The Witch of Watergate (13 page)

THE PARKING LOT adjacent to the Washington
Post
was
not the best place in the world to have it out, but the Eggplant was adamant.

"Here and now," he said.

They stood by the car that Fiona had driven, a nondescript
Ford from the pool, badly in need of washing. Charleen, tall, straight and
unbowed, stood directly in front of him, feet planted firmly on the ground, her
face wearing its most neutral mask. The Eggplant, on the other hand, wore a
rainbow's worth of emotions on his dark, perspiring face.

Fiona could sympathize with him. No. Empathize, she
decided.

"What's your game, woman?" he asked, between
clenched teeth.

"Game? I thought I was doing the right thing,"
Charleen said.

"You and your right things," the Eggplant said
with exasperation. He was having a hard time repressing his anger. A man passed
them, walking to his car. He looked at them briefly, then moved on.

"We have the material, Chief. Not Farber,"
Charleen said. "We find the computer, we have options."

"Like what?"

"We put the disks back into the computer,"
Charleen said, looking toward Fiona for help. Fiona looked away. Poor Captain
Greene. Charleen was his albatross. Fiona's, too.

"Before or after Barker gets his injunction?"
Fiona asked.

"He said it was a long shot," Charleen said.

"Long shots win sometimes," the Eggplant said.

"Not often," Charleen pressed. "What I was
thinking was that we find the computer, replace the two hard disks. Barker
doesn't get his injunction. The disks are destroyed."

"But you said it's possible that Farber does not know
the disks are missing," Fiona said.

"It's possible," Charleen said. "Depends how
much he knows about computers. Since I screwed the metal container back in
place, he may not be aware of it. That's the point, Captain. If we get to the
computer, I can easily pop the disks back in. Then we're all off the hook,
whether Farber knows or not."

"Suppose you're wrong and he does know the disks are
missing. We get a search warrant, find the computer, replace the disks. Farber
would know somebody has jacked him around. Like us."

"His word against ours, I guess," Charleen said.
She did not look too comfortable saying it. "I only said we get a search
warrant. Barker loves the idea. You saw him. Who knows, we might not even find
it."

"On purpose. Is that what you're suggesting?"

"We just don't find it," Charleen said. "Not
officially find it. But if we do, we just replace the disks."

"And if we don't?" the Eggplant asked, pulling a
face of total exasperation. "And Barker gets his injunction?"

Charleen mulled it over for a moment.

"Then he thinks Farber screwed him."

"And a can of worms grows into a can of snakes,"
the Eggplant said. "Aside from the fact that we've made a mockery of
police procedures and opened us up to enough legal violations to"—he
sucked in a deep breath—"I don't even want to think about it."

Fiona could tell his level of tolerance was fast reaching
the breaking point. Undaunted, Charleen pressed on.

"Farber gave Barker until tomorrow at noon. Let's say
we get the search warrant. We do his office and his house," Charleen said.
Her tenacity was swiftly becoming obsessive. "And we don't find the
computer."

"For real?" the Eggplant asked.

"For real," Charleen said.

"I don't believe this," the Eggplant said. He was
surprisingly calm, probably numb with exasperation.

"Farber sees there's no money in it," Charleen
went on. "He meets the terms of Polly Dearborn's will. He destroys the
computer." A profound smugness was developing in her attitude. As if she
had it all figured out. The entire exchange seemed like a Ping-Pong game
without end. "We destroy what we have and that's the end of that."

"But suppose he discovers that the disks are
missing?" Fiona asked Charleen.

Charleen pondered the question.

"I don't think he will," she said.

"Gut instinct?" Fiona asked.

"Sort of," Charleen muttered.

"Like your theory on the note in the computer?"

The Eggplant shook his head rapidly in a gesture of
despair.

"Shall I base my entire police career on your gut
instincts, Officer Evans?" Charleen seemed at the end of her rope. She
shrugged and said nothing.

"We're all crazy, you know that?" the Eggplant
said. He kicked the tire of the car. "If I was smart I'd go right back in
there and tell him that we have the disks, that we took them because we
calculated that the material would be necessary to our investigation, that we
have to keep it private until the investigation is over."

"I was hoping you would tell him that," Fiona
admitted. He turned to her, gave her a look of total disapproval and pressed
on.

