The Ties That Bind (10 page)

"Her sex life, you mean?"

"Have it your way."

"Look, she was, for all us studs, outside the line of
fire. By her choice. She was more brain than body. She sent out no signals. Not
to anyone I know."

He snapped his fingers. Walter rushed over.

"I'll have another sour, Walter," Barker said,
pointing to the coffee cups on the table in front of them. "More java,
girls?"

Gail ignored the question. Fiona shook her head for both of
them and the waiter disappeared.

"So you compared notes about her ... her charms?"
Gail asked.

"In my adolescent world, all girls were under
discussion, including Phyla. There was general agreement that, although
attractive, she did not stir the gonads."

The waiter brought Barker's sour.

"Thank you, Walter," Barker nodded with the same
superior look he had given Fiona earlier. He lifted his glass in a mock toast
and drank off a sip. "You're missing a great drink."

"And where were you Saturday evening, Barker?"
Gail snapped suddenly. Did Gail seriously believe he was involved?

"Me?" He tossed his head back and laughed.
"Am I under suspicion?"

"Yes," Gail shot back with a deliberately
intimidating glare. Barker reached for his sour. Despite his air of disconcern,
he seemed to be searching for an appropriate response.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"But I am," Gail pressed, with a sidelong glance
at Fiona, who wondered what she was thinking.

"Actually, if memory serves, I was at a party in
Bethesda," he said. "One of those singles events for the upwardly
mobile. Lots of quiche and white wine." He giggled nervously.

"Why didn't you invite your old buddy?" Gail
asked.

"But I did."

He finished the last of his second sour and snapped for
Walter to bring another one. Walter responded with servile alacrity. It struck
Fiona as a sensible ploy on Walter's part to hustle tips from this pompous ass.

"These are really wonderful," he said. "Are
you sure you won't try one?" His eyes roamed from one face to the other
and he shrugged. "Your sobriety gives me a real sense of security, ladies.
All murderers beware."

"Why did she turn down your invitation?" Gail
asked, her eyes narrowing. She apparently knew all the dramatic tics that were
useful in embellishing the questions.

"Actually, she didn't turn me down," Barker said
after an unexpectedly long pause, as if his answer had to be thought out. It
was the kind of gesture that could send up rings of suspicious smoke signals.
Fiona could see that Gail had responded to the signals, which encouraged her to
press on relentlessly.

Even Fiona could acknowledge that Barker invited suspicion,
but suspicion of what? If there was guilt present, it seemed disconnected and
irrelevant to the girl's death. Gail apparently thought otherwise.

For a moment Barker dropped his mask of devil-may-care
sophistication. "Shit. She should have come. Probably have had a lousy
time, but at least she'd be alive in the morning." He sucked in a deep
breath and shook his head.

"So you gave her directions?" Gail pressed.
"To where the party was being held?"

"Yes, I did. Wrote them down in case she wanted to
attend the festivities."

He was obviously trying to find his way back to his
original persona. Fiona speculated that he might be offering the explanation to
cover himself in case the directions had been found among her effects.

"And she never showed up?"

He shook his head, but there was something tentative in the
gesture.

"Was there a big crowd?"

"Yes," he said. "It was a mob scene. A
friend's house in Bethesda, jammed to the rafters. Shared by four guys who all
had their own circles."

"Would she have known anyone there?"

"Maybe. School chums. Youth-on-the-march types."

"Like you," Gail suggested.

"Rungs behind, darling. Rungs behind."

His old arrogance was being restored, although the
contrived casualness seemed less sure.

"How can you be so certain that she would have had a
lousy time?" Gail asked.

"I've been trying to tell you that she was basically a
loner. Very serious and focused. She did not, in all the years I knew her, show
any signs of a light heart." Walter brought another sour and Barker
immediately took a deep sip.

"How long did you stay at the party?" Gail asked.

"Still on that kick." He grew thoughtful. "I
think I left around eleven. Some of the guests were already getting speechless
and a bit too raucus for my tastes."

"What are your tastes, Phelps?" Gail asked, using
his first name for purposes of sarcasm. Why was she pushing so hard, Fiona
wondered. Did she know more than she had let on?

