The Ties That Bind (12 page)

Throughout the day Fiona went through the professional
motions of an experienced homicide detective. What she needed was authenticity
that would pass muster with the Eggplant and especially with Gail Prentiss, who
would undoubtedly arrive back at headquarters with a hatful of suspicious clues
designed to justify her theory about Phelps Barker's perfidy.

In a room behind the Mayflower registration desk she
interrogated the assistant manager and a steady stream of hotel employees who
had worked on the days that Phyla Herbert had been a guest at the hotel. On the
drive in, she had come up with yet another idea. Perhaps one of the employees
might have seen a man fitting the description of Farley Lipscomb sometime
Saturday night.

To this end, she had gone to the main branch of the public
library and obtained a book that had some informal pictures of the various
current justices of the Supreme Court. Then she went to a one-hour photo shop
and had three of the pictures of individual justices, including Farley's, blown
up and carefully cropped to eliminate any sign of their judicial raiments.

She knew the process was dangerous, rife with hidden
minefields. Someone might recognize the man as a member of the Court, which
could light the fuse that would snake its way into the various Washington media
offices. The resultant explosion would rock the town. Any hint that Farley
Lipscomb was under suspicion of such a bestial act, without anything more than
the flimsy evidence of a picture recognized by a casual eyewitness, would have
all the earmarks of a frame-up.

She knew she was playing with fire. The Court was a
powerful instrument of American democracy, a sensitive tuning fork, which set
both the limits of freedom and the ideological agenda for the entire country.
It was the holy citadel of the great American experiment and with only nine
people to carry such a burden, the slightest ripple of impropriety, no less one
of such staggering proportions as that involved in death and sexual perversion,
would have the impact of a poisoned dagger stuck into the heart of the system.

Fiona, a child of the system, was aware of the dangers.
Indeed, even if she had hard proof, such a revelation could have personal
implications of monumental impact to herself, a fallout that could injure her
forever.

She could tell herself that moral purpose had its own
reward, that retribution could be both cleansing and satisfying and, perhaps,
she might escape the fate of exposure. But was the risk worth the victory?
Would it trouble her to see Farley, if he was the perpetrator, be free to try
again?

This was very much in her mind as she began her interviews
at the Mayflower, pictures in hand. A few of those whom she had paraded through
the office had only the vaguest recollections of Phyla Herbert. The bellman who
had taken up her bags and explained the workings of the airconditioning and the
pay bar had remembered her as aristocratically polite, a woman who said little
and produced a two-dollar tip with the aplomb of someone used to receiving good
service.

"She was cool, polite and indifferent," the
bellman, a middle-aged, experienced sizer-upper explained. Had he seen her
after she had checked in? No recollection. It was the very essence of this kind
of grunt work where tipping was the only real mode of communication.

"I have a daughter," he explained, as if to
provide himself with a shred of dignity and compassion. He studied the pictures
with great concentration.

"In this business middle-aged men are like Chinese
waiters. They all look alike." He shook his head. "Sorry."

The chambermaid on duty during the days of Phyla Herbert's
stay was a San Salvadoran who barely spoke English. She needed an interpreter,
a sallow-faced young man hastily recruited from the room service department,
whose English resembled pig latin. The woman was frightened, had turned ashen
and her lips trembled.

"She no see," the young man said, after a
spirited exchange in Spanish. "Says she do room in afternoon after lady
gone."

Fiona set the pictures on the desk in front of the woman.
The woman studied them with glazed, indifferent eyes.

"No, notheeng," the young man said.

Earlier she had shown the pictures to the assistant
manager, neatly turned out in a morning coat and dark pants with a razor-sharp
crease. His features were delicate, and he wore a tiny Band-Aid where he had
cut himself shaving.

"They look vaguely familiar," he said, tapping
his teeth with a manicured forefinger. "But I can't say they ring a
bell."