"Now he expects us to go before a judge, get a search
warrant and find the computer. Sounds simple, right?"

"That's exactly what I thought," Charleen said,
grabbing this straw of justification.

"You thought," the Eggplant said again.
"What do you think Harry Barker expects us to do with the computer material?"

He did not wait for her answer, which apparently was to be
slow in coming. She looked utterly confused.

"He wants us to get it for him, Evans. Never mind the
legal niceties."

Charleen rubbed her chin and again looked toward Fiona, who
returned what she hoped was a good imitation of Charleen's best look of
neutrality. She hoped it was being read by Charleen as:
You'll get no help
from me, Mama.

"I'm all confused," Charleen said, turning away,
facing the Eggplant again.

"Welcome to the club, Officer Evans," the
Eggplant said pointedly, cutting a sidelong glance at Fiona as if she were the
judge in this dispute. "Now I've got to get us a search warrant."

Fiona clutched the large manila envelopes filled with
clippings that Sheila Burns had given them. She put one in each palm as if she
were weighing them.

"And we've got a killer to find," Fiona said.

"Think you'll find him in there, FitzGerald?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

"With a little luck maybe you could nail him by noon
tomorrow," the Eggplant muttered as he opened the door of his car and
prepared to slide inside.

"Maybe so," Charleen said.

He stopped in mid-motion, still doubled over to avoid
hitting his head on the roof. In that position he stared at Charleen Evans for
a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief and slid behind the wheel.

"You really want to stay in Homicide?" Fiona
asked after the Eggplant had left the lot.

"Absolutely," Charleen responded. "I'm made
for it."

"ALL THIS ELECTRONIC garbage," Howard, the
doorman said. "Just window dressing. Anybody wants to get in, they get
in."

It was the same man that had called the police and brought
them up to Polly Dearborn's apartment.

"On days now." Howard explained. "After that
experience, no more nights for me. For a while there I thought they might think
I was the one done her in."

He stood leaning against the front desk dressed in a brown
uniform. A switchboard operator of Asian extraction with a giggling
high-pitched voice answered the phone and took messages, smiling at them between
calls.

Through the window walls they could see the sweeping
driveway and surrounding concrete structures of the Watergate complex.

It was really Fiona's idea, to go back to the scene of the
crime. There was so much extraneous matter interfering with this case, that she
thought it might be a good idea to go back to basics. Charleen had offered no
opinion. For the first time in years, Fiona felt professionally out of control,
subject to complicating political agendas and media pressures. Not to mention the
pressure of coping with Charleen Evans, which had assumed gargantuan
proportions.

"What about the security system in each
apartment?" Fiona asked, determined to treat the Charleen factor as an
aberration to which she had to become adjusted.

"Too complicated. People forget to turn it on."
Howard said. "Place leaks like a sieve. You can get in from the garage and
if you're determined you can even find a way up the stairs." He waved his
hand around the lobby area. "You can even con yourself in through here.
None of us have eyes in the back of our heads. And Carmelita here, she has to
go to the john while I'm on a call, next thing you know we got a visitor."

"Nevertheless," Charleen said, "according to
our records, there have been surprisingly few break-ins." There was never
any telling what homework Charleen had done.

"Psychological barriers is the secret on that."
He lowered his voice. "But between us and the lampost it's an easy place
in which to score."

"Miss Dearborn's lawyer was here earlier," Fiona
said, casually watching the man's face. He hesitated for a moment, but it told
Fiona what she wanted to know. For twenty bucks, he'd give away the store.

"He had a key," the desk man said defensively.
"Said he was here to take inventory of Miss Dearborn's effects." He
frowned and looked puzzled. "Okay to let him up, wasn't it?"

"Don't sweat it," Fiona said.

He seemed relieved.

"I knew the brother would be okay, too," he said.

Fiona kept her face composed. Brother? A quick glance at
Charleen showed her instantly alert as well. Polly Dearborn had no relatives.

"Of course. There would be no reason not to let the
family up. I told Carmelita it would be okay to give him a passkey. He said
he'd be right down. I was up in 8A helping Mrs. Parker. She's real old..."

"You remember when?" Fiona asked casually.

He looked at his watch.

"No more than an hour, I'd say. That right,
Carmelita?"

"About an hour," she confirmed, shaking her head.

