Immaculate Deception (23 page)

"I don't want to embarrass you, FitzGerald," he
said. "My advice to you is to have our coffee, then leave here and forget
about all this."

He started to raise his coffee cup, but his hand shook so
hard that the cup slipped into its saucer, spilling the coffee on the white
tablecloth. He was quite obviously losing control and knew it.

"I've made a mess," he said, his voice breaking.

"Yes, you have," she said. She was noting other
physical signs of a crumbling facade. His lips were trembling. She knew what
she had to do now.

"Do you and your wife have any children of your
own?" Fiona asked. He had been studying the coffee stain on the table, his
eyes lowered. Suddenly he looked up as if his face had been slapped. She knew
she had struck a deep nerve.

"No, we don't," he whispered, clearing his
throat. "That's all public record."

Where he had sought her eyes, he now shifted his gaze to
his hands. Then he shrugged and spoke, his tone low, as if he were addressing
his fingers. Slowly, he lifted his head, but his look was still vague.
"The doctors said I had too low a sperm count."

The assertion came as a shock. In a court of law such
evidence could rule out the possibility of his being the father of Frankie's
baby. Then why all this display of angst?" she wondered.

"So you see I couldn't have been the father," he
sighed.

"Not necessarily, Mr. Rome. All it takes is one."

"Yes," he said vaguely. "Just one."

Her long shot, she knew now, was paying off, but in an
entirely different manner than she had expected.

"You were pretty proud, weren't you, Mr. Rome?"

He looked up at her, his eyes lugubrious, moist with tears.
The facade had suddenly disappeared. What was left was a terrible psychic
nakedness.

"I couldn't do that to Frankie," he said,
swallowing hard, obviously trying to assert control over his emotions.

"Or to your baby."

He averted his eyes and wiped his face with his napkin,
still fighting for control, but obviously losing the battle. Halfway home, she
thought with relief. Unfortunately his revelation had underscored her principal
fear, that Frankie's lover might not be her killer.

"I loved her, you see," he croaked, clearing his
throat.

Despite the visible evidence of his surrender, Fiona was
shocked. Watching this strong confident man crumble so quickly came as a
surprise. But she knew that it often happened this way, a spear of truth
hitting that tiny nerve of vulnerability.

"I was proud as hell," he whispered. His shoulder
shook and he again picked up a napkin as a kind of prop, bunching it in his
hands as he dabbed his face with it. All pretense of dignity had disappeared.

She sat watching him, feeling genuinely embarrassed, wondering
if this was not simply another performance. It was, she knew, a time for
silence, a time to respond to his need for confession, even in this unlikely
setting. A compulsion to expiate was a powerful force and she knew from long
experience when to get out of its way.

"It had no logic. It wasn't preconceived. I am not a
philanderer. Nor was Frankie a loose woman. It simply happened between us, at
first without our knowing, then finally as an epiphany. We fell in love.
Imagine that. We were, in fact, on opposite ends of the political continuum but
we fell in love. Despite everything. Love is a blind madman." He shook his
head, blinked his eyes, squeezing out a few more tears which he wiped away with
his napkin. By then, she had recovered her surprise. The fact was that the man
had roused her compassion. She could empathize with his pain. Love, when it
happened, was ruthless and demanding.

"We found a way," he sighed. "Early
mornings. It was quite simple. I had always risen at the crack of dawn, headed
for the office early. Always the first in. Get a great deal of work done before
everyone arrives." He laughed self-mockingly and, of course, she
understood. Barbara had confirmed his habit of rising early. "Dawn to
midnight. A congressman's work never ends," she had said.

"We found a precious hour or two to be together,"
he sighed. "It was the happiest time of my life. And hers."

Discreet as well, she thought. It was unlikely that he
would meet anyone at that hour on the stairs or in the corridor. Getting out without
being seen would be slightly more risky. Obviously he had managed it.

He became suddenly contemplative and she sensed it was time
for her to encourage him.

"Did you know about the child?"

"Yes, she told me." He nodded in emphasis,
offering a clown's smile, the kind which indicated that you were crying on the
inside. "I was the happiest guy in the world."

"And she?"

"Confused. And yet ... joyous at first. We were like
kids, you see. In love." He sighed deeply. "Then, of course, reality
set in. We are rather high-profile political figures. The scandal would be
devastating. At our age, it would be hard to portray us as romantic lovers,
which we were in fact. Abortion, of course, was considered."

"But she was a pro-lifer by conviction."

