The Witch of Watergate (16 page)

FOR THE FIRST time in days Fiona awoke refreshed from a
dead, dreamless sleep. Often in her experience, bearing witness to another's
catharsis had a sympathetic effect on her own emotions.

Lying in bed, stretching in the delicious warmth, watching
bright sunbeams spear through the blinds, she felt an odd sense of peace and
satisfaction, as if she had finally said goodbye to yet another brief bout of
depression.

It would pass. She knew it would. A realist, she had
learned to trust her self-knowledge. It had been a legacy of her father, who
had, for most of his life, relied rather heavily on self-delusion and fantasy,
never really confronting himself. His epiphany, which changed the course of his
life, profoundly altered her own.

The sense of it had burned into her memory, invaded, then
embedded itself in her tissue forever. He had assembled his tiny family,
consisting of her mother and herself, in the dining room. Perhaps the fact that
she continued to live in the house deeply influenced the pristine recall of the
moment.

The memory was further reinforced by another event that had
occurred to her almost at the same moment in time, perhaps a day or two before.
She had had her first period, had become a woman.

For weeks before, her father had seemed catatonic,
alarmingly so, since he was the very model of the gregarious Irish politician,
a man who had parlayed charismatic charm and a gift for blarney to membership
in the most exclusive club in the world, the United States Senate.

It was early morning. She remembered the special quality of
the sunlight filtering through the curtains.

"I have reached a decision," he said. Perhaps it
was the light, but she noted that the fatigue wrinkles in his facial skin had
miraculously smoothed and his eyes sparkled with happiness. "I intend to
oppose the Vietnam war," he said. To Fiona it had sounded momentous,
although she had absolutely no true understanding of the implications. "It
will probably ruin my career and change our lives."

"Is that wise?" her mother had said, ever the
cautious conservative. Despite the hardships of being a Senator's wife, she
would not have traded her position for anything.

"Remember what Lou Gehrig said when they gave him that
tribute at Yankee Stadium?" her father said. It made absolutely no sense
to her. Not then. Who was Lou Gehrig?

"What are you talking about?" her mother had
said.

"I am the happiest man on the face of the earth,"
her father had replied.

Only later did she learn who Lou Gehrig was ... the first
baseman for the New York Yankees who had just been diagnosed as having a rare
form of infantile paralysis. More importantly, she had finally grasped the full
import of what he had meant.

Since then, her life had been through enough peaks and
valleys to validate her own self-knowledge. Being true to yourself was always
the best remedy for depression. She had traversed yet another valley. It was
always difficult to know what caused this. Something to do with loneliness, a
protracted famine of loving, both physical and psychic. It would come again.
She was sure of it. Optimism returned. Hope was on the horizon. She felt good,
joyous, sexy. Life was a kick again. A thousand hosannas.

She met the Eggplant and Charleen at Sherry's for
breakfast. The Eggplant had assumed his usual morning sourness. A good sign,
she decided. In fact, there were good signs everywhere this morning. There
hadn't been a single murder in this city on the previous night.

And Charleen Evans showed signs of humility and remorse.

Sherry's was a police hangout, a ramshackle coffeeshop
stuck somewhere in the 1950s. It was furnished with naugahyde-covered booth
benches, chipped and faded white plastic tables and countertops. Most of the
chrome trim was dented. Sherry grunted her usual indifferent greeting as she
poured strong black coffee into their chipped white mugs.

Beside Charleen on the bench was a dispatch case, which,
Fiona assumed, contained the computer disks from Polly Dearborn's computer.

They had all read the morning
Post
's account of the
Dearborn investigation. There was no mention of Robert Downey's abortive
confession. Most of it was a rehash, since there wasn't much that was new to
impart except that, as the story said, "the investigation was
continuing."

