Washington Masquerade (12 page)

He turned again to his partner, who chimed in.

“Not on our résumé,” the redhead said. “We're into anything that threatens the security of our homeland.” He screwed up his face. “I hate the name. Sounds like some Nazi thing. Homeland. Motherland. Fatherland. Yuck! But the mission is essential. If this guy was involved in some conspiracy against the U.S. of A., it's our thing. So far, it's obvious, from your end and ours, nada.”

Kinney interjected, “If the media begins to broadcast a belief in that possibility….” He paused and looked at the redhead.

“And Congress acts to investigate or, worse, passes restrictive laws,” Wallinski added.

“And the world out there begins to believe,” Kinney said.

“Preference falsification,” Izzy said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Fiona snapped.

“When people believe things that further their own agendas,” Izzy explained.

The Chief had remained silent, obviously pondering the situation. To Fiona, he seemed like a wise old lion, slow, deliberate, pacing himself, working himself up to make his move.

“Folderol, lady and gentlemen,” he said, nodding as if consenting to himself. “Enough of this mental masturbation. At our level, as humble homicide cops, our job is not to wrestle with the big issues. For us to expand this investigation at this point would only stoke the fires further. The Mayor wants more, the whole nine yards, lots of personnel, big public push, the works. Whatever we do, the media will be on our asses and accuse us of being the lackeys of the government, incompetent, or worse. We've got to get to the truth of this… and fast, without fielding a huge team—the more teammates, the more grist for the mill. I'll try to be the little boy with his finger in the dike. I'll talk to the Mayor, see if I can get him to soften his stance and give us more time to unravel this sticky ball of string.” He looked at Fiona and Izzy. “The ball is in your court, guys. Do you think you've hit the wall yet?”

Fiona and Izzy exchanged glances.

“No way, Chief. We've just begun.”

“We low-key it until the shit hits the fan,” Hodges said, eyeing the two government men. Fiona could see they had won his trust. And hers.

“Okay, then let's draw a circle around us five. We share with no one except us. Wherever the chips fall, the truth is all we want, no side trips. We stay away from the Feds.” His gaze swept the faces of the two men. “These invisible men excepted. We're the only network—us five.”

“Agreed,” Kinney said.

“Ditto,” Wallinski echoed.

“All communication goes through the Chief's satellite phone,” Wallinski said. He gave them the number.

As the men stood up and started to leave the gazebo, Fiona stopped them.

“One last thing,” she said. “I for one believe you guys.”

“Ditto,” Izzy said.

The Chief made no comment. As always it was: Show me.

After the men had left, Fiona poured herself another drink and started to sort things out in her head. She was willing to acknowledge to herself that they had not hit a wall, but she was uncertain of where to go next. Someone out there knew where Burns went when he was not playing squash, when he did not attend his daughter's practice sessions or soccer games, and why he had donned his disguise and taken the subway. To where? To see whom? To do what?

This was the part of her job she loved the most. Unraveling puzzles, discovering motivation, analyzing people's responses. Who spoke the truth? Who lied? It was more art form than science, although advances in pathology and forensics were bringing both aspects closer together. The healthy knee was a case in point.

The telephone rang again, and she remembered that she had turned off her cell, which she had turned on again without checking it. In the back of her mind, she knew who would be on the other end of the line.

“Ready to smoke the peace pipe?” Larry said.

“I don't smoke,” she replied, relieved. It had been their first major disagreement, but hearing his voice she knew that it had not yet ended between them, not completely.

“Really, Fi, I was thinking about it all day. Have we fallen over the cliff?”

She contemplated an answer through a long pause.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“I'm here,” she said.

In the pause, she was debating with herself as to her true feelings about Larry. Although she could deny that it had ended, she felt that they had traversed some dark tunnel and that she was not the same going out as she was going in. Worse, she saw his value to her in yet another dimension, beyond the physical and emotional. He was high enough in the
Post
to be a source of intelligence, providing she had not closed that door by her conduct the night before.

She did not like this aspect of her thoughts. There was something deceptive and self-serving in the idea of maintaining their relationship for other motives than pleasure and companionship.

“You did not answer my question, Fi,” he said.

“I know,” she said, unable to be decisive, hating herself for the thought.

“I overdramatized,” she blurted, knowing she had crossed some ethical Rubicon.

