The Ties That Bind (14 page)

"It was so nice seeing you again," he said with
old-fashioned, chivalric politeness. She was conscious of the sea of people
behind her waiting to touch the hem of the great man. But she stood her ground,
determined to make her presence indelible.

"I know what you did to Phyla Herbert," she said,
her gaze concentrated on his face. Farley looked at her blankly, showing no
sign of any emotion, not an iota of fear or hint of anxiety.

"Phyla Herbert?" he responded, shaking his head
briefly, offering a genuine look of puzzlement.

"The Mayflower Hotel, Saturday night," she said,
which instantly struck her as redundant. Did she have to remind him of the
scene of the attack?

"I'm at a loss..."

"What you did to me years ago."

It was, she knew, a bold, perhaps foolish, gambit. There
seemed no point in subtlety. She needed to pound into his solar plexus, astound
him with surprise and direct accusation. He looked at her with a strange
mixture of confusion and rebuke, his smile broadening as if in mock
exasperation for some childish infraction on her part.

Her voice was just above a whisper, the words for his ears
only. It wasn't that he was deaf to them. He simply did not register the
expected reaction. The message of his expression was tolerance for the
irrationality of an unbalanced mind, a judicial posture as if he were listening
to the ravings of a hallucinator.

"Are you saying that you have no recollection of what
you did?"

"I must confess to total ignorance," Farley said
calmly, shaking his head with what seemed like genuine perplexity.

"Really, Farley. Phyla Herbert as well," Fiona
replied quickly, unwavering, lashing out, showing him he was in danger.

"I'm sorry ... I'm at a loss to understand."

His expression remained unmoved, except for pleasant
confusion and benign tolerance. He did not appear to be the least bit
frightened by her remarks.

"Seventeen years might dull one's recall, but Saturday
night, Mayflower Hotel, Phyla Herbert. Haven't changed your
modus operandi
,
have you, Farley?"

Not the slightest reaction. No fear. No sense of danger. He
was acting. Fiona was sure of it. He raised his eyes and looked beyond her,
calling to someone behind her.

"Harold. I haven't seen you for an age."

Sidestepping, he left her standing in his wake. She had
made her point, she assured herself, and he had shown his own strategy as well.
Denial and an attitude of indifference were familiar weapons of evasion for
criminals in the face of police action. But the familiarity of the response was
tinged with disappointment. Considering the monumental impact his aberration
had made on her life, she felt resentful of his denial and insulted by his
unwillingness to acknowledge it. In fact, she was furious.

Steady, she told herself. It wouldn't do to lose control of
her emotions. She had to assess his reaction, think about it. Did it signify
guilt or innocence? Or was she overreacting, fantasizing? Was hate goading her?
Was the desire for revenge corrupting her judgment? Would he react? And if so,
how?

Treat this as merely the opening gun in a tricky operation,
she told herself. But his indifferent reaction touched a raw nerve. She vowed
to muster her own arsenal of weapons, stalking, confrontation, harassment.
Perhaps some of it would stray over the line, just enough to push him to react.
React how? Confession? Perhaps, but unlikely. This was not a man with a
conscience. Carelessness? Fear and annoyance might shake loose his tongue.

Would bringing down his vaunted reputation be enough
satisfaction for her? Or would nothing less than imprisonment do it? No
either/or on her agenda here. She wanted to see him punished to the full extent
of the law ... and beyond. Forever. For eternity.

"What was that all about?" Harrison asked when
she had made her way back to his side. She had felt him watching. "You
look flushed."

She did feel the heat in her face. But she hoped she had
kept the ferocity in her heart well hidden.

"He was a friend of my father years ago," she
said, clearing her throat of a sudden hoarseness.

"Was he?"

"He was a lawyer in private practice then. I worked
for him briefly."

"Did you?"

She sensed that he knew she was deliberately not filling in
the blanks. Thankfully, he didn't pursue it. She felt him sinking into
resentment.

They went down the elevator and when they reached the
street, he asked:

"Want to talk?"

"Not yet, Harrison," she sighed.

"It's all quite mysterious," he said. "You
know I really care about you, Fi."

"I'm betting on that to keep you from walking
away," she told him.

"Just a phase," he said. "Is that it?"