"Yes she was. But you also have to understand that she
was in a powerful position to serve her cause. With Jack McGuire pressing for a
divorce, she would have made herself a laughing stock to her constituents. The
media can be quite ugly. There is a way to rationalize things, FitzGerald. She
was thinking, I suppose, of the greater good, a kind of self-sacrifice for the
ultimate end." He shook his head. "In this case I was the more
passionate naysayer."

"You? I thought you were an abortion advocate."

He paused.

"This would have been my only child, FitzGerald,"
he said, recovering, for a moment, his earlier commanding vigor. "It was
unthinkable."

"What about marriage?"

"That, I'm afraid, was another problem. I couldn't
leave Barbara. Why should Barbara be punished? I couldn't bring myself to do
that. Not after what we had been through together. Barbara wanted children more
than anything else in the world. We could have adopted early on, I suppose. But
the doctors always held out hope. Then suddenly we were older and it was too late."

"But she had given Jack her permission for a
divorce?" Fiona asked. "Then changed her mind."

"She was still contemplating things, you see. When I
vacillated, unable to find the courage to leave Barbara, she decided to change
her mind about Jack. At least the child would have legitimacy."

"Then she did opt against abortion," Fiona
pressed.

"More to it than that," Rome sighed. "She
loved me, you see. The child would be ours. She knew how important that was to
me. It would have been her gift."

"With a minimum of political risk," Fiona added.

"That, too." He looked toward the windows for a
moment. "To us politics is everything."

Fiona remembering her parents, knew exactly what he meant.

"Did she know that Beatrice, Jack's mistress, was
pregnant?"

"I don't think so. It was you who told me that she was
informed that night. By Beatrice. Damn. How tawdry it looks from the outside.
How awful it sounds." He chuckled drily, bitterly. "All this
conception. My whole adult life was dominated by the idea of conception. My
weak sperm. God, how vulgar. Then suddenly, as if God had chosen it, Frankie
and I..." He caught her eyes again, looking deeply. "How unfair it
all is."

"What exactly happened that night?"

Suddenly, he was back in character, the consummate picture
of the dignified congressman and politician father figure. He put the napkin
aside. Apparently, he had great powers of recuperation.

"We had a late staff meeting at the Monocle
restaurant. Every month we do this. It broke after eleven and I was home before
midnight."

"You never talked to Mrs. McGuire?"

"I would have seen her the next morning."

"She never called your apartment?"

"Not at that hour. We both knew better than that.
Barbara, you see, didn't know about us. Dear Barbara. She didn't have the
slightest suspicion. Thank God for that."

He seemed calmer now. The confession had unburdened him.
And, of course, she had tested him on the question of the call. She knew that
Frankie had not called. They had, indeed, checked. Despite the emotion and her
own reaction to his confession, his veracity had to be confirmed. It was, or
seemed to be.

"Did you actually attempt to see her that
morning?"

"I started to. You people got there first, I'm afraid.
There was a policeman at the door."

"Did you return to your apartment?"

"No. I went to the garage, got in my car and rode
around. I was quite upset and anxious. I knew something had happened."

"What did you suspect had happened?"

"I..." He hesitated, vacillating back to
vulnerability, the mask of calm command removed once again. "I suspected
that she had killed herself."

"You did?" There was no end to his surprises.

She looked around the restaurant. It was almost totally
empty. Most people had left. He became silent, turning to look out of the
window. She followed his gaze and saw the panorama of Washington.

"Had she ever talked about suicide?"

"Not in so many words." He turned to face her,
his expression deeply pained, his lips trembling. "She was under very
heavy pressure, caught in a triple bind. The woman was a member of Congress,
for crying out loud. She was carrying another man's child. Not your usual
political scandal. Abortion might have been a solution, but neither of us
wanted that. Her career was on the line."

"And yours."

"Possibly. But she was a woman ... under all the
hullabaloo the fact was that she represented a very conservative district. The
truth would have spelled disaster. A baby by the liberal Charlie Rome.
Blasphemy. The reality of her husband's mistress's pregnancy could have been
the straw that broke the camel's back. She might have felt that there was only
one way out."

"Suicide?"

"Look, FitzGerald, I'm quite sick about all this. Do
you know how it feels to grieve alone? I told you the truth. Frankly, you have
it in your power to destroy my career. The idea that my actions might have ...
in fact did ... precipitate Frankie's suicide would not exactly make me a
sympathetic figure. By the time the media were finished with me, I'd probably
have to leave for some remote South Pacific island. I have to tell you, though.
I feel a lot cleaner having told you. I'm a politician, but I'm really not very
good at carrying heavy burdens and dark secrets. So you have the gun in your
hand. All you have to do is pull the trigger. Oh yes. There's more. The idea
that you people were considering that Frankie was murdered panicked me and I
did consult the Speaker on the issue. He did empower me to make a quiet
investigation. Yes I manipulated him to do this. I knew that the longer this
case was kept open, the better the chance of having all this come out. I was
right."