"I resisted temptation," the Eggplant said, as if
he had tuned in on Fiona's thoughts. He did not wait for her questioning
response. "I nearly told Barker about the Downey thing." He gestured
with his thumb and index figure. "Came this close. Just to show the
bastard how the media can curdle people's guts."

"Downey's been through enough hell as it is,"
Fiona said, casting a glance at Charleen, who lowered her eyes. Her remorse was
palpable.

"I wasn't thinking of Downey. I couldn't give a
shit." He paused and sipped his coffee. "I was thinking how sweet it
was to deliberately keep something out of that rag."

"I was wondering about that," Fiona said. It was
somewhat unusual. Leaks were everywhere in the department.

"We were lucky. The guy walked in when I was there. He
would only speak to me alone, and Sally, the stenographer, is a buddy. I would
trust her with my life."

He looked at Charleen.

"Gut instinct," he said. Fiona wondered whether
Charleen would see the rebuke in it.

"I feel like a fool," Charleen said.

"About time," Fiona chided.

Charleen looked into the steaming coffee in her mug.

"I may not have the right stuff for Homicide,"
she said. Fiona was surprised at the extent of her contrition.

"Maybe not," the Eggplant muttered. Fiona
wondered if his undue toleration was because he feared Charleen's knowledge. Whatever
happened, he would have to contend with the fact of their conspiracy. Charleen,
despite her newfound humility, was still a cipher to Fiona, although less so
than yesterday.

Fiona was on the verge of coming to her defense when the
Eggplant said:

"We haven't got time for that shit, Evans. We still
have a killer to find."

His rah-rah sense of urgency seemed misplaced. The fact was
that they were back to square one. The computer complication had slowed them
down considerably and the Downey matter hadn't helped. Being shorthanded was
also an obstacle.

"I don't think we're going to be able to move as fast
as Harry Barker would like," Fiona said.

"Fuck Harry Barker," the Eggplant snapped.

Brave talk, she thought, remembering their first meeting
with Barker, at which the Eggplant had reached new heights of humility and
deference. He hadn't been too forthcoming at the second meeting either. There
was no point in pushing for an explanation. It would come in its own sweet
time.

"We'll just have to develop leads." She looked at
Charleen. "Split things up between us." Then, turning to the
Eggplant, "Just don't expect miracles."

"I don't," he said. Then he took a deep sip of
his coffee. When he had put down the mug he looked at Charleen. "The disks
in there?"

Charleen nodded. She picked up the briefcase and handed it
to the Eggplant. He opened it and looked inside.

"Hard copies, too," Charleen said.

He nodded, seeming satisfied, then his eyes shifted,
studying both their faces.

"Let's go," he said, picking up the dispatch
case.

He got up and they followed him out. His car was parked on
the street and he opened the door on the driver's side, throwing the briefcase
onto the rear seat. Fiona got in beside him and Charleen behind her, next to
the briefcase.

He headed the car toward the Capitol, then swung a sharp
right and headed toward Independence Avenue. No one spoke. They passed a
construction site where land was being cleared for a large office building.
Some of the laborers were standing around a fire in a barrel, warming their
hands against the early morning chill, their shovels, picks and sledgehammers
lying helter-skelter around them.

The Eggplant pulled up adjacent to the site and reached
over for the briefcase. Then he got out of the car, carried it to where the men
were standing, opened it and fed papers into the fire, much to the astonishment
of the men warming their hands. The fire flared up and the men backed away. But
the performance wasn't over yet.

The Eggplant removed the disks from the briefcase, picked up
one of the sledgehammers lying about, then proceeded to demolish them until
there were only bits and pieces left. Then he picked up the remains and dumped
them into the fire.

"Won't burn, mister," one of the men said.

"All they need is a good charring," the Eggplant
said as he headed back to the car.

"Felt good," he said, as he gunned the motor and
headed back to Sherry's, where Fiona had parked the car. "Got the idea
this morning when I passed this site."

"I'd say that was a pretty decisive act," Fiona said.