"What did he look like?" Fiona asked, trying to
maintain her detachment.

Carmelita shrugged.

"I don't remember, except that he wore a hat. Oh, he
said he was in a hurry and needed something from the apartment. Howard probably
would have brought him up but he was busy. And I couldn't leave the board. When
I called him at 8A he said okay and I gave him the key."

"How long did he stay?" Fiona asked.

"Oh, maybe fifteen minutes. No more than that. Howard
wasn't even back yet from 8A."

"We okay on that, too?" Howard asked.

"No problem," Fiona said, confused by the
revelation.

"Would you say the man had a reddish coloring?"
Charleen asked. Fiona knew where she was headed.

Carmelita looked puzzled for a moment, then her face
brightened.

"Maybe..." Then she hesitated. "I can't be
sure."

"What about his hands, Carmelita?" Charleen
pressed. "Did they have reddish blond hair? Freckles?"

"I don't know. I think he wore gloves."

"Did he have high cheekbones? Like knobs here?"

Charleen demonstrated.

"Maybe," the girl said.

"Beware the power of suggestion," Fiona said.

"I'm just trying to make her recall," Charleen
countered.

"Yes," Carmelita said. "Maybe high
cheekbones." She shook her head. "I think." Then she brightened.
"He wore a hat. I remember that."

"Could you recognize him if you saw him again?"
Charleen pressed.

"I'm really not sure about that. I was so busy."

"What about his voice?" Charleen asked. "You
are a telephone operator."

"I'm sorry. I really am not sure."

"Did you ever see this man before?" Charleen
asked.

Carmelita shook her head.

"Not hanging around. Like on the night Miss Dearborn
was killed?"

"I think you've come to the end of the line on this,
Officer Evans," Fiona said, turning again to the doorman in an effort to
foreclose on this line of questioning.

"Did she get many visitors?" Fiona asked.

"Very few. A maid came twice a week is all." He
rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling as if more information could be found
there. "This short girl with black hair came." He scratched his head.
"Maybe twice a week."

"Sheila Burns."

"Yeah. Burns. That was her name."

"When she came did she stop at the desk?" Fiona
asked.

"At the beginning, yeah. Then after a while you get to
know people and you just nod. Let them know it's okay for them to go up. Nice
lady. Always ready with a smile. We like people to give us a smile, don't we,
Carmelita?" Carmelita giggled and nodded.

"No other regulars?"

"Regulars?" He scratched his head again.
"Nobody that made an impression. She went out a lot, though. People would
pick her up, stop at the desk and we'd call and tell her so-and-so was
waiting."

"Can you remember any names?"

"Hell, I see so many people."

"That night..." Fiona began, trying to jog the
doorman's memory. "You saw nothing strange, nothing out of sync?"

"Not until I saw Miss Dearborn hanging from the
balcony. I'll never forget that sight. You know the police pumped me for hours
on what I saw or heard that night. Believe me, I wish I could come up with
something better."

"You've been very cooperative," Fiona said.
"Now we need to get back into Miss Dearborn's apartment."

"I'll take you right up," he said.

"Just the key will be fine," Fiona said.

The two potted trees on the terrace had been set straight
again. Fiona also noted a different "feel" to the apartment. It
already had the air of space not lived in. A thin layer of dust had begun to
build on various surfaces.

Charleen had gone to the bedroom.

"Computer's gone," she said when she returned.

"Did you have any doubts?" Fiona sighed.

They stood in the center of the living room. There were
times when Fiona had revisited a murder scene and quietly contemplated the
surroundings. Often, she would absorb insights from such contemplation. It was
almost as if the atmosphere, the air, the space, the inanimate objects, these
silent observers who had borne witness to a heinous event, had the capacity to
articulate these observations in a mysterious way.

The details of the deed itself seemed clear. Polly
Dearborn, garroted then pulled across the floor by the rope. Rope, carpet
fibers and grains of soil had confirmed that theory.

On the terrace, the end of the rope had been tied down and
the woman thrown over the side.

A clearer picture of the woman had begun to emerge. For
Fiona that was always a primal point. The victim was always the quintessential
clue. This victim, a term which seemed excessive in this case, Polly Dearborn,
was self-directed, tightly focused and carefully controlled. She was secretive
and obsessed with a forum to wreak havoc, especially if her intended victim was
important enough and self-deluded enough to believe that all his warts and
indiscretions had been carefully buried behind the facade of power and
privilege.