He had arranged for other hotel employees that were on duty
to be present. One was the bartender, a handsome black man with graying hair,
who had been on duty in the cocktail lounge. When shown the pictures, he shook
his head, but only after an inordinate time of study. Fiona had the impression
that he secretly might have recognized one or two of the three, but it was
highly unlikely that an old hand like him would court the kind of hassle that
went with the identification.

"Are you sure?" Fiona pressed.

He shook his head.

"And the young woman?" Fiona asked, after
providing a brief description.

"Sorry."

She interviewed a number of the waitresses, security people
and other employees on duty at the time. Long shots, she knew. There was no
payoff. Phyla hadn't ordered any room service. Only the security people had vague
recollections of seeing Phyla, but their comments seemed more for
self-protection than informational.

Again she reviewed the guest list of the hotel, which had
been partially filled with a convention of pediatricians, most of whom had left
town on Sunday evening. The hotel had provided a computerized list and the
names were being run through a central data system for any MO matches, which so
far had revealed nothing of any consequence.

Using the phone in the hotel office, she spent a couple of
hours calling people who were checked in on the same floor. It was the evening
of the major convention social event and most of the people had spent a long
evening at the event. None of them acknowledged hearing any strange sounds.

The assistant manager, his name was Harold Barton, provided
her with a tray of coffee and a sandwich from room service and sat with her as
she ate.

"May I see those pictures again?" he asked.

She handed him the envelope and he slid out the pictures
and studied them carefully, tapping his teeth as he had done before.

"Who are these men?" he asked.

"Are they familiar?"

"I'm not sure. Are they sex criminals, suspects?"

"Is there one more vaguely familiar than the
others?" Fiona asked.

"I wish I could say."

"We need to place one of them at the scene,"
Fiona said, hoping to jog his memory. It was the one hopeful sign of the day.

"I realize that, Sergeant," Barton said.
"May I keep them for a while?"

"Sorry. Can't do that," Fiona said. She was
taking enough risk by flashing the pictures for even this quick glimpse. Of all
the people she had shown them to, Barton, who had more opportunity to mix with
the upper crust public, was the most likely to have recognized them.

As she drove to headquarters, she did not allow the
fruitless day to upset her. It was a longshot idea. Farley would have worked
out a clever way to avoid being seen. She recalled how he had disguised himself
for their long-ago trysts and had instructed her to register and pay the bill.
If Farley had been the perpetrator, she concluded, he would have figured out a
way to evade recall. The fact that no physical evidence of consequence had been
found buttressed her theory that the man who did this deed could be Farley, or
someone equally as knowledgeable in the area of evidence.

The master stroke of his earlier cleverness was his
calculation that Fiona would out of embarassment remain silent. A revelation of
his prospensity, even then, would have ruined him. He could not be accused of
lacking insight into his victims. Even in the office, he had been scrupulous
about how their affair had been handled, always behind locked doors, after
hours.

A private bathroom in his office was also available when
danger beckoned, a footfall, a voice. This was a man who knew how to cheat, how
to evade scrutiny, although he had on occasion taken a risk if it meant to
serve an overwhelming and immediate need. Fiona had no doubt that she was
merely one of a long line of women who had been his prey. After that awful day,
this was the way she always saw him in her imagination, a vicious predator
without a conscience.

As she neared headquarters, she directed her thoughts to
the planned encounter with Farley at the State Department event. She had no
clear plan, except to attempt to engage him. That could be the most difficult
part of it. He could ignore her, palm her off, withdraw. She would have to
improvise.

In the squad room, she called Harrison at his office and
tendered the invitation.

"Well, well," he said, his tone pregnant with
defensive sarcasm.

She was still in her mode of sexual disengagement, made
even more so by her recent recollections. It would pass. Hadn't it passed once
before?

"Stick with me, Harrison. I'm going through a
stage," she told him.

"No kidding. I've spent the last two nights analyzing
it. Another guy, perhaps?"

"Nada."

"Disease?"

"Double nada."

