Senator Love (10 page)

"That's exactly what we're trying to ascertain, Mr.
Ambassador."

"She loved life, perhaps too much," he sighed.

Although the color had not come back into his face, he
seemed to have gotten himself fully under control. She noted that the knuckles
of his clasped hands were white. Suddenly he looked around the office. He
seemed furtive, then he leaned over and spoke in a whisper.

"Will it be awful?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I mean the aftermath." A nerve palpitated in his
jaw.

"I'm not sure." His meaning seemed clear to her,
but she could tell that her response hadn't satisfied him. "I'm afraid
there will be a great deal of media coverage and wild speculation. There's no
escaping that. You are, after all, the Austrian Ambassador. And she was a
beautiful woman."

"I understand." He nodded to buttress his
reaction.

"My boss is holding a press conference. They will be
crawling all over this place, looking for stories, pictures, anything. I would
suggest you keep as far away from them as you can."

"Will he tell them everything?"

"He doesn't know everything," she said pointedly.
Then, after a long pause, she asked gently, "Do I?"

"I don't know what to say. It is all beyond
belief."

He sucked in some air through pursed lips, then expelled it
in a gesture of disgust.

"Can it be avoided?" he asked tentatively.
"The other aspect?"

"Depends," she said, wanting to be sure he
understood fully. "If it's not connected."

"Do you think it is?"

"I hope not."

She was sincere, even hopeful, but dubious. The image of
Monte's apprehensive face flickered in her mind. She chased it away, although
she determined that she would be the one to break it to him.

"These things have a way of spilling over
everything."

He cocked his head and unclasped his hands, as if to
illustrate his surrender to events.

"You're absolutely certain it was her?" he asked.

"Unfortunately I have to take you in to confirm
it."

He put his hands in front of his face. His shoulders shook,
although no noise escaped his lips. His grief seemed genuine, but she forced
herself to suspend judgement. She had been fooled before.

MONTE, LOOKING wary and very nervous, slid into one of
Sherry's torn naugahyde booths. Fiona watched him across the chipped formica
table. Of course, he knew that something devastatingly important was happening.
No question about it. He was a man prepared for the worst. She introduced Cates
and the two men shook hands.

"He has to be in it now," Fiona explained.
"He's my partner." Monte shrugged, obviously a man waiting to hear
the worst.

EARLIER, SHE had told Cates of her involvement with Monte,
leaving the implications for him to deal with.

"We dated," she told him, watching his eyes dance
away from hers.

"It happens." He shrugged. But she knew there was
more going on behind the response.

"Some might say it's a conflict," she said
cautiously. "Might interfere with my objectivity."

Cates kept his eyes from confronting her. He was obviously
evaluating the revelation, being deliberate, checking it against his own
standard and, of course, its effect on his career. It was a measure she
understood.

"When you swim in your own pool," Cates said
after a long pause, his glance meeting hers, "you're bound to meet
familiar fish."

"Bon mot, Cates?"

"I was looking for a good way to say it."

"Say what?"

"That I trust your judgment, Fi."

It embarrassed him to say it and again he turned his eyes
away.

"Fair enough," Fiona said, offering a thin smile.
She wanted to bend over the table and kiss his cheek, but she held off, worried
about any misinterpretation.

SHERRY CAME over and filled three coffee mugs. They waited
until she finished her chore and waddled away.

"She's been murdered."

It did not need to be said twice. Unlike the Ambassador,
who had gone white, Monte flushed red.

"Fuck," he said.

She watched the anger wash over him. His large brown eyes
flickered with pain and his chubby fingers tapped the formica table. She wished
she could have broken it to him by herself in a private comforting way,
cuddling him in her arms like a big teddy bear. In his game, she knew, a
threatened career held all the terrors of a threatened life.

As quickly as she could, in much the same way as the
eggplant had briefed the press, she gave him the details. In performance, the
eggplant always rose to the occasion and she was proud of him, albeit
grudgingly. She considered herself far less skillful. It was impossible for her
to coat the pill.