"Are we looking in the wrong direction?" Fiona
asked suddenly, surprised that she had given it a voice. The question had been
intended to be silent and rhetorical.

"Maybe the motive to do her was personal, not
professional," Fiona mused. Before Charleen could reply, Fiona plunged
forward. "We've been assuming that she was killed for something she had
written or was going to write. Maybe this was purely personal. A man with whom
she was involved. A crime of passion. Which might explain the second man."

"No," Charleen said somewhat abruptly.

"That's a pretty affirmative no," Fiona snapped,
irritated, yet again, by Charleen's propensity for absolute convictions. She
missed Cates' tentativeness, his willingness to debate with an open mind.

"This woman had no other life," Charleen said.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"There was no room in it for anyone else. This lady
had a mission." Charleen's eyes seemed to have adopted that vague introspective
look that Fiona had seen before, as if she were looking for explanations deep
within herself. "Her life was her work."

Fiona had a burst of insight.

"And her computer was her lover," she said,
hoping the remark would sound facetious, which it definitely was not. Alertness
leaped back into Charleen's eyes.

"Something like that," Charleen said haltingly.

You're talking about yourself, aren't you, Charleen
, Fiona thought. Tread carefully, she warned herself. At the same
time she felt oddly relieved. She was discovering the key to Charleen's
character. Since they were locked together in this bizarre conspiracy, that was
no small thing.

"And the second man?" Fiona asked. "In your
head, you've already convicted the poor bastard."

So far she had not conveyed to the Eggplant Charleen's
theory about one or both of the Downeys as the perpetrators.

"You object to my pursuing my theory?" Charleen
said with a flash of belligerence.

"Instinct, right?"

"Anything wrong with that?"

No point in confrontation, Fiona told herself, retreating.
Instinct, or, as she liked to describe it, subconscious thinking, was a
perfectly appropriate device. Following a hunch was often surprisingly
effective. Except that Charleen's instincts seemed somehow awry, based on an
irrational certainty.

"All right then," Fiona said. "Why would he
come back?"

"The computer," Charleen said flatly. "When
the story didn't run with the information about him and his father, he thought
he might as well try to destroy the place where it was stored."

"That's taking an awful chance," Fiona said.

"People that would do a thing like that take
risks," Charleen said confidently, not a doubt visible. "Then he saw
the computer was gone and he left."

"If he was the killer, why not get rid of the computer
when the job was being done?" Fiona asked.

"Because the killer wanted it to look like a suicide,
remember." Charleen said smugly, offering the faintest hint of a smile.
"He told us about what was in the computer. He said that Barker had
mentioned it to his father. It must have suddenly occurred to him that the
material existed in Dearborn's computer and that he had to get rid of it
somehow."

Fiona reviewed the conversation with Downey in her mind.
Maybe so, she admitted to herself, but she was still unwilling to buy Charleen's
theory.

"Well, it's obvious ... I'll grant that ... that the
man had a purpose for coming here," Fiona said. A thought seemed to come
to her and she nodded suddenly. "He might have left something in the
apartment."

"On the night he killed her?"

"You're talking yourself into something,
Charleen," Fiona cautioned.

"I'm giving you logic," Charleen countered.

"Speculation," Fiona shot back.

"All right, what is your theory?"

"I have no theory. I'm not even certain it was Downey
who came back here," Fiona said. "That telephone operator said
nothing that could possibly confirm his identity. It's in your mind only."
It was an outright rebuke.

"Well, here we are," Charleen said sarcastically,
casting an eye around the apartment. "A stranger was here. Why?"

They had searched the place thoroughly on the morning of
the murder, not quite knowing what they were looking for. It was Charleen who
came the closest, opening the computer, revealing possible motives. Nothing
else seemed to have relevance.

"I'm not sure," Fiona said. "But first we
bring Flannagan's boys back to dust this place." She grew contemplative
again, studying the apartment from her vantage point, turning in a complete
circle. "Wouldn't know where to begin. That's the trouble with this case.
There doesn't seem to be a starting gate."

"But it does have a finish line," Charleen said.
"And that I think I can see pretty clearly."