"But how do you account for the use of cyanide, the
absence of a note, the lack of fingerprints...?" It was too late to
swallow the word. Her lie was out now.

"I suspected as much," he shrugged. "Also
the bit about the witnesses. The fact is that I didn't murder her. I loved her.
In the end, the truth will out."

"But that still doesn't explain the complete absence
of any physical clues."

"I've thought about that, sergeant. All I can say is
that Frankie was enormously clever and resourceful. She probably figured it all
out. Wiped away anything that might implicate me or anyone else. As for not
leaving a note. Maybe an explanation was too painful. And how was she to
realize that an autopsy would be performed? Maybe she wanted her life to speak
for itself. She was quite independent. Her work was her life. Her children were
grown and on their way. Her husband had chosen another woman. She wouldn't have
dared leave me a note. I understand that. If you knew her you would, too. As
for her choice of poison. She'd find a way to get it."

In a strange way, Fiona was also relieved. Deep down, she
suspected, she had chosen to attack this man because of what had occurred with
Greg, as if he were a surrogate for extracting revenge.

"In a way," Rome said clearing his throat,
"you might say I did murder Frankie. I'll have to live with that for the
rest of my life." Again tears welled in his eyes and he could no longer
speak.

"I want you to know, Mr. Rome," she said with
deep conviction, choosing her words carefully, adopting a clearly official
tone. "I will respect this confidence. I'm really sorry to have intruded.
Unfortunately, it's the nature of my work. I did, however, go beyond the bounds
of propriety, for which I apologize."

He reached out and took her hand.

"I forgive you, FitzGerald ... is it Fiona?"

She nodded.

"I was less than forthcoming myself. Every once in a
while, I guess, people need to cleanse themselves. I guess you helped me choose
the moment."

She thought again of her father who had also chosen his
moment.

"Maybe I have been wrong," Fiona said, feeling
the warmth and pressure of his hand's response. "Frankie McGuire may have
committed suicide after all."

May Carter's voice boomed into the squad room from the Eggplant's
office.

"Lardass bitch," Briggs muttered. He sat at a
desk near the door to the Eggplant's office and was hunting and pecking his way
through paperwork. Fiona had just arrived after her meeting with Congressman
Rome. She felt unburdened and relieved. But was she convinced? Away from the
power of Rome's personality, nagging doubts surfaced again. Why no
fingerprints? Why perfume and face cream before retiring? Was she to believe
Beatrice about Frankie's state of mind? Or Rome's version?

But her agonizing also had another dimension. Could she
bring herself to reveal what Charlie Rome had confessed? And what was she to
tell the Eggplant about her reasons for choosing suicide? Would he accept her
conclusion, one professional to another? Perhaps, considering his own wavering,
he might welcome her reinforcement. Certainly Cates would. And the mayor and
members of Congress. Everyone involved, except maybe May Carter. Justice would
be done.

May Carter's intrusion was an irritation. Fiona did not
wish to postpone presenting her conclusions any longer than she had to.

"I say cover-up, captain," May Carter's voice
boomed. "Nothing will convince me otherwise. You people have been less
than diligent. I have reason to believe that Frankie McGuire was murdered by a
very clever hit man contracted by those opposed to our movement. People who
believe in killing are not discriminating. For their Godless immoral cause they
will stop at nothing. I demand that this office be mobilized to break this
case."

Her words rang clearly in the squad room as they sailed
through the thin inside walls of the Eggplant's office.

"There is absolutely no evidence to..." the
Eggplant's words trailed off as he lowered his voice. But whatever strategy he
might have used to placate her hadn't worked and she was soon at it again.

"I came here to warn you that I fully intend to go to
the media on this one. Your mayor has great faith in your department's ability,
captain. 'Satisfy yourself,' he told me. 'Speak to Captain Greene.' Well, here
I am, and all I get is more lip service."

"Can of worms, the whole goddamned case," Briggs
said. "And what does the little white princess think?"

"Shut up and play with your Johnson," she
rebuked, straining to hear the conversation in the Eggplant's office. They had
apparently reached a civilized decibel level.

"I've given you the motive. Mrs. McGuire was simply
getting too powerful for them. I tell you this woman was murdered for that
reason. Murdered. Not a suicide. Murder. Pure and simple. Bloody calculating
murder."

Not bloody at all, Fiona told herself with rising
indignation. She stood up and strode toward the Eggplant's office.

