The Witch of Watergate (6 page)

"Polly, what is it? Is something wrong? If you don't answer
I'll have to call somebody, maybe the police. Please, Polly, answer the
door."

Fiona waited. The woman's voice grew louder, the knocking
more persistent. Finally, Fiona felt she had little choice. She opened the
door.

The woman looked up, startled. She was a short, stocky
woman with black curly hair framing delicate sculpted features. Her complexion,
without makeup, was dead white. Large brown eyes seemed to gaze out with
mordant curiosity as they studied Fiona's face then darted around her to search
the apartment.

"Where is Polly?"

Fiona stepped aside as the woman moved past her into the
apartment. Fiona remained silent, watching her.

"Who are you?" Fiona asked.

"What difference does that make? Where is Polly?"

The woman turned her head from side to side, rustling her
head of tight black curls. She started toward the bedroom. Moving swiftly,
Fiona planted herself in front of the woman, barring the way. The woman
stopped, looked up into Fiona's eyes, her gaze an obvious query.

Fiona opened her purse and showed the woman her badge.

"I'm Sergeant FitzGerald." She was about to say
"Homicide" but checked herself. "Metropolitan Washington Police
Department."

"Police?" The revelation had the effect of making
the woman retreat a step. Fiona saw her nostrils quiver. "Where's
Polly?" The question was barely audible.

"She's not here," Fiona said. "May I ask who
you are?" By then Fiona had suspected the woman's identity.

"I'm Sheila Burns, Polly Dearborn's assistant,"
the woman said in confirmation. A reedy tremor had crept into her voice.
"Something is wrong, isn't it?"

"Afraid so, Miz Burns," Fiona said, watching the
woman's eyes move to follow the sound coming from Polly Dearborn's bedroom. A
moment later Charleen Evans emerged from the room, obviously curious.

"Detective Evans, this is Sheila Burns."

Evans nodded. She seemed distracted.

"Not there?" Fiona asked, finding it hard to keep
a gloat out of the question. Evans shook her head.

"Still searching," she muttered, straightening
her shoulders and lifting her chin pugnaciously as if she were compensating for
her disappointment by buttressing her defenses.

"Maybe Sheila can help," Evans said, deliberately
vague. Then she went back to the bedroom.

"Would you please sit down, Sheila," Fiona said
gently.

"It's Polly," Sheila said, sucking in a deep
breath. "She's, she's..." Sheila's hand groped for support, reaching
for the armrest of one of the living room chairs. But she did not sit down.

"She's dead, I'm afraid," Fiona whispered.

Sheila's eyes widened in confusion.

"Polly ... dead? ... That's, that's impossible,"
Sheila said with more belligerence than disbelief. She seemed too overcome to
say more. Tears welled in her eyes and a sob erupted in her throat. "But
how...?"

Fiona ignored the question.

"Can you think of any reason why Polly Dearborn would
commit suicide?" Fiona asked, cutting a quick glance at Evans.

"Suicide? Polly? I don't know." She moved to one
of the chairs and sat down, visibly shaken. "I can't believe this."

"You see any signs of depression recently? Anything
askew in the way she conducted herself? A suspicion, a feeling you might have
had?"

Sheila shook her head, apparently unable to find words. It
was beginning to hit her. She seemed on the verge of fainting. Fiona rushed
into the kitchen and came out with a glass of water. Sheila took it between two
shaking hands and sipped, then gave the glass back to Fiona.

"I'm so sorry," she said in a small voice, barely
above a whisper. For a moment, she stared through the terrace windows, as if
lost in a trance. Fiona waited through the pause.

"She was always so strong, so sure and confident, on
top of everything. It was hard enough keeping up. No. I saw nothing different
in her. Nothing at all."

"Maybe something in her personal life was bugging
her," Fiona suggested.

"Personal life?" Sheila's retort seemed too
swift. The corners of her mouth turned up with the faintest hint of a smile.

"A disappointment of some kind," Fiona pressed.
"A lovers' quarrel perhaps. Something deeply affecting."

"Polly? Her life was her work. As far as I know, there
were no special men. No. No men at all. Polly Dearborn was a very dedicated
person."

