffused with joy and she envied her. Oh how she envied her.
Perhaps she too ... but she quickly put such sentiments out of her mind.