The Ties That Bind (15 page)

"Alright, I have a strong libido. Many men like to see
that. It turns them on. Actually, it turned her on as well, witness her present
orientation. What turns you on, Officer Prentiss?"

"Finding the bad guys," Gail said coldly.

That remark made Fiona suddenly reflect on her own logic.
An instinct for the truth, she discovered, is an acquired skill. Not all
detectives ever reached that level of sensitivity, only those with an interior
operating system that is able to program itself out of the hubris of personal
experience. It was not infallible and only worked under certain conditions.

Unfortunately, such a skill was only practical if it led to
the conviction of the perpetrator of a crime. To nail a criminal required facts
that could convince a district attorney to make a presentation to a grand jury.
The district attorney did not deal in instincts or suppositions, only the
quality of facts and, of course, his or her own powers of persuasion to
motivate a grand jury to return an indictment.

But everything began with the detective. The detective was
the source. Instinct was the cutting edge that sliced through the rope that
held the package together. And once the box was open and the lid taken off, the
detective might find the validation for his or her instincts.

Watching Gail hone in on Phelps Barker, Fiona could see
that she was pursuing a trail bushwhacked by her instincts. Gail, apparently,
truly believed that Phelps Barker was the perpetrator, but so far her instincts
had led merely to supposition based on Barker's sexual track record. Was it
enough to screen out Farley Lipscomb? It was exactly on this point that her
logic and instincts went to war.

Despite Barker's bravado, Fiona could see that Gail was
breaking him piece by piece. Perhaps she hoped for a confession. Without it,
Fiona was certain that, despite Gail's relentlessness, there was, so far, no
hard evidence to support her contention.

"Are you certain, Mr. Barker, that you have nothing
more to tell me?" Gail asked sharply.

Barker's eyes shifted from side to side as if his mind
wanted to jump out of his face to some other reality.

"Like what? You have no right investigating me,
dredging up my so-called checkered past." He leaned over toward Gail.
"You know this could be actionable."

"I know the limits of my official capacity, Mr.
Barker," Gail shot back.

Barker turned suddenly to Fiona.

"You've been awfully quite, Sergeant. Or is this a
good-cop/bad-cop scenario?"

"I'm a good listener," Fiona said, deliberately
displaying her neutrality.

"Suppose I told you that I have a witness to your
being inside the lobby that night," Gail said. "Not outside, as you
contend."

He seemed to go suddenly white, swallowing hard. Fiona's
irritation accelerated. Was Gail putting bait on her hook or had she found a
witness? If so, why wasn't Fiona consulted?

"Now really..." he began.

"You bought a package of mints at the stand in the
lobby. The person was just closing up."

"Jesus," Barker said. "Jesus."

"How could she know it was me?"

"How could you know it was a she?" Gail said,
triumphantly cutting a glance at Fiona.

Barker shook his head and pursed his lips. He studied his
fingernails. The perspiration continued to pour out of him.

"I just assumed..." he said bravely.

"Never assume, Barker. I showed her your
picture."

"My picture?"

"Simple. The Georgetown Law School yearbook. You
haven't changed much in two years."

He turned to Fiona, his demeanor pleading.

"I don't believe this. She wants to frame me."

"I put you in the lobby and I'll put you in her
room," Gail said.

Fiona was beginning to feel insecurity about her
neutrality. Gail had, indeed, put him in the lobby.

"Look, I know how this must look. But surely you can't
believe that I could do such a thing. Alright, I was in the lobby. I did buy
some mints. I was drinking. I hate that kind of taste in my mouth. Is that a
crime? I bought the mints and then I went home."

"I don't believe you," Gail snapped.

"Your prerogative. I'm a lawyer, remember. You need a
lot more than that to charge me. Put me in the room and I'll concede I'd better
get me a good lawyer."

"Don't worry, I will," Gail said.

"She really believes I am the man," Barker said,
trying to preserve some fragment of credibility, but he was clearly on the way
to defeat. Then, suddenly, any last vestige of machismo disintegrated.
"Alright, you probably think I'm an arrogant bastard. But I'm not a
killer. No way ... I hope..." He seemed to find it difficult to find words
and his eyes moistened. He was no longer able to keep his emotions in check.