"Just completed the other half of the job is
all." He turned to look at Fiona, showing his broad, gummy smile.

Charleen seemed speechless with astonishment.

"Have we missed something?" Fiona said. It was
not the first time she had witnessed the Eggplant's passion for histrionics and
game-playing.

"You mean I haven't told you?" He chuckled.

"Told us what?"

"Farber destroyed the computer."

"How can you be sure?" Fiona asked.

"He sent Barker a handwritten letter, validating its
destruction." The Eggplant laughed. "For some reason Barker faxed it
over to me last night."

"What happened with the injunction?" Fiona asked.

"Beats the shit out of me," the Eggplant said.
"Guess he just called off the dogs."

"I thought he was so determined to get at it,"
Fiona said.

"Guess he changed his mind. He wrote a cover note.
Said better to let sleeping dogs lie. That's one thing me and the
son-of-a-bitch agree on. Let sleeping dogs lie. Especially these."

Which explained to Fiona his sudden cavalier attitude
toward Barker. With the material out of play, nothing would threaten his
becoming Police Commissioner.

Not that there weren't still some moral niceties that had
to be overlooked. After all, one day the Mayor, if he was still in political
life, might have some explaining to do. Without Polly Dearborn's research, that
possibility was not imminent. Nor was it incumbent on any of them to provide
the media with the weapon to destroy the Mayor. Who were they to be judge and
jury?

"But why?" Fiona asked. "Yesterday he seemed
so adamant at getting the material."

"I guess he didn't think it was worth the
hassle," the Eggplant replied.

"Or he paid Farber's price," Fiona suggested.

"And what would he have gotten for that?" the
Eggplant asked. "The computer had no disks."

"He wouldn't know that until he got the
computer," Fiona persisted.

"I thought of that. But he seemed perfectly content
with the way the situation was. Knowing the bastard, he would have bitched like
hell if he thought that Farber had screwed him."

"So we let the sleeping dogs lie," Fiona said.

"May they sleep in peace forever," the Eggplant
said.

He dropped them back at Sherry's and sped away in the
direction of headquarters, leaving them still somewhat in a state of shock.
Sherry brought them coffee. It suddenly occurred to Fiona that Charleen hadn't
made a comment on the Eggplant's action.

"What do you make of all this, Charleen?"

Charleen picked up her mug and drank. She looked somewhat
vague and uncertain and made no effort to reply.

"Listen, Charleen, we all make mistakes," Fiona
pressed.

"This is more than a mistake. It shakes your
confidence in me, makes me lose credibility. Everything I say is suspect. I've
made a damned fool of myself."

"You just haven't got all the answers, Charleen. No
crime in that. None of us has."

"I don't even have the right questions," Charleen
said.

"Not always. Neither do I."

"You know your stuff, FitzGerald."

Fiona took a deep drag on her coffee and looked at
Charleen.

"Enough of this bullshit, woman, we've got work to do.
Problem is I don't exactly know where to start."

They were silent for a long time. Charleen looked into the
black coffee of her mug as if she were searching for alien bacteria.

"All right, FitzGerald," Charleen said.
"I've got a question."

Fiona looked up in response.

"What caused Harry Barker to change his mind about
obtaining the material?"

Fiona thought about it, let the idea sink in, then nodded
her head vigorously.

"There's hope for you yet, Charleen. That's one
fucking good question."

FOR THE NEXT two weeks, murder was not Washington's
number-one topic. Not that crime was off the front pages. There was a major
coke bust, a sting operation that bagged fifty-three thieves and the arrest of
the leaders of a major black gang in Southeast Washington.

The Mayor had created task forces and various committees to
come up with ideas to combat crime. Having little choice and backed to the wall
by media-fed public opinion, the Mayor cranked up his public-relations machine.