"Well, well, aren't we getting a bit personal
here?"

"I hope so."

Gail fired away, obviously enjoying herself, although Fiona
was at a loss to explain her motive. It seemed more like a fencing match
between them. Was he really hiding something? Fiona wondered.

"Is it possible you might have missed her?" Gail
asked. "...in the mob scene."

"I'm a trained observer, Madame Detective,"
Barker sneered.

"Booze dulls the senses, Phelps," Gail said,
looking pointedly at the half-empty whiskey sour on the little table beside
him. He followed her gaze.

"I was perfectly sober that evening," he smirked,
turning to Fiona in search of an ally.

"Hardly likely," Fiona said, looking at the
whiskey sour. As if in defiance, he picked it up and finished it off.

"As you can see, I appreciate good booze. Cheap wine
and a couple of kegs are the fare at these events, accompanied by a wheel of
cheese melting under the lamp. This is what passes for hoity-toity in that
crowd."

"Did you leave alone?"

He forced a chuckle, but again he hesitated enough to sow
doubt.

"No one worth cutting from the pack," he sneered.
"It was my weekend for self-love."

"You went straight home?"

"Normally that's where the art is practiced."

He leaned over the table, picked up the whiskey sour glass,
noted it was empty, then clicked his fingers again. His cheeks had flushed and
the alcohol seemed to accelerate his inherent nastiness, although his tongue
maintained its clarity. He did not strike Fiona as a happy drunk.

"Then you went to sleep?" Gail prompted, giving
no ground to his sarcasm.

"Yes. The boredom of the evening left me somnolent and
aching for oblivion."

"Did anyone see you go into your place? It is an
apartment?"

"A townhouse on Capitol Hill. I don't think I was
seen. All the muggers had apparently taken the night off."

"So you have no corroboration," Gail said, her
remark deliberately accusatory. Her eyes seemed to bore in on his. Her tenacity
was awesome.

He shook his head and studied Gail's face for a long
moment, then he turned to Fiona. "Is she serious?"

"I'm afraid so," Fiona replied.

"Alright then," Barker said, stretching out his
arms, wrists together. "Cuff me and take me downtown for questioning.
Better yet put me in a lineup. It'll be a gas."

"I like that idea," Gail said, exchanging glances
with Fiona. She wasn't fooling. She was onto something, pursuing it with highly
focused energy.

"I don't believe this. Are you hounding me for
attitude or genuine suspicion?"

"Look, Barker," Gail said. "If you can
account for your time Saturday evening, it will make matters simpler for all of
us. We have a horrifying, ugly crime on our hands. It can't be cavalierly
dismissed with wisecracks. You knew Phyla Herbert. You admittedly invited her
to a party."

"So you're harassing me because I told you the
truth," Barker said, serious now, all flippancy gone. "Not very
skillful interrogation, I'm afraid. I can understand your frustration about
your inability to find the real perpetrator. Phyla Herbert was a long-time
friend. Your implications that I somehow did her in are absurd. Besides,
bondage is not my sexual preference."

Gail shot a glance toward Fiona, who raised her eyebrows
and shrugged. Bondage?

"We haven't used that term," Gail said.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Barker said. He was
lashing out now. "A woman trussed, mutilated, probably sexually violated?
I can read between the lines. And I do understand this little game. Well, let
me tell you something, girls. I don't need an alibi for Saturday night. I came
home and went to bed." His cheeks grew redder. He was angry now, an anger
accelerated by the alcohol he had imbibed.

His voice rose for a moment, attracting some nearby club
members who looked up with annoyance. Sensing this, he lowered his voice and,
eyes steady, stared into Gail's.

"I did not, could not, would not abuse Phyla Herbert
in any way, sexually or otherwise, and I resent any inference that I might be
capable of such an act."

Walter, who might have momentarily retreated until the
fracas had died down, now emerged with another whiskey sour, which he placed on
the table next to Barker. He nodded his gratitude, then reached for the drink,
putting it quickly down when he noted that his hands shook.