"I wouldn't, FitzGerald," Briggs said. "He'd
be looking for a goat and you'd be walking right into goat heaven."

"He shouldn't have to take her shit. Her theory's off
the wall."

Without another thought of the consequences, she ignored
Brigg's warning and strode into the office. Both faces turned to her.
Immediately she noted the Eggplant's relief at her sudden presence. May
Carter's face was beet red with anger.

"You know Sergeant FitzGerald." He waved his hand
toward Fiona. "She's one of the detectives on the case."

"We've met," May Carter said, sniffing, as if
Fiona gave off an unpleasant scent.

He signaled for Fiona to sit down and she took a chair
beside the woman. Her indignation was palpable.

"Where are we on the McGuire case?" the Eggplant
barked officiously.

"Nowhere, that's where," May Carter harumphed.
"Not that she hasn't nosed around." She turned to Fiona.
"Understand you were in Boston," she said smugly, to illustrate the
extent of her knowledge.

"Nice town," Fiona said offering a smile of
innocence.

"She was murdered by them. Absolutely. There is simply
no room for doubt."

"Mrs. Carter intends to go to the media with this case,
tell them it's the work of a hit man for the other side."

"The abortion killers," May Carter snapped,
lifting her chin pugnaciously. "Just another way of killing." She was
well practiced in the art of intimidation. The Eggplant looked very repressed.
The effort to hold his temper had apparently taken every ounce of his
willpower. Help me, his eyes pleaded.

"Mrs. McGuire committed suicide," Fiona said
cutting a glance toward the Eggplant. Frown lines of confusion appeared on his
forehead. In his gut, she knew, he didn't buy it. She sensed his anger boiling
just beneath the surface. Also, in the face of this persistent woman, his
resignation.

"So, you're all in this together, are you?" May
Carter said. "You're all going to pay for this one day. What you should be
doing is putting all those baby killers behind bars."

"The issue here is the death of Frankie McGuire,"
Fiona said, suddenly heating up.

"Exactly. And Frankie McGuire was murdered by a
contract hit man hired by the baby killers."

"That is complete nonsense, Mrs. Carter," Fiona
said firmly without looking at the Eggplant who must have been mortified by her
candor. After all, May Carter was a powerful and credible national figure who
had threatened to go to the media with an explosive accusation. Obviously such
an action was to be avoided at all costs. Fiona's arrogant assertion, she knew,
must be giving the Eggplant, notwithstanding his inherent disbelief in her
assertion, nervous palpitations.

"We shall see about that." Mrs. Carter said,
standing up.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter," Fiona said.
"You're only going to embarrass yourself and your movement."

"You had better watch your step, lady," Mrs.
Carter snapped. She made no attempt to leave the office.

"And I don't appreciate your attempt to intimidate me.
Or my superior."

"Thanks, but no thanks," the Eggplant said.

"No one murdered Frankie McGuire," Fiona said
slowly, emphasizing each word. "She committed suicide. There is no
evidence to suggest otherwise." She avoided a glance toward the Eggplant.

"That's absurd. I knew the woman, perhaps as well as I
know myself. She was not remotely suicidal."

"She had compelling reasons," Fiona said flatly.

Mrs. Carter sat down again, her chin lifted aggressively.

"I doubt that."

"She is absolutely a suicide. Without a shadow of a
doubt," Fiona said, finally looking toward the Eggplant. Skepticism was
written into the deepening lines of his forehead, emphasizing her own. Was she
really? Fiona wondered, once again assailed by nagging doubts. But May Carter
had goaded her into drawing this conclusion, although it did challenge Fiona's
comfort level.

"I warn you, I don't intend to accept that verdict and
will do everything in my power to squelch it. I swear it."

"Are you certain then, Sergeant FitzGerald?" the
Eggplant asked, in a tone that revealed a forced formality. It was clear that
her sudden conclusion had left him confused. Worse, she was not certain that
she harbored the conviction that could privately persuade him of its validity.

"Yes. I am." I think, she thought.

"I have a question for you, FitzGerald," Mrs.
Carter said. It seemed like an attempt to be ingratiating. Fiona knew better.
The woman was setting her up.

"Do you believe in abortion?"

"That's a loaded question, Mrs. Carter," Fiona
said. It had come as a bolt from nowhere, completely unexpected. Fiona
hesitated as she drew deeply from her recent experience. She needed time to
recover herself, regain the momentum.

"Why is that so relevant to this discussion?"
Fiona asked.

"It's important to know where you stand," Mrs.
Carter said.

"I don't think it's any of your business," Fiona
said belligerently.