Suddenly his throat rasped and he cleared it. "I hope
you won't destroy me. I'm an innocent in this. I tried to be of some help to
the girl ... I..." He shook his head and held out his hands palms up.
"I don't know why I've become a target. I'm ... I'm not your man."

"We'll see," Gail said, getting up, rising to her
full height. Despite her chagrin at being out of the loop on this, Fiona could
not dismiss her admiration for Gail's thoroughness and professionalism. The
dark side, of course, was her relentlessness in her pursuit of Barker. She
admitted to herself that she didn't like him, and Gail, too, probably despised
him, but was this enough to mark him as the perpetrator? Fiona left the
question open.

"You could have filled me in," Fiona said, as
they settled into one of Sherry's much-battered Naugahyde booths. She tried to
keep her tone nonjudgmental, but that was difficult under the circumstances.

"I wanted to, but..."

"I know," Fiona said, waving away any
explanation. "I was late."

"That was part of it."

"And the other part?"

"Sometimes when it comes out fresh, it adds to the
impact. Actually, Fiona, I had no intention of doing it this way," Gail
said. "And I'm sorry it upset you."

Fiona decided then that it would be counterproductive to
show any belligerence. Gail might jump to the conclusion that her nose was out
of joint for reasons of ego, which was part of it. But what kept her in check
was the other. She still clung to her theory about Farley Lipscomb.

Until there was enough evidence to prove the guilt of
Phelps Barker, she was determined not to falter in her pursuit of Lipscomb.
Pursuit? It seemed a strong word in the face of her rather awkward
confrontation. It hadn't seemed to make a dent in his demeanor, although the
obvious posture of denial could be interpreted as a ploy. Of course, that was
what she wanted to infer.

What now, she asked herself. How must she proceed? She was
worried suddenly that Gail and her ally Thomas Herbert would pump up the
pressure on Phelps Barker, twist his mind, confuse him, perhaps extract a
confession. She had seen it happen before. A man guilty of one crime confessing
to another.

"The point is," Gail said, "I know in my gut
that Barker is our man."

"Gut feeling does not a case make," Fiona
countered, keeping the rebuke light.

Sherry came up to them in her floppy slippers and took
their order. Both ordered tuna-fish sandwiches.

"There's more to this than meets the eye, Fiona,"
Gail said, sipping the coffee that Sherry had poured into their cups.

"Like what?" Fiona asked, bracing herself for
more revelations.

"Those latents we picked up," Gail said. "We
couldn't find a match..."

"You didn't..." Fiona snapped.

Gail smiled and nodded, took her large pocketbook from the
seat beside her, opened it and tipped it toward Fiona. There was the Pepsi can,
lying in a bed of scarf.

"Put him in the room, we got something, right?"
Gail said.

Gail was lengths ahead of her. Fiona, despite her feelings,
offered a nod of admiration. Under ordinary circumstances, it seemed a logical
course of action. Now it was, of her, a personal source of shame.

"You're closer, that's for sure," Fiona managed
to say. Her obsession with Farley Lipscomb was obviously interfering with
judgment.

"We, Fiona,
we
are closer."

Fiona nodded and sipped her coffee, hoping it would mask
her self-disgust.

"And if there is no match?" Fiona asked, further
upset by her obvious display of negativity.

"Then we have the tech boys do the room again."

"And then if we find nothing?"

"Back to the drawing board," Gail replied. She
paused and Fiona felt the intensity of her gaze as she studied her face. Fiona
knew what had to come next.

"You don't seem very enthusiastic, Fiona," Gail
said, after a long pause.

"It's a little premature for enthusiasm, Gail.
Although I am very impressed with your work."

Gail lowered her eyes, as if trying to avoid commenting on
the pallid comment. At that moment, much to Fiona's relief, Sherry brought
their tuna-fish sandwiches.

"Oh yes," Gail said suddenly. Having lifted the
sandwich, she put it down on her plate again. "Mr. Herbert has launched a
private investigation of Barker."

