Immaculate Deception (24 page)

"Not bad," the Eggplant said after Mrs. Carter
had left.

"For a woman," Fiona replied. She had, indeed,
experienced a tiny moment of elation. But that had quickly receded as she faced
the prospect of having to justify her shaky conclusion about Mrs. McGuire's
death.

Out of respect for the visitor, the Eggplant had let his
panatela die. He lifted it out of the ashtray and fired it to life. Gobs of
smoke swirled out of his mouth and nose as he assumed his favorite
feet-on-the-desk position.

"No way out now," he said.

"None intended."

The Eggplant blew some more smoke.

"We had a week. You surprised me."

Fiona forced herself to lift her eyes toward his. She
wondered if he saw her lack of confidence.

"Why prolong the agony?" he said, watching her.
"We were spinning our wheels, wasting manpower."

"The issue here was murder or suicide," she said.
"Not conception." She averted her eyes now. "We haven't come up
with a single clue, not the slightest warm lead." She paused. It wasn't
working. Her earlier conviction was evaporating. She hadn't thought it through
and it was showing. "But we could still continue..." Her voice
trailed off. After that little discussion with May Carter, she had boxed the
MPD into a bit of a hole. Under the Eggplant's gaze, she felt transparent.

"I guess I need hip boots to wade through all this
bullshit," the Eggplant said calmly blowing smoke rings. His expression
needed no interpreter. Storm clouds were gathering. "You found out who the
father was?"

"Yes," she said meeting his gaze.

He waited, sucking in more smoke, blowing it out.

"I gave my word," she said sheepishly.

"You giving words now," he mocked. "You got
no authorization to give words."

"I know."

She felt him studying her. It wasn't supposed to work this
way. Then suddenly, instead of an eruption, he smiled.

"Sheet." He shook his head. "In the face of
that bitch, what choice had you. In a way, I guess you saved our ass. Press
would have crapped all over us. Everything would come out in the wash. Yeah,
sergeant. I guess you had no choice."

"At least, I couldn't think of any," she
admitted.

"You spoke to the man, right?"

She nodded.

"He sold you."

She nodded again.

"No way he could have done it?"

"I..." She hesitated. She hadn't actually checked
his alibi, his assertion that he had been at a meeting until late. And she had
believed his story totally. With her gut. In her heart. Emotionally, she had
gone the whole nine yards.

"Don't say it," she said.

"Say what."

"Just like a woman."

They were talking in shorthand, nor did it surprise her how
much was being communicated between them.

"That chip just hangs there," the Eggplant sighed.
"Just Mr. Big Black Macho sitting here playing with his Johnson." He
shook his head, then sat up and shot her an angry look.

"My word worth shit? Is that what you're saying? think
the old Eggplant's gonna blow it in a moment of extreme vulnerability." He
pointed the panatela in her direction, smoke oozing from his nostrils.
"Gotta remember, sergeant. It's your badge gave that word, not your
person. There is a chain of command here. You give your word, you speak for me.
For all of us. Capish?"

"It wasn't like that. I didn't want to destroy ... oh
shit."

"I don't want to hear, woman," the Eggplant
hissed through clenched teeth.

"I was just buying your point of view," Fiona
said, caught in the web of her own making, unable to extricate herself. Just
like a woman, she mocked. Again, her mother's voice tumbled from the void.
Women
are
different Fiona. Never forget that.

"You are procedurally correct," Fiona said,
uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"Which supersedes your personal word."

"All right then," she said feeling her throat
constrict. Once removed, he would never be constrained to protect Charlie Rome
if his own career demanded it. Information was ambition's most effective
weapon, a double-edged sword. He would use it if he had to.

"Don't tell me," he snapped, taking a deep pull
on his cigar. Again he pointed it in her direction.

"Is that an order?"

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it,
showed his badge, then flung it into the wastebasket.

"Hell, no." He smiled. She got the obvious
symbolism.

"You can be one hell of a ball buster when you want to
be," she sighed, relieved. He fished his badge out of the basket.

"Next time. No word. Nobody gives words without
authorization from on high."

"Got it, chief."

"Question is, sergeant. Can we sleep nights on this
one?"

"I'm not sure," she said.

At that moment, the telephone on the Eggplant's desk
erupted. He picked it up.