"Those lice will find a way to connect Sam," he
said, meaning the media. He could not stop shaking his head in disbelief.
"Could be an absolute disaster politically." He started to slide
outward from the booth. "I've got to tell them before it hits."

"I'd be circumspect, Monte," Fiona said, her
words cautioning. He stopped his slide at the edge of the booth.

"I don't understand," he said, searching her
face.

"They're suspects now."

"Jesus." He paused. "Me, too, I
suppose."

"Only technically," she admitted.

"Jesus. Jesus K. Christ. I can't believe it." He
leaned against the backrest. "Fi. Me?"

Fiona exchanged glances with Cates, who was present as both
colleague and witness. Again she wished she were alone. But that would be
unprofessional, compromising and insulting to Cates. Besides, she respected his
judgement and she badly needed another opinion for her actions.

"It's our job, Monte. Everyone who has even the most
theoretical of motives is automatically a suspect," Fiona said, putting
her hand over his. He moved it away. She knew Cates had noticed. It didn't
matter. She was certain he knew there was something more between them.

"And what is mine?"

It didn't need to be explained, but she did it anyway.

"Politics. You were running Sam's campaign. High
stakes and good reason. The woman could upset the goal. Perhaps she was
becoming a nuisance and she had to be taken out."

"By me. Monte Pappas. A killer. I can't kill
cockroaches." He reached out, wrists together. "Cuff me."

"It's a scenario. It's the way cops think. I'm letting
you in on the process."

"Maybe you should disqualify yourself. You've got a
conflict of interest." He expelled the words in a fit of temper. Of
course, he was angry. He had a right to be. But not at her.

"I have an interest, not a conflict," she snapped
back. I care about you, you prick, she shouted inside herself.

"You wouldn't be here if she didn't care," Cates
suddenly interjected. They had exchanged glances.

"You keep out of it," Monte said, still testy.

"I'm in it, Mr. Pappas," Cates replied calmly.
"So are you and nothing can change that. Nothing."

"Don't blow it, Monte. He's on our side."

"You mean we have a side. You're both cops. You can't
be on anybody's side," he said, his eyes shifting from one face to the
other.

"Maybe what happened has nothing at all to do with the
Senator or his staff," Fiona began, deliberately showing him a note of
hope.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"That's the benefit of the doubt, Pappas," Cates
said. "Be grateful."

In her heart-to-heart with Cates she had told him of
Monte's trust in her. Trust was a commodity of enormous value in the cop
business. Indeed, in life.

"We don't know that anyone in your tight little circle
killed this woman. We intend to find out, no holds barred. But we can promise
that we will do everything in our power to"—she remembered how they had
put it—"to be discreet."

"How can you do that? The very act of investigation
sends the message. The stink will be in the air and the media will follow it.
And it will lead directly to the Senator. You've just supplied the motive.
Mistress of Presidential-hopeful murdered. Two and two make five to those
vultures. Grist for the mill."

Sweat had sprouted on his upper lip and he paused to wipe
it away with the back of his hand.

"Depends on how we handle it," Fiona said gently.
They hadn't yet put the eggplant into the loop. He had rushed away from the
press conference for a meeting with the Police Commissioner, which gave them
both the excuse of postponement. But she was obliged to keep the eggplant
"apprahzed," especially when a case involved a politician, and he, in
turn, was obliged to keep the Mayor "apprahzed," which meant that the
involvement or noninvolvement of the Senator was at the mercy of conflicting
agendas.

Before leaving for the meeting with the Police
Commissioner, the eggplant had told them:

"Tomorrow in my office. First thing. I want theories
and options." He had lifted one of his well-cared-for ebony fingers and
pointed it at them. "No surprises," he had warned. In his shorthand it
meant that he would hold them responsible for anything the media might ferret
out, whether they knew it in advance or not. He would be particularly
intolerant, in fact, inflamed, if he discovered that they were withholding
information from him deliberately. On this latter issue, they were forever
vulnerable.