"Maybe the pressure of the work got to her,"
Fiona said. Almost immediately, Fiona rejected the idea. That possibility meant
a sudden crack-up. If this was a suicide it was not a sudden decision. The
method implied planning, calculation, the deliberate creation of a public
statement, an advertisement of death.

"The Downey article seemed to have stirred up a lot of
flack," Fiona said. Sheila nodded, showing no surprise.

"All her articles stirred things up. Above all, we
prided ourselves on accuracy." Fiona noted the collective pronoun and, as
if Sheila had sensed that an explanation was needed, she said, "Polly
checked things out. The bottom line on everything was truth. Polly Dearborn was
the most thorough journalist in America."

"No matter who got hurt," Fiona said quickly,
thinking suddenly of Chappy. And the others. Sheila Burns showed no sign of
irritation at the accusation. Undoubtedly she had confronted such criticism
before.

"Our job was to find the truth. The mythbusters,
that's what Polly called us. We got behind the image and the P.R. We got to the
heart of the matter."

Considering her recent shock, she was being militantly
defensive.

"Do you think that her death..." Fiona paused and
looked toward the bedroom where Evans was, undoubtedly, still playing with the
computer. Fiona shook her head in disgust. Cates would have jumped in at that
point, offering additional questions. Fiona looked at her watch. Time was
running out. "...had anything to do with the Downey article?"

Sheila frowned, then looked at her hands.

"I can't imagine why."

"Pretty rough stuff," Fiona said. "A man's
career down the chute. Has to take its toll on the perpetrator as well."

"The perpetrator?"

"In a journalistic sense. Could Polly have had a
sudden bout of remorse? Something that pushed her over the edge?"

"A very farfetched idea," Sheila said with a
touch of indignance. She appeared to have regained her composure. "We've
been through this before. Nobody likes to see their bubble busted. We
concentrated only on those who served the public and betrayed their
interests."

Sheila had the look of frailty and vulnerability, but
underneath Fiona sensed bedrock layers of blind faith. No, Fiona decided,
responding to gut instinct. Remorse was not a motive for death in this case.
Polly Dearborn was a zealot, a crusader, and Sheila Burns was a disciple.

"And Harry Barker, what was he after?" Fiona
asked.

"He was questioning some points in the article, the
piece that is set to run tomorrow."

"What points, for example?"

A cloud seemed to pass over Sheila's face. She grew
hesitant and looked down at her fingers. After a moment, she raised her head.

"Mr. Barker rarely discussed these things with me. I'm
... I was only Polly Dearborn's assistant." Fiona detected a touch of
resentment. "He dealt with Polly on matters that he deemed very
sensitive."

At that point the telephone rang. Fiona picked up the
instrument.

"FitzGerald?"

Fiona was surprised to hear the Eggplant's voice.

"Not yet, Captain," she said, looking at Sheila,
who bowed her head. Her hands were clasped on her lap.

"There's more spin on this than I figured."

He had lowered his voice but could not conceal its upbeat
tone. A faint click told her that another phone had been picked up.

"That you, Evans?" Fiona said. "It's the
Captain."

"Yes sir," Evans said.

"No note?" the Eggplant asked.

"It's going to take longer than I..."

"No time for that anymore," the Eggplant said.
"I want your asses over to 2101 N Street. I'll hold off the uniforms for
ten minutes more. Don't want this on the police radio yet."

"Got it, Captain," Fiona said. "There's
someone here. Hold for a second." She addressed Sheila.

"Thank you for your help. We must ask you to leave.
We'll talk later."

Sheila rose. She seemed relieved.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" she whined, again on
the verge of tears.

"Yes, it is," Fiona agreed.

Sheila turned and, beginning to sob, moved quickly out of
the apartment.

"Dearborn's assistant," Fiona explained.
"She's gone now."

"Chief?" It was Evans. "I'm taking the hard
disk. I need more time. That okay?"

There was a pause.

"Just get the fuck over to N Street, ladies.
Now
,
please."

"Who is it, Chief?" Fiona asked.