“My comparison was uncalled-for. I'm sorry. The memory still rankles.”

There it was again: The damned baggage of past hurts. She had it, as well, but kept it hidden. Unfortunately, it was her destiny to get her lovers on the rebound. She'd have to work harder on accepting the painful residue or declare herself off-limits to any relationship. Her insight told her she was not built for aloneness. She needed the physical and emotional comfort only a man could give. It enhanced her, but then so did her job.

She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, probably wondering, surely baffled. The truth was that Larry, like the others, was only for the moment, the now.

“Let's leave it there,” she said hoarsely.

“Agreed.”

“Bring two steaks and a good bottle of red. I'll make the salad.”

“I just left.”

She felt suddenly like Mata Hari. In her mind she called herself Hattie Mara and giggled. Two birds with one stone, she thought, feeling jonesy and loving the girlish mysteries of the sorority term for horny. She understood the signals. Face it, Fi. She needed to get laid.

***

In bed later, after their strenuous lovemaking, which had calmed her down and cleared her mind, she felt all doubts recede. She was even open to trading authentic information.

“What do you suppose he was up to?” she purred, awaiting his reaction.

He lifted himself on one elbow and studied her face.

“You said it, not me.”

“When you analyze it thoroughly, it's logical. According to the White House minions and their cohorts, and some of the people you quote, the man was spreading a malignant virus. How do you stop it at its source?”

“You amputate,” he said.

“Let's play make-believe. Maybe he saw it coming and was looking for a counterstrike.”

“A reach—movie stuff.”

He squeezed her hand in what she interpreted as fond agreement.

“And who benefits?”

She was amused by his answer. He was being sucked in.

“The ultimate beneficiary is obvious,” Larry explained. “Of course, he couldn't be that blatant. Certainly, he would preserve all deniability. Maybe not even know. You know the old wheeze: Don't tell me. Do it, but I don't want to hear it.”

She paused. It was time to solidify her position, trade legitimate analysis.

“Nothing we've found so far corroborates such an idea,” Fiona said. “What we do know is that the man was involved in something… tracking something.”

She was tempted to tell him about the knee but held off. That was proprietary. Besides, they had already established that the man was deliberately being deceptive.

“Come on, Fi, Bolger told you what we have—the Administration's counterpunch. Accusing the dead man of plotting an assassination—we think it could be the biggest story in decades, bigger than Watergate.”

“You have proof of this?” Fiona prodded.

“The whistle blowing is breaking our eardrums: nothing worse than deliberately maligning the reputation of a dead man. Worse, he can't fight back.”

“I assume you have proof.”

“We're separating the wheat from the chaff. And we're not the only media gearing up. We just want to be first.”

“Bolger hit us yesterday. He was following us.”

“Part of the game.”

“You knew?”

She fought her anger.

“He's the new designated Bernstein.”

“Where's Woodward?

“We've got a team of Woodwards on it, Fi. They're chasing down every lead, crawling over every source. Unfortunately, the rules have changed, and we have to watch our ass. We don't want to see any of our reporters in the can. But Don Grant wants no expense spared, and we're all behind him. It's no secret, hence my candor.”

“So you think the assassination story has legs?”

“It's a maybe, but the speculation makes it one big story.”

“Always the story,” Fiona sighed.

“Above all else, it's an eyeball multiplier. And any good story requires suspense.”

“And red herrings.”

“That, too.”

“That's your turf. We're plain old cops, and at this point we're still inclined to keep it open.”

“As a suicide?” Larry taunted. “That's a conclusion.”

“So is murder.”

“We've declared nothing, only possibilities. You've got to admit to any reasonable person, our speculations are pretty close to the bone. Everybody has a hook in. We want to get the bite first. It could be the story of the century.”

“Not without a fish on your line.”

“Hell, it's only been a week or so. We'll get this story, baby. Guaranteed. Just like Watergate, only nastier. We're going to get to the bottom of this.”

“You sound like a kid in a candy store,” Fiona said and meant it.

“Yeah. That's the feeling.”

“Even if it's not true, just speculation and bullshit?”

“Who cares? The story is everything. True or false, it's got legs.”

“Are you saying you don't care if it's true, factual… all that garbage about honest journalism? Makes you and the whole enterprise no better than a bordello—you're whores, the whole pack of you.”

