The Witch of Watergate (10 page)

THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, Fiona turned over in her mind the
events at Charleen Evans' apartment.

A conspiracy had hatched between them, despite every effort
to prevent it from happening. Moreover, she wasn't sure who was manipulating
whom.

She and Charleen Evans had less to lose than the Eggplant
if the material fell into the wrong hands. The Mayor, while he was still in
power, could orchestrate their harassment, but they had recourse to
departmental review and since they were women they had the tacit support of
women's groups both within and without the department. But that kind of a fight
left a sour taste. They would be branded as troublemakers, hassled in a hundred
ways.

If the Mayor was forced to resign, which was more than
likely, people in the department would remember what she and Charleen Evans had
done. A black man gone wrong in his youth who had rehabilitated himself and
achieved a measure of success was a favorite hero of black mythology. Fiona and
Charleen would be looked upon as spoilers, whatever the political consequences.
Another black male would take the Mayor's place, but they would always remain
spoilers, the not-to-be-trusted.

The Eggplant's dilemma was more complex. Although she could
not be certain, she suspected that the Eggplant had received some message, some
assurance, that he was high in the running for appointment by the Mayor as the next
Police Commissioner. Everyone knew that the present Commissioner was on the
verge of making a graceful exit. The narcotics problem and the gang murders it
was spawning were putting pressure on the Mayor to relieve the Police
Commissioner. Clean house. Find a replacement.

To Captain Luther Greene that appointment would be like
reaching Valhalla, the culmination of a lifetime's ambition.

How far would he go to get it?

Fiona squirmed over the idea. Ambition was a powerful
stimulant. The Eggplant understood Machiavellian manipulation. But was he
willing to risk all by making a direct quid pro quo deal with the Mayor? Would
he trade the Police Commissioner appointment for silence and the destruction of
the material on Polly Dearborn's computer?

But such a move would put him at the mercy of Charleen
Evans and Fiona. He could, of course, pay them off by moving them into
positions of importance under him as Police Commissioner. But he would lose his
authority over them.

Knowing the kind of man he was underneath all the bluster
and histrionics, Fiona decided that, for him, it would be too much of a price
to pay, although she could not be certain. There was also the matter of her own
willingness to go along with the scheme, which was actually out of the
question. She could not speak for Charleen Evans.

On the other hand, to deliver the material to the
department, no matter how it was sequestered, was no assurance of privacy.
Leaks were endemic, in this case a dead certainty. That could finish off the
Mayor. A new Mayor would put the Eggplant and his ambitions back to square one,
forcing him to do a whole new ingratiation number, which may or may not be
effective.

It was highly unlikely, too, that the Eggplant would
consent to turn the material over to Harry Barker. That kind of ingratiation
might not work. He couldn't trust Harry Barker to keep the damaging material on
the Mayor under wraps. And how would the public destruction of the Mayor help
his chances to be Police Commissioner? Nada.

So what was she to do? Refuse to go along? Demand that the
material be put back in Polly Dearborn's computer and let the chips fall where
they may? And suppose it did get into the hands of the feds? What then?
Innocent people could be used and abused, pressured, even blackmailed. Less-than-innocent
people could be harmed far out of proportion to their so-called indiscretions.
Cynical politicians and bureaucrats could use it to settle personal scores,
especially on those whose guilt was indisputable.

By dawn her ruminations were losing their logic. She hadn't
slept. The sheets were rumpled and she was uncomfortable. She wished she had a
partner who was more forthcoming, more communicative and understanding. Like
Cates. But she couldn't discuss this with Cates and it was utterly impossible
to bring him into the case at this point. The Eggplant would never stand for
increasing the circle of knowledge.

It was times like this that Fiona derided her single state.
She wished that she were in bed with a trusting man, a life's companion, a
friend, a lover, someone to share her thoughts and fears, to help with the hard
decisions, to soothe her.

The emergence of self-pity, which she greatly feared,
jolted her to action. She clambered out of bed and rushed into the shower,
forcing herself to endure icy cold water. When the cold lost its shock value,
she turned on the hot water until that ran its course. The process calmed her.

She was just getting out of the shower when she heard the
chimes. It was still dark. Throwing on a terry-cloth robe and wrapping a towel
around her wet hair, she rushed down the stairs, nearly slipping on the marble
in the foyer. Charleen Evans was at the door.