"Thought you'd never ask, FitzGerald," he said in
a teasing tone. "Chester Downey's maid just called. Apparently he just
blew his brains out."

"CLASSIC," FIONA SAID as they entered Chester
Downey's study. The body was sitting upright in a high-backed leather chair
behind an antique desk. The gun, a .38 Wesson, was still locked in the man's
hand, which rested in his lap. He was dressed immaculately, obviously having
chosen his exit clothes with great care: a fresh white shirt, pressed dark
pin-striped suit, paisley tie, spit-shined shoes.

He had shot himself through the right temple, and the left
side of his head was soggy with oozing red matter. On the desk in front of him
were two envelopes, one addressed in a flourishing hand "To Whom it May
Concern." The other to Robert Downey, his son.

Outside the door to the study, they could hear the
housekeeper's whimpering. It was she who had found the body and called the
police.

Holding the edges of the envelope marked "To Whom it
May Concern," Fiona took out the neatly handwritten note on a single sheet
of plain white paper. Evans looked over her shoulder as they both read it
silently.

I am of sound mind and I take this step
after careful consideration. Please see that my son gets the letter addressed
to him. He is fully aware of all arrangements made in connection with my
demise. I apologize for any inconvenience and I hope any controversy
surrounding my action will be quickly resolved.
Sincerely,
Chester Downey.

"No doubt about this one," Fiona said.
"Suicide. Open and shut. Agreed?"

She turned to Evans, who nodded. Suddenly, they heard a
commotion outside the den and two men rushed in.

"Feds," Fiona whispered.

They were tall, officious types, tight-lipped and
unsmiling. There seemed only one distinguishing factor to separate their
identities. One was bald. A kind of cloning, a scrupulously maintained
neutrality of personality, was the unmistakable sign of a federal agent, any
federal agent, regardless of gender.

"What you see is what you get, gentlemen," Fiona
said. She pointed to the two suicide notes. "All down in black and white.
Our jurisdiction, I'm afraid." She showed her badge and gave the man her
card. Evans followed her lead.

"A national-security matter," the bald man said,
flashing his credentials.

"CIA?" Fiona snapped, turning to Evans. "The
bully persons."

"He was the Secretary of Defense, for
chrissakes," the bald man said. The other man opened the note and read it.
He moved to the side of the room and whispered into his wrist.

"They love their toys," Fiona whispered to Evans,
who nodded. For the first time since they had been partnered, Fiona could sense
the first fleeting signs of alliance. "Everybody will be in on it, all the
initials—FBI, DIA, NSA." Probably the Secret Service, too, alerted for a
possible conspiracy to assassinate the President. "Now you see it. The
power of the media. Our little Miss Dearborn writes her story." She looked
around the room. "Then this."

Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside the den. Through
the open door, Fiona could see other agent types. Footsteps could be heard on
the floor above. The Feds were "securing," searching the premises.

An agent came in with a camera and started to take
pictures.

"Who's he?" Evans asked.

"Company man," Fiona shot back. "Local
procedures get fuzzy around the edges when something likes this comes up."
Besides, she had already reached her conclusions. Cut and dried. Unassailable.
The man blew his brains out. Polly Dearborn's legacy. Fiona cut a glance at
Evans, who looked confused.

After the photographer, a group of tech boys came into the
den, all business, inspecting the premises. Her instinct was to protest the
usurpation of police power, but she repressed that. The Eggplant would have
raised hell. But this was, after all, bigger than a mere suicide. There were
implications beyond police jurisdiction. Downey could have been, what did the
Brits call it, a mole for a foreign power. A traitor. The Feds had to contend
with these issues, conspiracy, the fate of the nation, establishment paranoia.

The bald man and his partner conferred out of earshot, then
talked into their wrists again. After a while, the bald man came back and
addressed Fiona.

"We're in touch with your superiors. The body is going
to the MPD medical examiner." Fiona watched as the weapon and the notes
were put in Ziploc plastic pouches. "We'll be sure you're copied on
these."

Two men with a folding stretcher came in and began to bag
and load the body, leaving a trail of blood and matter along the carpet.