She nodded, knowing the gesture was inadequate. Actually,
she hated people who used that as an excuse for conduct that hurt others.

"And when will it end ... this phase?"

"Soon."

It was, she knew, a blatant lie. There was no way of
knowing. In fact, no way of knowing if it would ever end. Her confrontation
with Farley Lipscomb seemed more like an act that would prolong her frigidity
than one offering any signs of a thaw.

She said good-bye to him in front of her car with a forced meeting
of lips with cheeks. As she drove away, it crossed her mind that this thing
with Farley might be pushing her further and further away from reality.

Yet she could not shake her suspicion. Was he guilty or
wasn't he? She needed to know. It was driving her over the edge.

Barker had begun to perspire, a dark stain spreading under
the arms and along the upper chest of his blue shirt, They were sitting in his
office, where he had deliberately arranged them around the conversation area of
upholstered chairs. In the corner of his office were a coffee machine and a
small refrigerator.

"Black for both of you, right?" Barker said.

Fiona and Gail nodded and Barker filled their order,
putting full mugs on the table in front of them. Then he opened the refrigerator
and pulled out a can of Diet Pepsi.

Fiona knew it was a ploy to put people at their ease, the
personal service, the move away from the awesome officialness of his desk. Only
this time he was the one seeking to disarm what was clearly, from his vantage,
the enemy. Gail had arrived with guns loaded, her yellow-flecked eyes
reflecting a steely determination. Fiona, for her part, brought with her the
baggage of skepticism.

"As I mentioned on the phone," Barker said,
opening the can and taking a light sip, "I'm really pressed today. I hope
this won't take" —he looked at his watch and smiled—"more than a
half-hour. A big meeting with the boss."

Fiona had been apprised by Gail of the meeting in Barker's
office at Justice by a message on her answering machine when she returned from
the State Department.

"I'll meet you there at nine," Gail had said, her
voice bursting with enthusiasm. "Lots to fill you in on. I think we've got
something here."

Fiona, who had suffered through a bad night wrestling with
the fury generated by her confrontation with Farley Lipscomb, had overslept,
meeting Gail just as both arrived at Phelp's office.

Actually, she was being assailed by a cloying sense of
self-disgust, which was beginning to manifest itself in physical ways. Her
appetite, normally robust, had disintegrated into a constant nausea and clot of
pain in her stomach. Her heartbeat would accelerate without warning. She had
experienced hot flushes last night, worried that it was a harbinger of a
change-of-life crisis, supposedly years away. She was also sweating profusely
under her dark wool suit.

As they entered Barker's office, Gail, in a chameleonlike
miracle of change, presented herself with a benign charm that carefully masked
her obvious goal of bashing down Barker's defenses.

The tactic offered a clever new twist to the interrogation,
considering the adversarial way in which their earlier interview had ended.
Gail now assumed the role of the compassionate, understanding good cop, all
smiles and gushing with good cheer. She put out her hand, another contrived
gesture of good will. Barker, who must have been confused at first, seemed
taken in by this sudden burst of charm.

Fiona decided to maintain a demeanor of strict neutrality,
an uncommon role for her. But she was not yet ready to let go of her theory
about Farley Lipscomb. She hoped that, no matter how aggressively Gail honed in
on Barker, however much his facade was ripped away, whatever layers of perfidy
were exposed, none would be relevant to the death of Phyla Herbert. That role
she had reserved in her mind for Farley Lipscomb.

"I hope you'll forgive my conduct yesterday," he
said. "I was so upset about Phyla..." Apparently he, too, had decided
on a new tack, reining in his arrogance and showing a humility that seemed oddly
ill-suited to him.

"We understand," Gail said, nodding and blinking
her eyes in a gesture of acceptance. She reached over and picked up her mug,
taking a deep sip. Fiona let hers stand. She had no stomach for coffee at the
moment.

"Somebody you grew up with"—he made a sound of
sucking air through his teeth—"to die like that."

"Actually we've had somewhat of a break," Gail
began blandly, casting a glance at Fiona who nodded, offering what she hoped
was a gesture of assent.

"I'm certainly glad of that," Barker said.

"It puts a whole different complexion on the
case," Gail said. "We think we know who was the last person to see
her alive."