More significantly, the cherry blossoms were popping,
signaling the start of the tourist season. The
Post
, perhaps honoring
Barker's pledge to the Eggplant, no longer used the sobriquet that Washington
was the murder capital of the United States and stopped bashing the Mayor. More
cynical minds, like Fiona's, determined that this was more in deference to the
paper's advertisers than to any pledge to a mere captain of Homicide.

It seemed a watershed time, a respite. Fiona and Charleen
continued their investigation of the Dearborn murder. They made lists of possible
suspects, gleaned from those newspaper clippings provided by Sheila Burns.

Because of the manpower shortage, Fiona and Charleen had to
work alone, returning each evening to headquarters to compare notes. Even
Fiona's friend Chappy was a suspect and worthy of an interview.

Fiona visited him at his Georgetown house.

"Drink?" he asked, inviting her into the sitting
room.

"This is official," Fiona said with a wink.
"I'm on duty."

"Two olives or one?" Chappy asked.

"I'm tracking a killer," Fiona said, holding up
one finger.

"Rocks or straight up?"

"Not a lead in sight. Rocks."

"Gin or vodka?"

"Did you do it, Chappy? Stolly."

He mixed the drinks, popped in the ice and olives and sat
opposite her in the little sitting room that overlooked his elegant but small
English garden.

"In my mind, a thousand times," Chappy said,
lifting his glass in a silent toast. "In reality, I couldn't, and I doubt
any of us mowed down by her ferocious pen could do it. Public men, in the final
analysis, are cautious realists. The fact is that there is another life beyond
the limelight. All right, I'm no longer viable for the perks and ego
satisfactions of the diplomatic life, but life is not over." He sipped his
drink. "As you can see." He swept his arm to take in the
antique-filled room and the garden.

"Chester Downey had another view," Fiona said.

"That is an enigma. His downside, while devastating,
need not have been fatal. A public scolding, a resignation and temporary limbo.
There had to be more to it."

She studied his face, wondering if he knew more than he was
saying.

"There are also the realities of being a public
person. You know up front that the media is gunning for you. That is a given.
The media barons know that there is nothing more tantalizing to curiosity than
watching a star fall and no posture more fearsome than righteous indignation.
We are a nation of watchers and the media is the surrogate for all of our
frustrations. It is a lethal combination, especially for a public person who
has made a tiny misstep. And who hasn't?"

"Should I believe my ears, Chappy?" Fiona said.

"Polly Dearborn was a master of the half-truth. Or
should I say the half lie. In my case, she accused me of using my position to
gain inside information of a certain transaction for personal profit. Well,
it's half true. I made the transaction and I made the profit."

"And the other, the inside information?"

Chappy took another sip and put his drink down on the table
beside him. He smiled.

"Hearsay, rumor, an overheard tip. That doesn't
qualify as inside information. The fact remains that I was in the position to
hear it."

"Are you defending the lady?" Fiona asked.

"Defending? Not at all. I'm commending her for her
skillful use of the language, for creating high art out of vagueness, and
drawing masterful conclusions from inconclusive information. The fact is that I
knew the game and the house rules. I gambled on the play and lost."

"What about her dredging something out of the distant
past? A youthful indiscretion."

"If it's on the record, fair game."

"A sexual aberration?"

"Aberration? What's that?"

"Homosexuality?"

"Tame stuff. It's called sexual preference. No mileage
in that any more."

"Womanizing?"

"Image-enhancing, unless a scorned woman blasts away.
Or the lady is underage."

"Whips and chains, sadism, masochism."

"Almost over the edge."

"Incest, child abuse."

"Beyond the pale. You're hiding that, stay out of
public life."

"What about crime?"

"Crime is also fair game. But that, too, has to be
beyond the pale. Like murder, dope peddling, burglary. Not drunken driving or
car theft for joyriding. The public can forgive that if no one got hurt. Her
research in that area was dogged. If there was a record anywhere to be found,
she found it."

"Computers. She was hooked into data banks."

"God help us. Still, you can't blame the
messenger."