Fiona looked at her watch. The Eggplant's press conference
would be in full swing. In moments, the two deaths would be connected. The
media circus would begin. To the Eggplant, Downey's death would be a bonus, as
if he had been granted his fondest wish.

"Truth kills," Fiona said, looking at Evans,
wondering if she fully understood.

They moved through a sea of agents and MPD uniforms as they
followed the body to a waiting ambulance. Press and television reporters were
already on the scene, taking pictures, attempting to question agents, who
rebuffed them with stony silence. A reporter who knew Fiona yelled a question
at her. She put a hand over her mouth, signaling her response.

In the car, with Fiona driving, they headed back downtown.

"You let yourself be intimidated, FitzGerald,"
Evans said as Fiona swung the car into the M Street traffic. The tone was
accusatory.

"It's a joke, right?" Fiona said.

"No joke at all. That was our jurisdiction. You let
them push us around."

"Where were you?" Fiona snapped. The woman was
infuriating.

"This is your turf," Evans said. "You're the
experienced operator." Evans turned and looked out of the window at the
streets of Georgetown, the heavy street traffic with few black faces, the
trendy restaurants and boutiques.

"What does that mean?" Fiona said.

She knew exactly what it meant. To Evans, Fiona was the
honky princess who specialized in all the fancy white crimes. It had been said
often enough by her colleagues, always articulated with sarcasm and resentment.

Fiona understood it, of course. The establishment, high
society, the power elite, had nurtured her. This was her natural milieu.
Homicide detectives with that background were nonexistent. The squad knew that.
They also knew that, if called upon, she could deal with Washington's
underbelly, it's scummier side. But that didn't prevent some from secretly
resenting her, her gender, her color, her education, her background, her
contacts, her money. The best she could hope for was respect, which had to be
won many times over. With newcomers, it was harder. Especially if she wasn't
motivated. Like with Evans.

Evans did not answer Fiona's question, which just hung
there now, a sail flapping helplessly in the wind.

"You've got a real attitude problem, Evans,"
Fiona said. "You don't like the way I handled things, bring me up on
charges."

"No way. They'd laugh. Call it a cat fight."

"So what's the point of bitching?"

"The point is that I'm on to your kiss-assy little
game. Doesn't mean it's right. Means it's expedient. You backed down because
you didn't want to upset the Eggplant's show. A fight with the feds wouldn't
look good just now."

"Which side are you on, Evans?"

"My side—and don't you forget it."

Cantankerous bitch, Fiona thought, letting her anger
simmer. She took a stab at trying to analyze Evans' hostility toward her. Some
deep-seated race and gender thing, as if Fiona's very presence and persona
provoked agitation. Fiona supposed, if she worked at it, she might crack
through, reach common ground. Professionals compromised, repressed,
accommodated.

Why bother, she decided. Whatever was bugging her, this was
Charleen Evans' problem, not Fiona's. When they got back she'd ask the Eggplant
for Cates. The Eggplant understood the delicate chemistry between partners. He
wouldn't refuse, not with a high-profile case in the making, not when he might
be needing her.

She pushed Evans out of her mind. She'd have Cates back and
Charleen Evans would be history. She forced her thoughts back to Pamela
Dearborn. They had said goodbye to Sheila Burns, locked the apartment and
dashed over to Downey's house. Yet something lingered in her mind, some vague
discomfort nagged at her.

If Polly Dearborn was murdered, a distinct possibility in
the absence of a suicide note, they would have to start blazing a trail through
thickets of suspects, meaning everyone the woman's cruel pen had skewered. This
implication of numbers made her think of Polly Dearborn's computer. All in
there, Evans had said.

"What was on that computer?" she asked Evans,
trying to keep her tone indifferent and professional. She was surprised when
Evans answered her, adopting a similar tone.

"Lots of things. It's going to take hours to get
through. She was hooked into scores of data banks. There was also a Rolodex
containing hundreds of names and private numbers, dates and times of contact,
personal comments, opinions. In hard copy it would have filled filing
cabinets."

"But no suicide note?"

"I didn't say that." There it was again, that
attitude, the touch of arrogance. "I only said I hadn't found it
yet." She jerked a thumb toward the rear seat. "That's why I took the
hard disk."