"I've been ringing," Charleen said, stepping into
the foyer.

"I was in the shower."

"I've got eyes."

"Christ, Charleen, it's too early in the morning for
sassy bullshit." She turned and walked toward the kitchen. The timer on
the coffee maker was set for seven, an hour from now. She put it on manual and
the water quickly began to bubble and heat.

Charleen leaned against the wall and watched her.

"It's a bitch, I know," Fiona said.

"I put them in my car last night, the printouts and
the disk. I was going to dump them in the river. Take everybody off the hook.
It's what he really wants. I didn't do it. Instead, I rode around most of the
night."

"You think that's wise, Charleen? Leaving them in the
trunk of your car?"

"I didn't."

She bent over and reached into the front of her blouse,
pulled out the gold chain with the computer key. There were now two keys on the
chain. Fiona recognized the type of key used in baggage storage compartments.

"You've seen too many movies, Charleen," Fiona
said.

"Union Station."

"The feds could crack into that with no sweat,"
Fiona said.

"First they've got to find it."

"I'm sure you gave it a lot of thought," Fiona
said.

"I did. I considered the downside all night,"
Charleen said. Fiona turned to observe her. Her dark face was grey with
fatigue. "An hour ago I was ready to turn the stuff over to someone, the
feds, Barker, the department, anything to get it out of our hair."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't trust any of them."

"That's the root of your trouble, Charleen,"
Fiona said, despite agreeing with her. She was feeling irritable, needing her
coffee.

"You got it right, FitzGerald."

"I suppose it goes for me, too," Fiona said.
"And the Eggplant."

Charleen shrugged. Her eyes roamed the kitchen, avoiding
Fiona's deliberately steady stare.

"I've got no choice on that." Charleen said.

"I'll buy that, Charleen," Fiona said.
"You're stuck with us. Tight-ass Charleen Evans. Sorry about that. The
fact is, Charleen, that sometimes people actually do have to trust each other.
Even support each other."

"I've managed so far, thank you," Charleen shot
back.

"There are other people in this world besides Charleen
Evans," Fiona said, turning to the coffee machine. Impatient for the
coffee, she removed the glass pot and let the coffee drip directly into her
mug.

"Not as far as Charleen Evans is concerned."

"Tough shit," Fiona muttered. "Like it or
not, we've all got shares in each other. You, me and the Eggplant."

"I find that name offensive," Charleen said.

"A racial put-down, right?"

"Among other things."

"For a self-control freak, you are one mass of
contradictions. Are you saying now that you trust him?"

"As you said, do I have a choice?"

"That means you have to trust me, too."

"I'm afraid so."

Fiona took a swallow of the coffee. She knew she was off on
a tangent, less than rational.

"Ergo, I have to trust you as well," Fiona
muttered. A thought occurred to her suddenly. "Poor Charlene," she
said, "must hurt like hell to give up some of your sovereignty."

"It's not easy," she sighed, showing the tiniest
glimpse of vulnerability. The last drip of coffee gurgled through the machine.
Fiona put a mug before Charleen and poured.

"Now that we got that out of the way, you might say
we're sisters," Fiona said, deliberately sarcastic.

Charleen spoke words, but revealed very little of her inner
feelings. Fiona had always detested that trait in others. It made it seem as if
she were missing half the meaning.

"You think we should tell the Captain?" Charleen
asked, as if even a tiny bridge of intimacy had been crossed and was now behind
them. The first shot of caffeine seemed to chase Fiona's irritation.

"He may not want to know."

"He's part of it," Charleen said.

"He could always deny we told him."

"So could you," Charleen shot back. She patted
her chest. "I'm the one holding the key."

"Like handing power over your life to somebody
else," Fiona said, cutting directly to the heart of Charleen's dilemma. It
was also Fiona's dilemma. An image of her father flashed in her mind, his
decision to oppose the war when it was politically dangerous because it was the
right thing to do, because his conscience demanded it.

For the first time since they were paired together, Fiona
understood the commonality between Charleen and himself. It had nothing at all
to do with gender. It had to do with values, conscience, doing the right thing.
What Polly Dearborn had on her computer endangered people, some of whom may be
innocent. Fiona likened it to circumstantial evidence, which sometimes was
responsible for convicting innocent people in a courtroom.