"Help us move fast, Monte," Fiona said.
"This could be a totally unrelated thing, and a quick absolution of your
principals might get everybody off the hook without a mark on them. Fact is
that nobody on our side wants to fuck over a potentially powerful politician
... if it's not necessary. We have to see Sam, Monte. No way out."

Monte looked down at his fingers, mulling it over. When he
looked up again, his gaze had softened. He reminded her of a big curly-topped
baby on the verge of tears.

"More coffee?"

It was Sherry, looking as shabby as ever in her bageled
stockings and stained cardigan pulled tight over her overample figure. As
always, she wore battered and stained once-white Reeboks. Without waiting for
an answer she filled their mugs.

"As the doctors say," Fiona told him when Sherry
had walked away. "Cut out the cancer before it spreads."

"You mean now?"

"We're wasting time," Cates said.

"I'll try. Sam's first instinct will be to
stonewall," Monte said, biting his lip. He slid out of the booth but did
not go for the phone. "There's something else." He shook his head.
"He doesn't know you were in it."

Naturally, she thought. They were the clean-up boys.
Despite her knowledge of the system, she was developing a strong distaste for
Senator Langford.

"Then explain to him how lucky he is," Fiona
said, watching Monte's face. Their eyes locked. In that moment of shared
intimacy she tried to convey her feelings. I'm your friend, but I'm a
professional. Trust me. I will not hurt you unnecessarily. Such words could not
be said without compromising herself, not even if she was alone. Understand the
level of my involvement, she begged him. Not quite love. Friendship, perhaps.
More than fucking buddies, though. He was, she knew, an honorable man in a
dishonorable profession. For that reason he reminded her of her father.

"He is lucky," Monte said, nodding to emphasize
the point. He looked toward the battered phone on the wall and its halo of
hastily scrawled numbers. "Hate phones," he muttered as he moved
toward it, groping in his pockets for coins. He couldn't find any, then came
back. She had a quarter ready.

"For want of a nail," she said. He smiled and
their hands touched, then lingered, and she knew the subliminal message had
been conveyed. Trust me.

"For his sake," Cates said, watching Monte punch
in the numbers, "I hope he's a good salesman."

"He sold me," Fiona said, feeling a hot blush
rise to her cheeks. She broke into a broad smile. "Did I say that?"

They watched Monte talking into the phone, holding his
voice down to a heated whisper. She knew he was begging, imploring.

"A tall order," Cates said.

"Depends," Fiona mused. The story's promise was
lurid media fare. They would make a beeline into the lady's secret life,
certainly the sexual part. Depended on two things. Had anyone outside the inner
circle known? Discretion was relative. There were the little people to
consider, the casual observers, the secretaries, messengers, receptionists,
waiters, doormen, maids, the inanimate and neutral who bore witness and could
come forward. And, of course, the unknown confidants. Like herself. Now Cates.
Soon the eggplant. Then, maybe, the Mayor. Everyone would have to look to their
agendas.

Monte's body language told her that he was having trouble.
At one point he leaned his forehead against the wall in frustration. Then he
slammed the receiver back on its hook.

He was agitated when he returned to the booth. The flush
was heavy on his cheeks, congealed to two dabs of bright red, like rouge.

"Asshole," he said.

He slid back into the booth and reached for his coffee mug.
It looked tepid, and oily circles floated on the surface. His hands shook as he
raised it to his lips. Showing the extent of his distraction, he drank half the
mug in one gulp.

"For a telephone paranoid, you talked fairly
long," Fiona said.

"It's not easy arguing in code," Monte muttered.

"Why are we sitting here?" Fiona asked.

"He wants to consult Bunkie. He's scared shitless. I
gave him this number."

"No time for that, pal," Cates said. "We're
in a race. Any media calls yet?"

"So far no," Monte said. "Asshole thinks
Bunkie can fix it."

They were silent for a long moment.

"Maybe he already did," Fiona said.

Again silence. Monte was the first to stir. He slid out of
the booth and stood up.

"You guys coming?" he asked.