"And if it doesn't turn up, then what?" Fiona
asked.

Evans shrugged.

"It was a good shot, win or lose," she muttered.

"This isn't a contest, Evans."

"Then why make it one?"

At that point one of the more macho of her colleagues might
have said, You wearing the flag, big Mama? She felt herself on the verge of
mimicry, but desisted. Instead, she prepared her own retort.

"I'm not going to plumb your depths, Evans. I'll leave
that for your shrink."

"Good. Stick to your last, Sergeant. And I'll stick to
mine."

"And if you don't find a note, will you concede it
might, just might, be murder?" Fiona asked.

"Maybe," Evans conceded.

First words out of her mouth when she got downtown would be
"Give me Cates!" The Eggplant would ask why and Fiona would talk
about the sensitivity of the case and the need for teaming up with an
experienced partner. She wouldn't mention the attitude problem or the woman's
self-righteous arrogance. Leave that to others to find. She'd stay with the
experience part. He'd see through it, of course, maybe give her a bad time at
first. That was his way. In the end, she knew, he would give her Cates.

She navigated Washington Circle, turned down 23rd Street,
hung a left past the State Department and headed toward Constitution Avenue.

"And if it is murder," Evans said as they neared
headquarters, "then that computer will tell us who did it."

"That's what I detest about you most, Evans,"
Fiona said through clenched teeth. "Your sense of certainty."

They sat in the Eggplant's office, where she heard the
death knell to her idea that she might be able to rid herself of Charleen
Evans.

"I've got two of my best people on this, Amy,"
the Eggplant said into the phone, his chair angled, his spit-shined shoes
resting above a pile of thick folders on his desk. He puffed deeply on his
panatela and blew perfect smoke rings, a sure sign of his satisfaction.
"Two women. Detectives FitzGerald and Evans." He was silent for a
moment as he listened to a voice on the other end. He smiled and nodded and put
his hand over the mouthpiece of the instrument. "I hadn't thought of
that." He winked at them. "Amy Perkins,
New York Times
. Likes
the idea of women investigating the death of a woman."

"Verisimilitude," the Eggplant said, his hand off
the mouthpiece. "I like that. Sure, Amy. Anytime." He hung up and
took a deep puff on his panatela. "Always darkest before the dawn."
His eyes scanned the faces of the two women who sat before him.

They had briefed him, Fiona doing most of the talking,
putting everything in perspective. Evans said nothing, wearing her favorite
neutral expression. He was exhibiting too much goodwill for them to show him
the ugly side of their relationship. Nor was the Eggplant in a badgering mood.
He had not brought up Evans' failure to find a suicide note. At a less amiable
time, he might have excoriated her for her apparent certainty. And Evans hadn't
expressed her opinion about Fiona's quick jurisdictional surrender to federal
agents, although Fiona had alluded to it herself.

"Why get into a pissing contest with the feds?"
the Eggplant said. "Unless an autopsy comes up with surprises, I'd say
Downey's suicide is unassailable."

"It doesn't absolve him as a suspect," Fiona
said, cutting a glance at Charleen Evans. At least Fiona had kept that theory
to herself. It probably had never even crossed Evans' mind. But now she needed
to gain ascendancy over Evans with the Eggplant.

Yet, Fiona was far from ready with theories. Even the idea
that Downey was Dearborn's killer was premature. Nor had they ruled out without
a shadow of a doubt that Polly Dearborn had committed suicide. Evans might find
a suicide note in the computer, which would eliminate Downey as perpetrator.
And there was still the autopsy.

"Downey a suspect?" the Eggplant mused, tapping
his teeth.

"I don't see it," Evans interjected, rushing into
an explanation. "If he was planning to kill himself anyway, why go to such
elaborate lengths to kill her? A bullet or a knife, even a garroting, would
have done the job very well. Think of what hanging requires. The purchase of
the rope, bringing the rope to the scene, researching the fine points of
hanging, constructing the right knot, not only the one around the noose but the
one around the cement pylon of the terrace. Not to mention that there is no
evidence to suggest that he was there."