This was a homicide detective's nightmare, condemning the
innocent. Polly Dearborn murdered people in different ways, by embellishing
facts, grafting gossip and innuendo on events in their lives, by making early
mistakes seem like irrevocable sins, an albatross for life. It was true that
public officials were servants of the people, subject to a higher standard, but
the question was who was to set these standards. Polly Dearborn? Harry Barker?
Some holier-than-thou politician or power-mad bureaucrat?

Of course, there were guilty parties among the innocent. A
patently illegal and immoral offence in the conduct of doing the public
business was fair game for exposure. Unfortunately, Polly Dearborn gave them
the wheat with the chaff. The bottom line on all this was that neither Fiona
nor Charleen wanted to aid and abet that behavior, however it was rationalized
as freedom of the press.

Human endeavors, Fiona knew, were governed by
responsibility, and the whole system hung together by trust. Heady thoughts.
But thinking them gave her a sense of participation on the basis, not of
self-interest, but of knowing right from wrong.

There was only one conclusion to that reasoning.

"We're both crazy to do this," Fiona said. It
was, she decided, better to avoid any mention of nobility of purpose. Charleen
could never admit to that. Fiona wasn't sure she could.

"Probably," Charleen said.

"I WOULD HAVE killed her gladly," Robert Downey
said. He was sitting in his father's study, on the very chair in which his
father had sat when he killed himself.

Chester Downey had been buried just hours ago at Arlington
Cemetery with all the pomp and ceremony accorded to a man of his high office.
The President had spoken and presented to Robert the flag that draped Downey's
coffin.

Fiona and Charleen had waited until all the guests had
departed before entering the house. They had already contacted the maid, the
same one that had discovered Downey's body. She had told them that the younger
Mr. Downey would be willing to see them.

He was a tall red-haired man, with bushy red eyebrows and
small light hazel eyes that were set deep behind knobby cheekbones. His skin
was a mass of freckles. His coloring offered a sharp contrast with the shiny
brown leather of his father's desk chair.

"We haven't even entertained that possibility, Mr.
Downey," Fiona said, offering a pleasant smile. The fact was that they had,
indeed, entertained such a possibility.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Downey asked. He had sat bolt upright in his chair.

"We've ruled out suicide," Fiona said.

"Well, then there is a God in heaven," Downey
said. He did not smile.

"It was an elaborately staged event," Fiona said.
"The killer was making a statement."

"Good for him. I wish I had had the guts to do
it," Downey said, holding the thought. His blazing eyes and the fierce set
of his strong chin told them that he was deadly serious. He shook his head.
"I hope she suffered much before she left this earth."

"We understand your personal animosity, Mr.
Downey..." Fiona began, but he still had not run out of steam.

"She wrote lies about my father, lies about me.
Deliberate malicious lies. Oh yes, there are the laws of libel. But my father
was a public figure. He didn't have a chance. He was a man of enormous pride
and courage. You can be sure he did what he did because he could see no way
out, only further disgrace. The woman murdered him."

He sat back in his chair, lowered his eyes and studied the
backs of his hands.

"She did her best to finish me off, too," he
sighed. "Unfortunately, I do not have my father's courage." He paused
and shook his head. "He did not play favorites with my company. I have
never taken part in contract negotiations with the Pentagon. Contracts were
awarded to our firm because we were the best engineering consultant group in
the area. Now I'm a pariah. My colleagues look at me as if I did them in. And
there's some truth to that. My association with the firm will be the cause of
these contracts being canceled. Good, talented people will lose their
jobs."

His face grew flushed and he moved his lips, issuing
inaudible but unmistakable curses. Fiona guessed he was not a man ordinarily
given to rages. But the presence of the two detectives gave him the opportunity
to vent himself.

"Too late for Dad," he said. "Me? I'm still
comparatively young. I've got to go on living with this." An involuntary
sob shook his chest. To mask it he coughed into his fist. Recovering his calm,
he said, "I'm sorry. I'm still shook up."

"If you'd rather we come at another time..."
Fiona said. It was, she knew, a ploy at ingratiation. She and Charleen had
determined that they must not let this case drag on. She also knew that there
were rough moments ahead for young Downey in their interrogation.

He gestured, mimicking a traffic cop's stop hand signal.

"No. It's all right. I'd rather get it over with. I'd
rather get everything about this behind me."

"You do realize that it's our job to find Polly
Dearborn's killer," Fiona said, looking at Charleen.

"I hope you never do."