"Yeah," he barked, handing her the instrument.

"Sorry, Fi. We've got to talk." It was Cates,
agitated and secretive.

"Sure."

"We clear?"

The Eggplant had directed his attention to some paperwork
on his desk.

"Yes."

"I got something. It'll knock your socks off."

"So have I," she said. Had her word included
Cates?

"Where?" she asked.

"Sherry's. Leave now."

She hung up.

"Cates up to something?" the Eggplant asked
indifferently.

"Not really," she said calmly. The fact that
Cates had insisted on rerouting the call to the Eggplant's office had obviously
increased its level of importance.

"You get the paperwork ready," the Eggplant said
without looking up. "First thing tomorrow. I've got an appointment with
hizzoner and I want to lay it on his desk."

"I'll do that," she said, hiding her agitation.

"All in all, sergeant. I'm pissed off..." He
paused. "But I got no complaints," the Eggplant said, looking up
briefly. "Our game is catching the bastards."

"And leaving the politics to the politicians."

"You got it ... sister."

It was near as he ever could get to a meaningful heartfelt
spoken compliment. He quickly returned his gaze to the papers on his desk and
she let herself out of the office.

"Leaching," Cates said. It was his first word of
response, except for a muffled greeting. He looked brooding and introspective
when she first spotted him sitting at a back booth at Sherry's. Nor had he brightened
when she came forward and slid into the booth facing him.

"That's it," she said. "All this angst for
leaching."

"It's an industrial process." He caught Sherry's
eye and she waddled from around the counter to pour them two cups of coffee,
offering no greeting. Surliness was her trademark. But she did know cops, could
read their faces and body language and had often proved her loyalty by
generosity.

"You know leaching?" Fiona asked Sherry.

"Yeah. Pain in the ass deadbeats," she snapped,
not cracking a smile, parading her outward pose of nastiness as she waddled
back behind the counter.

"It's a process used in gold mining," Cates said,
taking a sip of coffee and watching Fiona's face.

"Metallurgy. You called me in the chief's office for
metallurgy?"

Part of the game, she knew. He was deliberately drawing it
out, requiring such a put-down comment, warming up the information, setting the
stage, preparing her. Instinctively, she knew he was getting ready to throw a
bomb.

"I think I was wrong," he said. "From the
beginning. Dead wrong."

She felt the heartbeat in her throat. You can't, she
thought.

"Call it an accidental discovery. The unexplainable
meant to be."

"Will you cut the horseshit, Cates," Fiona
hissed.

"I was just sitting there," he said ignoring her
comment. "In Rome's outer office. Waiting to see this fellow who could
explain the mysteries of abortion politics. Maybe, as you said, we were missing
something. Keep an open mind. The slogan of Fiona FitzGerald. Always an open
mind. Did you know that in Congress, the abortion battle lines are drawn around
funding abortions for poor kids."

"Next thing you'll start reading me Roe v. Wade,
Cates, for crying out loud."

"I was just sitting there shooting the breeze with
this cute little black receptionist..."

He never shoots the breeze, Fiona thought. Nothing he does
is without purpose. She did not interrupt.

"You know chitchat. She started to give me opinions
about her boss."

"Rome?"

"She worshipped him. Thought he was real cool. He has
a truly gung-ho staff." He shook his head and smiled. "It's her they
can't stand."

"Mrs. Rome?"

"Herself."

"What can't they stand?"

"Calls ten, twenty times a day. One of these real
possessive ladies. Gets mad when this kid says the congressman is out. 'Well,
find him.' Kid's a real mimic."

"Does she call mornings?"

"Mostly." He looked puzzled. "How did you
know that?"

"Just tell it, for chrissakes," Fiona said
curtly.

"Well, this Rome lady, according to the receptionist
is apparently real rude. The kid comes in at seven-thirty. When she first came
to work for Rome about two years ago, Rome was always in the office ahead of
her. Real early bird. That stopped about a year ago. He started to stroll in
about nine, nine-thirty. By then, Mrs. Rome had called six or seven times, getting
nastier and nastier."

"Then it began again," Fiona said. "Rome
coming in early. Say about right after Frankie died."

"On the money. You're a clairvoyant, Fi." He
looked at her with mock suspicion, cocking his head. "Now when Mrs. Rome
called the receptionist could put her right through. No more lip from Madame
Nasty. Not in the mornings, anyway." He looked at her and his eyes
narrowed. "How did you know that?"