"Fantastic," Barker exclaimed, taking a deeper
sip on the Pepsi, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I never meant to disparage your
police work."

"We never thought you did," Gail replied. She put
her coffee mug back on the table, suggesting that she was stripping down for
action.

"So tell me," Barker began. "How can I help
you?"

"A couple of fill-in details is all we need,"
Gail said.

"Shoot."

Gail took out a small pad and opened it slowly. Mostly for
effect, Fiona thought. While she did so, Barker finished off the Pepsi and put
the can next to the mugs as if, he too, were also stripping down to defend
himself.

"You say you left the party Saturday night at about
eleven?" Gail asked gently in review, holding back her power, waiting for
the right moment to spring.

"About that time, yes," he said alertly. He
wasn't a fool, Fiona knew, and their return engagement surely had made him suspect
there was more to this than a purely informational interview.

"And you never saw Phyla again?"

He frowned.

"What are you driving at?" he asked, his benign
facade starting to crumble.

"Just trying to get some of these details
straight," Gail said.

"Didn't I tell you that yesterday?" Barker asked,
his eyes shifting to Fiona's face and back to Gail's.

"Yes, you did," Gail said. "That's why we've
arranged this interview."

He was getting the message. The perspiration stain on his
shirt seemed to spread.

"I don't..."

"Just give us a straight answer, Barker," Gail
said, snapping her voice like a whip cracking as she finally revealed her
intent. Two round balls of hot blush suddenly appeared on Barker's cheeks.

"I don't like your insinuation," Barker said.

"What exactly am I insinuating?" Gail asked, all
pretense gone.

"Why belabor the obvious?" Barker snarled.
"If you have something, spit it out."

"She was seen coming to the party as you were leaving.
You were observed chatting, then leaving together."

The revelation was expected to strike him like a hard
physical blow. Instead, he seemed relieved. His nostrils flared as he took a
deep breath.

"Caught," he whispered, shaking his head,
changing the strategy of his defiance as if he had expected the accusation.
"Can you blame me for this little white lie? Where was the upside in
getting involved? Good police work, ladies. My congratulations. It was a most
unsuitable and inconvenient meeting, I'm afraid."

Back was the superior arrogance of the fraternity boy of
the day before. Fiona half-expected him to snap his finger to summon the eager
Walter for a whiskey sour.

"We appreciate the compliment, Barker, now we
would..."

He lifted his hand to stop Gail from continuing.

"Fate has been cruel. Yes, she did come to the party
at my invitation and I waylaid her at the door to tell her that it wasn't her
cup of tea."

"And you left together?"

"Yes, we did. I had my car."

He paused, waiting for Gail to offer questions. An
experienced interrogator himself, it was obvious that he was going to let Gail
lead the way, responding sparsley.

"Where did you go?"

"For a drink."

"Where?"

"A bar next door to the Mayflower. Bentley's I think.

"How long did you stay?"

"An hour, no longer."

"What did you drink?"

"Vodka and soda. She had a Diet Coke."

"How many drinks did you have?"

"Two, no, three."

"What did you talk about?"

"Our futures. The government. The past. I told you we
were friends. We talked about what had happened to other friends. Stuff like
that."

"Who made the first move to leave?"

"She did."

"And you complied without argument?"

"Of course. It was getting late."

"Did she look at her watch and say something like,
it's getting late, I have to be going?"

"Yes. Something like that."

"And then?"

"I paid the check and walked her to the hotel
entrance."

"Was there any talk about you going to her room?"

There was a barely perceptible pause, which was odd, since
he surely had anticipated the question.

"Yes, there was," he said, sucking in a deep
breath. His eyes glazed and he turned away.

"But you said she wasn't interested in such
things," Gail pressed.

"Not in my experience. She just wasn't interested in
me, I guess." He seemed suddenly regretful, revealing an emotional part of
himself that he seemed to have preferred to keep hidden.

"But you were interested in her?"

"I could have been, yes," he admitted. "If
she had ever given me half a chance."

"She was rich, beautiful and smart."

"All of the above."

"So after she turned you down, you left her in front
of the hotel."

"Yes, I did."

"And she made no mention of meeting someone
later."