Fiona and Charleen exchanged glances.

"We understand, Mr. Downey. But it's still a capital
crime to deliberately take another life."

"Not in this case," Downey snapped.

"Believe me, Mr. Downey, we understand your feelings.
But we do have to ask some questions. Then you can forget about the whole
thing." From the corner of her eye, she could see Charleen nodding.

He appeared to mull it over.

"You think I'll ever forget what that woman did to
us?"

"Poor choice of words," Fiona added quickly.
"I'm sorry."

"Okay, let's get the damned thing over with."

"We greatly appreciate that, Mr. Downey," Fiona
said in a further effort to placate him. "We'll try to get out of your
hair quickly."

Although they had not discussed any joint interrogation
strategy, Fiona noted that Charleen was letting her lead the way, a good sign.
There would be moments where she would welcome her interruption, although such
times had not yet arrived. Cates had a sixth sense about such things and, once
again, she regretted his absence.

"Were you and your Dad on good terms?" Fiona
said, deliberately using the word "Dad" to convey warmth and
ingratiation.

"Excellent terms. We were great friends."

"And saw each other often?"

"Not as often as we both would have liked. He was
quite busy and so was I. I lived over in Dupont Circle, just a few blocks from
here. We managed dinner together once or twice a week."

"Ever stay over?" Fiona asked, studying him.

"Sometimes," he said crisply. "Not often. I
told you. I had my own place."

"But you did talk on the phone?"

"A few times a week," Robert Downey said proudly.
Fiona detected in him a touch of defiance. "Not once did we ever discuss
my firm's participation in defense activities. In fact, we both made it a point
to avoid such matters."

"Did your Dad ever mention that he knew Polly
Dearborn?" Fiona asked, hoping to convey an air of innocence.

"Knew her?"

"Socially, I mean. Did he ever say anything about her
that indicated he might have met her?"

She watched his face. He obviously did not have the ability
to hide his feelings.

"My father was enormously gregarious, a real social
person. Yes, he did say he knew her."

"Did he say he knew her well?"

"That's the irony of it. When all hell broke loose and
he got wind of her story, he told me that he had actually considered her a
friend. Some friend."

"Did you ever meet her?"

"Never. Dad and I did not travel in the same social
circles."

"Did you ever talk with her?"

"Yes. She called me." He mumbled under his
breath. "Bitch."

"You spoke?"

"She asked if I had anything to do with getting
Pentagon contracts for my firm. You know how they do things obliquely. Subtle.
Soft southern drawl. Butter would melt in her filthy mouth. I told her that her
implications were a lot of bullshit." He was starting to wind up again,
knew it, and seemed to make a genuine effort to hold his rage in check.

"So she called you that one time?"

Robert Downey turned away suddenly. The knobs on his
cheekbones flushed.

"Makes me livid to think about it."

"She called you again, then?"

"Oh yes. But she called Dad lots more times. He
discussed these conversations with me. At first he told me he was very
forthcoming, very. Open and honest. That was him. But when she started asking
about the divorce from Mother, he got his back up. Oh, he expected controversy,
expected to be vetted. He was an old pro and he knew what kind of stuff that
woman did. I told him to stay away from the bitch. Too late by then. Maybe he
thought he was above it all. That was a mistake. No one is safe from the Polly
Dearborns of this world. No one."

"Did your Dad have any girlfriends?"

"I never discussed that aspect of his life,"
Robert Downey said flatly, without emotion.

"But he did date women?"

"Yes. Many. Part of the game. The bachelor condition
is a two-way street. Washington is a pair town. Everything in twosies. An
uneven dinner party counts as a disaster."

Fiona knew she was dancing around a delicate theme.

"You sound like you know the drill, Mr. Downey?"

She could detect a flash of defensiveness.

"I do. I'm a bachelor."

She caught the tiniest edge of aggression.

"Did you discuss the Dearborn inquiries with your
father?"

"Yes, I did. We were both appalled at the turn it was
taking. How do you combat stuff like that? Also that part about the divorce
with Mother. She failed to mention that they were divorced in California, which
is a 50-50 settlement state. Of course, he tried to protect his assets. You don't
know my mother. Where was Dad's comeback? He had to grin and bear it."

"Did you see today's story in the
Post
?"

His eyes glazed, as if he had suddenly turned inward,
searching inside of himself for a way to answer the question. Fiona was certain
that he had seen it.