Fiona again tried to tamp down her negative reaction,
fearful that it might be possible to build up a good enough circumstantial
case, which, whether brought to trial or not, would ruin Barker. The media
would fixate on it and provide enough exposure to doom Barker's career dreams.
But what Fiona feared most was that, circumstantial or not, a jury could
declare the man guilty and destroy him. The law, after all, was not a science.

"Have you told the Chief?" Fiona asked.

"Yes, I did," Gail said, avoiding Fiona's stunned
gaze. "I called him first thing this morning."

"Don't you think you should have consulted with your
senior partner?"

"Herbert asked me to keep it between us, at least
until I had spoken to my superior. I had to keep that confidence, Fiona. And,
of course, I'm telling you now and the fact is that the Chief must have
interpreted it as if I were speaking for both of us. No harm done, is there? I
was careful to make no waves. Herbert is grief-stricken and determined. There
seemed no other way to handle it. He is, in fact, making our job easier."
She laughed. "I mean it does solve the personnel problem, and if we crack
it, it'd be a feather in both our caps. And the Chief would have the glory that
comes with the success of his first gender team."

Studying Gail's face, Fiona looked for some sinister intent
in this explanation. She couldn't find any, or probably didn't want to. She had
her own sense of ethics to contend with, her own violation of the partnership
pact between police officers, and she was too vulnerable to protest. What
puzzled her most, however, was her absolute unwillingness to characterize
Barker as the guilty party. It seemed more like a stubborn, obsessive
compulsion.

"You've got a point, I suppose," Fiona sighed.
She had been waiting for Gail to question her about the pictures she had
presented to the assistant manager and staff of the Mayflower. Surely Gail had
gone through the same dance, showing a blown-up picture of Phelps Barker
extracted from his Georgetown yearbook. Someone must have mentioned it. But on
this matter, Gail was inexplicably silent.

By then, the first bite of the sandwich had turned to stone
in her stomach. If Gail noticed her lack of appetite, she said nothing.

After lunch, Gail left for the lab to pursue the processing
of Phelps Barker's prints. Fiona went back to the squad room. The Eggplant was
just leaving as she came in.

"Looks like we have a break coming on the Herbert
case," he said.

"I wouldn't be that optimistic, Chief," Fiona
said.

"Prentiss seems to feel otherwise."

"We'll soon find out," Fiona said, feeling
foolish. The Eggplant looked at her with some curiosity, then turned and left
the room. So her indifference was showing, she thought.

For a long time she sat in the squad room faking work. Her
mind felt like a slot machine churning endless, unmatching symbols in their
little windows. People came in, talked, made phone calls, joked. When they
talked to her she answered in monosyllables with just enough effort to project
an idea of alertness.

She felt bottled up, gorged with secrets, unable to find a
clear path of action. Her attention drifted to the telephone messages on her
desk. One was from Harrison. She called home to get her messages from the
answering machine, admitting finally to herself that she had expected Farley to
call, to follow up on their confrontation. Despite the vagaries of his
reaction, she still believed that her message had been received.

Then she realized the foolishness of her expectation.
Farley would never call and leave his own name. She went through her messages
again. They were all from people she knew. No unknowns. Could that mean he
expected her to call him, was waiting for her call? The more she thought about
it, the more powerful became her desire to explore the idea.

Picking up the phone, she called the Supreme Court and
asked for the office of Associate Justice Lipscomb. Even as she waited, she
felt out of control, possessed. At length she got a receptionist and announced
herself.

"He'll know me. I promise you. Fiona FitzGerald,"
she said.

In a few moments the woman came back on the phone.

"Justice Lipscomb is in a meeting," the woman
announced.

"Does he know I'm on the phone?"

"He's in a meeting. I'll be sure he gets the
message."

The woman broke the connection. Knowing the consequences,
how could he possibly avoid making contact? She called again a half-hour later,
making the request to speak to the justice as soon as possible. Was this
compulsion a form of madness? she wondered.

"I'll give him the message," the receptionist
said icily, hanging up. It was apparent that this was not the method that would
get the required response. Of course not, she affirmed. Farley would be far too
cautious to accept any contact that could be compromising. A telephone was too
vulnerable and, even if he met with her in person, he would most certainly want
to be sure she wasn't wired.