"That confirms it." Fiona said suddenly elated.
"Mornings he spent with Frankie. After her death he was back on
schedule."

"I was heading in that direction," Cates said,
genuinely surprised. "But you said confirmed. That implies a lot more than
theory."

"I did better than that. I got a confession. Heart to
heart. Person to person." She lowered her voice. "The man emptied
himself, poured it out."

"Rome?"

She remembered her earlier discussion with the Eggplant. We
don't give word without authorization from on high. She nodded.

"You're kidding. He went that far?"

"As far as you can go," she said.

"Official. In writing."

"Wasn't necessary."

"He turn himself in?" Cates asked. He was acting
oddly, stunned.

"Why would he do that?"

"I thought you said he confessed."

"He did. He was her lover. They met mornings. I think
you've just confirmed it. I hadn't checked that part, you see. It did worry me
a little. But now you've settled that point." Something continued to nag
her. Rome had told her that Barbara did not know, had never found out. How had
he put it? He was "thankful" that Barbara had never given him grounds
for suspicion. Thank God for that, he had said. According to him that was the
part that had troubled him most. It wasn't only his career. It would hurt
Barbara. Why punish Barbara? he had said. The conversation with Rome only a few
hours ago was recycling at high speed.

"So Barbara Rome was indeed suspicious," Fiona
said.

"I still don't understand," Cates replied,
obviously confused. "You said, 'confessed.'"

"To being her lover, yes."

"We're talking murder here," Cates said.
"Did he confess that?"

"Afraid not," Fiona said. "But you just put
a whole new complexion on the case. You implied that Mrs. Rome suspected that
Mr. Rome was catting around." She waved her hand suddenly like a traffic
cop stopping traffic. "Did the girl, the receptionist, say anything else
about Mrs. Rome's morning calls?"

"Only that during that period, when Rome was coming in
late, the calls had gotten progressively persistent and rude."

"That had to mean that she didn't know," Fiona
said, somewhat relieved. "If she knew she would have rushed downstairs to
Frankie's apartment with a rolling pin. You had me going for a moment, pal.
We've just declared the matter suicide. The Eggplant and I. Before a witness,
no less. May Carter." She paused. "And tomorrow we give him the paperwork
to present to hizzoner."

"Some partner," Cates said. "Least you could
have done was consulted me."

"I had no choice. She was threatening to go to the
media with her cockamamie theory about a hit man. I needed to unload her
wagons. Besides, you were suicide's number one fan. From the go." She felt
her venom rising. She needed support from him, not opposition. "You should
be happy to end the damned thing. Stop spinning our wheels. Get off the
political trolley. I can tell you one thing. The old Eggplant was relieved."

Cates watched her over his coffee cup. He had taken another
deep sip, but instead of replacing the cup in his saucer, he held it, looking
skeptical.

"Well she could have committed suicide," Fiona
pressed, her anxiety level rising. "She was in a triple bind emotionally.
She couldn't have an abortion. Her husband wanted to marry his pregnant
mistress and her own lover wouldn't marry her. Political dynamite. She saw her
political career heading down the tube, her personal life exploding. She was a
woman on the edge with one way out."

God, Fiona thought, was she trying to convince herself? She
felt hyper and surely sounded it. Finally, after he had apparently concluded
that she had wound down her story, he slowly put the cup back in the saucer.

"The kid was moaning about the rudeness of this rich
bitch," he said, "wishing that she would stay away longer than
overnight when she goes to Nevada."

"A gambler?"

"Hell, no. I was telling you about leaching,
remember."

"Okay, Cates. Time for a straight line. What the fuck
is leaching?"

"It's a process of separating gold."

"You said this was something important. I didn't come
here for a metallurgy lesson." She sensed that his bomb was coming at last
and that there was no place to hide.

"Cyanide is a key ingredient of the leaching
process."

"For chrissakes, Cates," Fiona cried.

His nostrils quivered as he drew in a deep breath.

"The rich bitch inherited a gold mine in Nevada. Ergo,
she knew how and where to get the cyanide," Cates said, his eyes glowing
like hot coals.

"Talk about circumstantial," she snapped. She
felt her shaky conviction begin to crumble.