"My, Chappy. All this defense. I thought you rejoiced
in her death," Fiona said.

"Not really. I rather liked having an enemy, gave the
adrenalin a lift."

"So you don't think she was done away with by her
victims?"

"As a victim, I tend to doubt it," Chappy said.
He finished his drink. "But hell, I'm no detective."

Her conversation with Chappy seemed a bellwether to their
investigation. Other victims of Polly Dearborn seemed to express the same point
of view. A public person is the media's target of convenience. They are in the
business of gaining attention, attracting notice. Only a familiar star can do
that.

They interviewed those with whom Polly Dearborn spent
social time. Most were catalysts of the social scene, people who reveled in
collecting powerful persons. Potty Dearborn was sought after because of her
power, not her social graces. All agreed that she was mostly a loner, secretive
and protective of herself. Most felt that she was always in a working mode, a
lion in lamb's clothing. Nor was she averse to probing her social contacts,
sometimes relentlessly.

It seemed obvious after a number of interviews that Polly
Dearborn had been sought after by people of prominence more as a defense
mechanism than for her scintillating company. Nobody admitted close friendship
with her, only casual acquaintanceship.

Essentially she was a loner, her modus operandi quite
transparent, and there were always people available with scores to settle to
provide her with information laced with nasty gossip that might form the basis
for one of her scalpel-wielding performances. Now that she was dead, there
seemed to be no reluctance to tell the real truth about her. Such was the
hypocrisy of the Washington social system.

Aside from interviews with those who touched Polly
Dearborn's life, Charleen and Fiona contacted hardware stores that sold the
brand of rope used to hang her. It proved a common type. Every store carried it
and every lead provided led nowhere.

Even the story of Polly Dearborn's murder, after a surge of
interest in the national media, seemed to fade away, yet another brief
titillation to pique the public's interest and pass into history.

Because of the stringent manpower shortage, Charleen and
Fiona's pattern was to go their separate ways during the day and review their
findings when they came back to the squad room each evening, It was a
painstaking process, mostly discouraging, since they could not develop a single
lead.

Charleen's awareness of her own vulnerability and
self-doubt was not helped by the failure to produce any results in the Dearborn
killing. She grew increasingly morose and depressed, which did little for
Fiona's morale.

"Patience, Charleen. It's a tough case."

"I just feel I'm not pulling my weight," she said
often.

"We just stay with it, something will develop,"
Fiona told her, but without much conviction. This one was getting away from
them. Nevertheless, the reality was that not every homicide was solved. Who
knew this better than Charleen?

Although they were encouraged by the Eggplant to pursue the
case diligently, it was beginning to seem more for show than for substance.
Their reports to the Captain were getting briefer and subject to cancellation
by more pressing matters. A number of gang murders and random killings had been
solved, and better police protection of the combat zones seemed to be holding
down the killings.

Besides, Fiona knew that the Eggplant was merely marking
time for the day when he would take over as Police Commissioner. Rumors were
rampant about his impending appointment. Apparently the present Commissioner
was waiting for the most propitious moment to announce his resignation, a
moment of calm, to allow him to save face and point with pride.

Unfortunately, the calm was not to be. The nightly bloodbath
began again, triggering a new round of daily meetings and even more pressure on
the Homicide squad. And once again the
Washington Post
began to describe
Washington as "the murder capital of the U.S.A." and resumed its
bashing of the Mayor.

"The bastard broke his word," the Eggplant ranted
as they met with him one morning. The new round of murders had broken the calm
in his disposition as well. "His Honor has been chewing carpets all
morning. Can't say that I blame him."

"Have you discussed this with Barker?" Fiona
asked.

"Left messages at his home and office," the
Eggplant said. He took a deep drag on his panatela, then blew a smoke ring
toward the ceiling.

"What do you make of it?" Fiona asked.