She tried to keep it light, understanding his confusion. It
crossed her mind that she might conquer her frigidity, fake it. Daisy had
reminded her of that ancient instruction. No way, she decided. Revulsion would
consume her. Her previous recovery had happened naturally, healed by time and
nature. It could only happen that way again.

"Call it a sabbatical in a nunnery," she told
him, reaching for humor.

"I don't know, Fi," he waffled.

"It'll pass, Harrison."

"I'd feel a lot better with an explanation," he
said. "Put me at my ease. You know how I feel about you, Fi."

"There's a mutuality here, Harrison," she said.
"But I have an impediment."

"I'll understand, Fi. Only tell me."

"Not yet," she told him, hating the byplay,
wanting him to say nay or yea to the State Department event. She could always
find another escort. He might have sensed her thoughts.

"I'll meet you at the entrance," he sighed.

She hung up and started to insert a record of her day into the
computer. It was full of holes, little white lies. No mention of the pictures
she had produced. Thankfully, the Eggplant was not present. Most of her
colleagues were out on cases. As usual, the murder count was grim, six new ones
overnight. The epidemic continued. There was no end in sight.

Late in the afternoon, Gale Prentiss strode into the squad
room, breathless and intent, reminding Fiona that she hadn't been in touch all
day. She slumped exhausted into a chair behind an adjoining desk and dropped her
pocketbook on the floor beside her. But her face was redolent with satisfaction
and she quickly showed signs of recovery.

"Lots to report," Gail said, swiftly shuffling
through her telephone messages. Then she punched in a number on the phone.

"Goose eggs all around," Fiona said, as they
exchanged glances. Gail nodded acknowledgment, then spoke into the phone.

"Daddy, you okay?"

Gail listened with deep concentration, her lips pursed, her
nostrils widening in frustration.

"It'll pass, Daddy. I know it will."

There was a long pause as Gail listened. A gloom seemed to
engulf her.

"Daddy, you can't diagnose yourself. What do you mean
a couple of weeks at the outside ... alright, Daddy, I'll be by later."

She hung up and sucked in a deep breath, her eyes moistening.

"Courage and dignity. Sometimes I hate it," Gail
said, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. "The man's dying and he's giving me
timetables." She shook her head. "He has to analyze every damned
thing. Cold logic. That's him. He's infuriating."

Fiona let her calm down, not knowing what to say. She
turned away, affording Gail a long private moment.

"I was right, Fiona," Gail said after a long
pause. There was no boasting in the assertion.

"Right about what?"

"Phelps Barker."

Fiona made no comment, waiting for the explanation.

"Bottom line. He was with her Saturday night."

"No way," Fiona blurted, then realizing her
error, she quickly backtracked. "I mean I'm surprised."

"I'm not," Gail said, her yellow-flecked eyes now
sparkling with a sense of victory. "I mean, I'm not psychic. I'm just
surprised that my intuition was so on target and so easily confirmed."

"Barker told you this?" Fiona asked. Gail's
information was beginning to sink in, badly shaking her Farley Lipscomb theory.
An errant thought intruded to chill her. Had they begun a journey where an
innocent man would be mangled by the criminal justice system? It was every
homicide detective's nightmare.

"Not yet," Gail said. "But he will. We have
a witness. A young woman who was at the party, probably had her eye on Phelps.
Barker wasn't exactly lying about the time he left the party. But as he left,
he met Phyla Herbert coming in. Probably said the party was a bore, persuading
her to leave. They left together."

"You sure it was Phyla."

"She described her minutely. Phyla, as we both know,
was a genuine redhead. Only then did I show her Phyla's picture. In color. She
did not have to ponder the answer."

"How did you find her?"

Fiona cautioned herself. A negative stance would put
unwelcome questions in Gail's mind and shake her feeling of alliance and
comradeship.

"Grunt work, Fi. The host gave me names. I found her
myself. She was a writer at the
Voice of America
. Sixth try. Beginner's
luck, I guess."