Mrs. Carter nodded, as if illustrating her superior wisdom.
She turned toward the Eggplant.

"You don't need a compass to know where she
stands," Mrs. Carter harumphed, turning to stare at Fiona. "Of course
it's my business. What happens in our society is everybody's business. More
important, the creation of human beings is God's business."

She was, Fiona realized, launching into a polemical
diatribe, whipping up the inner passion of the zealot. Again she glanced at the
Eggplant, who looked upward at the ceiling in a gesture of frustration.

Fiona held herself in check. No point in arguing with a
fanatic. Besides, her personal turmoil over the matter with Greg had reminded
her about her own inner consensus, which had surfaced yet again, like a sea
lion that must rise periodically out of the deep for air. For her, every issue,
personal and public, required this inner consent and the litmus test of its
personal validity was how it affected her own independence. Selfish but
necessary in a hostile world, she had decided.

When Mrs. Carter had concluded, Fiona looked at her and
said, "In your opinion, then, abortion is nothing more than murder."

She turned to the Eggplant.

"Good Lord, this woman is thick-headed." She
looked back at Fiona. "What the devil do you think I was just talking
about."

"And life begins at the very moment of
conception?" Fiona asked.

"This is ridiculous."

"And if you had conceived a child you would never, ever
make an effort to abort that child?" Fiona pressed.

"Are you hallucinating?" Mrs. Carter frowned.

"I take it the answer is no. Under no
circumstance?"

"Don't you think this is a rather pointless
exercise?"

Again, Fiona looked at the Eggplant. A thin smile had
erupted on his face and she caught his barely perceptible nod of consent.

"And Frankie McGuire shared this attitude?"

"With her soul," Mrs. Carter said angrily.

"All abortion is murder, right?"

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Abortion is murder. Pure and
simple."

The interrogation had developed a rhythm. Point
counterpoint.

"After conception, a woman's will means nothing, her
choice is out of her hands?"

"In the face of that miracle it has become God's
choice. God's will."

"Exactly."

"And violating that will is a sin. In lay terms, it's
nothing more than murder?" Fiona felt the fire rise in her gut. She sensed
that Mrs. Carter was now operating out of both rote and morbid curiosity,
wondering where Fiona was leading her. The woman's eyes had fixed on hers,
steady and demanding. She was prepared to give no ground, a female Horatio
astride the bridge, daring the enemy, to pass.

"Frankie McGuire committed an abortion on
herself," Fiona said, her own glance unwavering. Mrs. Carter blinked in
confusion. "How does that grab you?" Fiona said between compressed
lips.

May Carter glanced at the Eggplant who met her stare with
his own. But Fiona gave her no chance to gather her defenses.

"For her it was the only way out. She was carrying a
baby by a man other than her husband."

"I don't believe it," Mrs. Carter said.
"It's a trick."

"Medically confirmed," Fiona said crisply. Then,
unable to resist. "Perhaps also the work of a new type of hit man."

Mrs. Carter's face flushed. Her eyes seemed like glowing
coals.

"Why wasn't I told?" she asked, her voice
tremulous, her surety broken.

"Because, Mrs. Carter..." Fiona began, resisting
the temptation to seek the Eggplant's signal of approval. "It was none of
your goddamned business."

Mrs. Carter started to rise from her chair, but apparently
the revelation had sapped her energy.

"I can't believe it. Not Frankie."

"It's true, Mrs. Carter," the Eggplant
intervened. His task now, Fiona assumed, was for him to defuse the situation.

"Who was the man?" she asked.

Fiona felt her stomach tighten as she exchanged glances
with the Eggplant.

"We don't know," the Eggplant said.

"It's not the issue," Fiona interjected. "We
are now certain her death was suicide."

"But it's so out of character..." Mrs. Carter
sighed. "Besides, we all would have stood by her. Surely, she knew
that."

No point in belaboring the issue, Fiona thought, keeping
her silence, letting Mrs. Carter work it out in her own mind. The fantasy of
the "hit man" was obviously over. Also, the opportunity for making
political capital out of Frankie's death. No sanctity of life argument would
stand muster now.

After a long silence, Mrs. Carter rose slowly out of her
chair.

"Guess it took the wind out of my sails." she
said, making every effort to achieve a dignified exit.

The Eggplant stood up behind his desk.

"Our object here is to dispose of this case as rapidly
as possible." He lowered his eyes. "Without in any way damaging Mrs.
McGuire's reputation."

"Yes," Mrs. Carter said with a nod. "I
suppose we couldn't ask any more than that."

She started toward the door, turned, and faced Fiona.

"We're going to win, you know," she said, her
bluster restored, then she turned and left the office.