He shook his head. The sweat stain was deepening and
creeping down his sides. Gail exchanged glances with Fiona as if it were an
offer to participate. Fiona nodded with closed eyes, signaling that Gail was
doing fine on her own. But her instincts told her that Barker was holding
something back.

"You say you said good-bye at the lobby
entrance?"

"Yes."

"And that was the last you saw of her."

"Yes."

"Is that all, Mr. Barker?" Gail asked, her eyes,
laserlike now, boring into him. So Gail, too, was not quite comfortable with
Barker's answers.

"What do you mean by 'all'?" Barker said,
frowning, his head cocked to one side, listening.

"I had a long conversation with Mr. Herbert last
night," Gail said.

Fiona sat up stiffly, moving forward in her chair. Gail
kept her eyes leveled on Barker. It was troubling to Fiona not to have known
about this conversation. Had Gail deliberately kept it from her?

Surely, Fiona thought, Gail would have briefed her if Fiona
had been on time. Yet why hadn't she been told beforehand that Gail and Herbert
had spoken? When was it set up? Had they spoken before? Did Gail suspect that
Fiona, too, was working on her private track, thus giving herself permission to
pursue her own?

"How is Mr. Herbert?" Barker answered, a touch of
surliness creeping into his voice.

"Not very good," Gail replied. "In fact,
mighty vengeful. And with excellent reason."

"I suppose you might say that's his nature,"
Barker sighed.

"He told me everything," Gail said.

"Yes, he would do that. So what?"

Gail suddenly turned her attention to Fiona.

"At sixteen he was accused by the thirteen-year-old
daughter of the Barker family maid of forcing his attentions on the young
lady."

"Rape?" Fiona asked, hiding her surprise.

"An accusation only. Dr. Barker, Phelps's daddy, asked
Mr. Herbert to talk to the maid, who apparently was prepared to make the charge
to the police."

"It was a total lie," Barker said. The rouge
marks mantling his cheeks now spread downward to his neck.

"He told me you had said that," Gail agreed.

"It was a shakedown pure and simple. Dad talked to Mr.
Herbert, who talked to the woman, and that was that."

"It was more than talk, Barker. Mr. Herbert said money
changed hands. Ten thousand dollars, if I'm not mistaken."

"He told you that. The son-of-a-bitch. He had promised
that the matter would never be brought up again. I can't believe he did
that."

"That man is going to leave no stone unturned. No
matter who gets hurt. He will be completely ruthless about finding the man who
caused his daughter's death. He told me that the evidence was overwhelming.
That the young girl showed marks of violence on her body."

"Did he also tell you that this spic bitch also
accused her own father of violating her and that she had actually seduced me,
waved it in front of my face, for crying out loud?"

"Yes," Gail said. "He told me about that. He
said that was also part of your defense."

"Mr. Herbert said he believed me. My father did, too.
It was clearly a case of blackmail to extort ten thousand dollars from my
father. It was awful. It could have ruined any hope for my future. How dare you
throw this back in my face. Mr. Herbert violated a trust." His anger was
accelerating as his fulminations increased. "That lousy fuck. That girl
was a lousy little whore. I was a vulnerable sixteen-year-old boy. I really
resent this. I really, really do. What is it with you people? Alright, you need
an arrest, but dragging me into it will lead nowhere. Nowhere."

"Tell me about your engagement to Ann Lawton."

"Jesus," Barker said, turning suddenly to Fiona.
"She's trying to nail me to the cross."

"I spoke to her," Gail said.

Busy little bee, Fiona thought, her resentment rising. They
had paired her up with a lone wolf, a glory-seeking cop. She wondered if Gail
had informed the Eggplant of these little tidbits. That, she decided, would be
beyond the pale.

Fiona felt her accelerating irritation. Was it because Gail
was closing in on Barker? Or was it the resultant explosion of her theory about
Farley Lipscomb?

"And she does not speak kindly of me, am I
right?"

"She was not unkind. I would call her 'guarded.'"

"Did she also cry rape?"

"She put things in a much more generous way. She said
you and she were incompatible. She implied that this incompatibility was of a
physical nature."

"My God. Are there no secrets? Ann is now a fanatic
feminist and a commited lesbian."

"Yes. She told me that. Told me other things as
well."

"I don't believe this," Barker said.

"She said you liked to see her make love to another
woman."

He shook his head, despairing.