"I never want to read that paper again. Never. As long
as I live."

She exchanged glances with Charleen. The question had to be
asked and she searched her mind for some easy way to approach it. In Fiona's
mind the abuse issue was surely the one that kicked Chester Downey over the
edge.

"Did she ask you about the cult trial?" Fiona
asked, as gently as possible.

Downey frowned. His lips tightened and his eyes seemed to
reflect the animal's fear of the predator. His guard was definitely on alert.

"We know you left something out, Mr. Downey,"
Charleen said suddenly. The timing of the question seemed all wrong. Downey
reacted swiftly.

"I don't believe I want to go on with this
interview," he said.

"Neither do we," Charleen said. "Not on this
basis." She looked toward Fiona. Dumb, insensitive bitch, Fiona thought,
trying to mime a severe rebuke. This interview had to be salvaged.

"We know it's a touchy subject, Mr. Downey,"
Fiona said. "We also know that your Dad attempted to get Harry Barker not
to run the cult trial material. As you see, he didn't. Perhaps if he had known
that it would not run, he would not have taken such drastic action.
Unfortunately, we, as investigators, can't avoid discussing it."

"It's a pack of lies. Even Harry Barker must have thought
so—" He checked himself, then shrugged.

"We have to assume that you and your Dad did discuss
the matter," Fiona pressed, hoping to tamp down his agitation. She was
furious with Charleen for disrupting the interrogation with her blatant
insensitivity.

Fiona waited through Robert Downey's long silence.
Charleen, too, remained silent. Perhaps Fiona's look had sent its message.
Downey studied his hands with great intensity, as if he were searching there
for a way to confront the issue. Finally he spoke. A hoarseness crept into his
voice.

"We talked about it, yes. It was depressing for him,
but I never thought this ... this would happen."

"Did he tell you he spoke with Barker?"

"Yes, he did. Barker said it was on the record, that
the Dearborn bitch had checked it out. Something about Dearborn using data
banks on her computer, that she had the testimony on her computer. But Dad did
say he was not going to take it lying down."

"Did he say what that meant, what he was going to
do?"

Again, Robert Downey's eyes glazed over.

"Well, did he?" Fiona pressed.

Downey shook his head.

"Did you threaten any action?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes clearing, suddenly alert
as a ferret.

"Like violence on the person of Polly Dearborn?"
Charleen interjected. Again Fiona was infuriated with Charleen's interruption.
Her sense of timing was totally awry, counterproductive. And her choice of
words, antiquated legalese, was horrendous.

Downey gurgled a hysterical chuckle that was more eloquent
than words.

"What was your father's reaction?"

"He begged me not to do anything foolish, that I was
still young, had lots of things ahead of me." Another sob broke through,
which he could not mask. Instead, he took deep draughts of air to tamp it down.
"I told him that I thought it was worse to stain his distinguished
reputation as a public servant. I told him, yes I was young enough to rise
above it. But for him it was a travesty. I told him..." He seemed to be
having trouble getting himself under control.

Suddenly he held up his hand with the same traffic-cop
gesture he had used before.

"That's about all I care to discuss on this
matter," he said.

Fiona hesitated, exchanged glances with Charleen.

Once again he had wanted this interview to stop, but he
made no overt move to retreat.

"I was just a kid, nineteen years old. Twenty-one
years ago..." he began, then shook his head and did not go further.

"But you did testify at that trial?"

The subject itself seemed to loom as such a monstrous taboo
in his mind that she feared a more specific reference would end the interview
once and for all. He was now running on inertia, but he would have been well
within his rights to throw them out and get himself a lawyer.

"Yes, I testified for them," he said with an air
of resignation. "I was brainwashed by the cult. Explaining that to you
people would be like reinventing the wheel. I was coerced to lie, mentally
forced to discredit my father."

"Did you explain that to Polly Dearborn?"

"Of course I did," Downey said belligerently.
Rage was rising in him now. "Oh, how self-righteous she was. Said she was
only reporting what was on the record, not drawing any conclusions. That's a
laugh." He drew in a deep breath. His nostrils quivered with anger. His
hands gripped the arms of the chair in which his father had died. "She's
the one who pulled that trigger."

"The issue here, Mr. Downey, is not how your father
died, but how Polly Dearborn was killed." Fiona said the words slowly,
determined to convey the real message of their conversation.