Gail had certainly rattled Barker. But why? Fiona wondered,
content to be on the sidelines as Gail pursued her as yet inarticulated theory.
It surprised Fiona that she held no resentment for Gail going off on what
seemed like a tangent. Hadn't she done the same? Without consultation?

"When you invited her to the party, did Phyla indicate
that she had a previous engagement?" Gail asked, her voice modulated into
softness, as if she had changed the style and direction of her interrogation.

"Not in words," Barker replied with equal
control, greatly relieved that Gail had set aside the matter of his alibi.
"The fact is that Phyla always seemed to have a previous engagement."

"Or maybe she simply did not want to party with your
upwardly mobile friends," Gail said without sarcasm.

"Actually you have a point," Barker answered,
reaching for his drink. His hand was steadier now and his attitude less
belligerent. In fact, he was almost docile.

"Phyla would rather be with people who had arrived
than with a bunch of full-of-themselves wannabes," Barker said, sipping
his sour, then neatly, with enough ceremony to call attention to his steadier
hand, returning the glass to the table beside him. "Fact is, her father
could set her up with almost anyone to look after his little girl and dispense
an evening of dinner and advice."

"Like who?"

"Any number of big shots."

"Be specific."

"Congressmen, senators, even members of the
Cabinet."

Fiona suddenly found herself afforded another opening.

"Supreme Court justices?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"Any justice in particular?" Fiona asked
casually.

"You're really hung up on that aspect, Sergeant,"
Barker said, looking at her with eyes that gleamed, showing the effect of the
sours.

It was apparent by then that the interview had lost focus,
although Gail made no move to go. Fiona was the first to stand up.

"We'll be needing you at some point again," Fiona
said. Gail, with some reluctance, also stood up. As a mark of politeness,
Barker also stood.

"I didn't kill Phyla," he whispered.

"We never said you did," Gail said. But it was
clear from her face that she had not completely dismissed the thought.
"But I do believe you should reassess your position with regard to your
whereabouts Saturday night."

"That again," he sighed.

"It's not going to go away, Barker," Gail said.

"Look," Barker said. "Like me or not, in
this town careers are busted by perception. You could bomb my future with your
implications, especially if the media gets to play with it."

"Phyla Herbert's future was bombed," Gail
murmured as they moved away.

Before they left, they saw him resume his seat, reach for
his sour and snap his fingers for Walter.

"You were really pushing him, Gail," Fiona said.
They were in the car heading back to headquarters. Fiona was driving.

"He had an attitude problem that needed some
work."

"True. But do you really believe he could be part of
it?" Fiona asked.

Gail pondered the question for a long time.

"He's hiding something, Fiona."

"Maybe so. But there is no evidence. No fingers pointing."
She looked toward Gail. "Except your intuition."

"Unconscious reasoning," Gail said. "It has
its place. There's more there. I know it."

"He's an obnoxious little frat boy twit," Fiona
said. "But I don't see him involved in this one."

She did not want it to sound like a total rejection.

"Notice when he broke stride," Gail said,
"when I asked him if he had left the party alone."

"But he said that Phyla never showed," Fiona
retorted.

"That's exactly what he said. Another signpost of his
edginess."

"Alright, maybe he did go home with someone. Surely he
would not want her involved."

"Or him."

"Then let's be broadminded. Say 'him.' None of which
has anything to do with Phyla Herbert. His sexual orientation has no relevance
in this situation."

"Sexual conduct is always relevant," Gail said.
"And sexual deviation and perversion invariably lead to ugly
consequences."

"Invariably? That's a pretty blanket indictment of
people with different strokes."

Fiona was clearly offering a rebuke. And she could tell
from Gail's stoic reaction the underlying motive. A certain rigidity on matters
sexual, an extreme, unyielding moral posture, without any leavening or
tolerance. She had seen such attitudes before in black women of education and
achievement.

It was more than simply a heightened sense of morality. It
was an aggressive conviction, a commitment to the idea that sex was between
loving married partners only. Perhaps, too, it was motivated by a need to
distance oneself from a bigot's perception that all blacks were moral cripples.