"Maybe he's saving things up. One day he'll use it to
fry us. Do a story on the great unsolved murder of Polly Dearborn. His Honor is
giving me the I-told-you-so routine."

"Sounds strange. He seemed so anxious to be kept in
the loop," Fiona said.

"Fact is, there's no loop to keep him in. Nothing's
happening. Right?"

"I wish there was," Fiona said, exchanging
glances with Charleen, who looked away.

"Maybe Barker feels that because we hadn't busted the
Dearborn case fast enough, all deals are off."

"We're trying, Captain," Fiona muttered.

They had reported to him at every step of the
investigation.

"Considering the circumstances, I know you're giving
it your best shot." He shot a glance at Charleen. "Both of you."

"Give us some extra manpower, we might get something
going," Fiona said. It was a futile gesture and they both knew it.

The telephone rang, a welcome relief for all of them. He
picked it up and turned away, a clear gesture of dismissal.

Charleen and Fiona went back to their desks in the squad
room.

"Any ideas?" Fiona asked.

Charleen began to speak, then hesitated, and said nothing.
In two weeks she had become reticent, gun-shy.

"Open up, for chrissakes, Charleen. Take a
chance."

Charleen shrugged and nodded.

"I think Barker knows something we don't,"
Charleen said.

Fiona hadn't focused on that point and appreciated the
idea. She wanted Charleen to know it, rebuild her confidence.

"Not bad, Charleen. Let it hang out a bit more."

Charleen rubbed her chin.

"Maybe the feds got to him. Maybe there is some aspect
of national security to this. Maybe this is all a CIA game, a plot that had as
its object the elimination of the Defense Secretary."

"Maybe," Fiona said, half believing the
possibility. In the absence of leads, homicide detectives often fantasized.
Charleen, intrepid despite her defeats, was having a lulu.

"You think I'm crazy?" Charleen asked.

"You spend enough time in Washington, nothing
surprises," Fiona said.

"I ... I've worked out a theory," Charleen said,
encouraged by Fiona's initial response. Charleen paused and cleared her throat.
"The CIA could have concocted the whole idea," Charleen continued.
"Rather than reveal that the Defense Secretary was a spy, they conspire to
knock him off. Kill Dearborn, then orchestrate Downey's suicide. People think
it's because of Dearborn's articles. In this way the country is spared a
scandal and the world doesn't skip a beat knowing that some other country now
has all our secrets."

"And how does Barker figure in this?"

"The President tells him."

"Makes it a cover-up, with Barker participating,"
Fiona said.

"For national security. For the good of the
country."

The stuff of fiction, Fiona decided, unwilling to pour cold
water on Charleen's fantasy. She remembered seeing Charleen's extensive library
of spy, detective and suspense novels.

"You think it's off-the-wall?" Charleen asked.
Coming along, Fiona thought. At least she trusted Fiona enough to ask.

Fiona mulled it over for a long moment. The idea had
possibilities, but, as in most of Charleen's theories, despite its imagination,
it lacked insight.

"It has a fatal flaw," Fiona said gently.

Charleen frowned.

"Good for the country or not, Barker would never agree
to bury a helluva story like that."

"You think not?"

"No way."

Charleen seemed puzzled but did not reply. Fiona felt
compelled to explain.

"Whatever the circumstances, Charleen," she said,
"would you, as a homicide detective, cover up a government murder of a
civilian in our jurisdiction for whatever reason?"

"Absolutely not," Charleen said indignantly.

"Nor would I. Not the Captain, either."

Charleen lowered her eyes, obviously considering the
explanation.

"You get my drift," Fiona continued gently. The
real talent of a homicide detective was in understanding human behavior. People
had parameters, a hard core of pride and identity, even the most amoral.
Deduction depended more on insight than bare facts. How could she possibly
explain such concepts to someone as literal as Charleen? Indeed, if an
explanation was required it defeated the logic. You can't intellectualize
instinct. This was something that had to be built into the cells.