He looked deeply into her eyes.

“Okay, so we're whores, but we give our customers what they want. Do it right, and they come back for more. Forget bias, morality, and all that highfalutin bullshit. They want sensation, intrigue, conspiracy. The story is everything. Were you born yesterday?”

“We have nothing, Larry,” Fiona muttered, regretting it instantly. “You're baking bread with horse shit. It may have nothing to do with anything political. Must everything in this town have a political spin?”

“You doubt it? Okay, then show me another angle. In this town, the seven deadly sins come under the banner of politics. Sex, bribery, every form of corruption, evil doings, lies, betrayal, you name it. It's all politics. Name of the game.”

Now he was fishing, Fiona thought, priming her pump. Her fit of conscience receded. She wanted to laugh out loud.

“You know what you are, Larry?” Fiona said, exasperated.

“What?”

“A fucking hypocrite.” She meant it and knew it was a harbinger of their future.

He chuckled and put his tongue in her ear.

“It's that second word that is the operative motivator.”

He put his hand on a breast and played with her nipple.

At that moment, she gave him a temporary pass. She was not into missed opportunities.

***

Awaking early, while Larry slept, she showered, dressed, and made coffee. What she had learned as “Hattie Mara” is that the vaunted
Post
had, so far, no concrete leads and nothing to reveal except speculation. The paper retrieved from her doorstep offered a front-page story with the headline Congress to Probe Burns' Death by Harrison Bolger, with the usual clever implications but the surprising avoidance of anonymous sources, although he did quote a number of Senators who voiced what can only be described as “dire possibilities.”

The White House, she noted, wisely made no comment. There was also an editorial that commended Congress for its willingness to investigate the “strange circumstances of the death of Burns.”

She noted that he could not resist a snipe at the Homicide Squad by writing that “thus far, MPD Homicide had no viable leads and were repetitive in their stonewalling.” Obviously, they were holding the so-called assassination story for timing reasons, but she calculated that it would be next on the list.

She flicked on the television news and got a similar version of the story told by a television reporter with the subway entrance in the background.

Izzy's car was waiting when she walked out the door.

“See the
Post
?” he asked. “They haven't launched the big one.”

“It's on deck,” she muttered, without expanding the point.

Izzy and she had not yet reached that confidential point between partners where their personal lives could intersect. She did not mention her discussion with Larry.

On their way to headquarters, Izzy's cell phone rang. It was Hodges. She realized suddenly that she had forgotten to charge her cell phone. Izzy handed her his cell phone.

The Chief was furious.

“Keep that fucker charged, Officer,” he shouted into the phone. She let him fume until he barked at her.

“Get down to GW Memorial Hospital pronto. Something about our friend, the subway driver, getting clobbered in a crash. Name of August Parsons.”

“On our way, Chief,” Fiona said, signing off, then putting her phone on the car's charger. She noted that there were a number of voicemails besides the Chief's. They were all from Dolly Owens, and they grew increasingly hysterical.

“Please, Fi. Please! I need to see you. Where are you?”

She quickly punched in Dolly's number.

“What is it?”

“Not on the phone, Fi. I'll meet you, anywhere.”

Fiona looked at her watch, calculating the time frame to get to and visit with Parsons and then meet Dolly.

“Say an hour. Georgetown. The lobby of the Four Seasons.” It was a few blocks from the hospital.

“See you then, Fi. And thanks.”

“Trouble?” Izzy asked.

“Not sure,” Fiona replied, worried. Dolly seemed anxious. For her, this was out of character.

***

August Parsons lay on his hospital bed with his leg suspended in a cast and his head bandaged.

“He's lucid but pretty banged up,” the doctor on duty told them. “Apparently, someone broadsided him on a busy intersection. He's lucky, but I'm afraid he'll be out of commission for a month or two.”

Fiona stood over the reclining patient. A nurse was helping him to some water from a bent straw.

“I guess it's my time for crashes,” he sighed, grimacing in pain as he tried to change position. The nurse admonished him to stay still and freshened the bedclothes. “Actually, I was on my way to a hearing on you-know-what. Then this. I'm one lucky guy, right?”

“Doc says you'll be fine,” Izzy said.

“I guess I was concentrating on the event so much, I wasn't paying attention. At least, I think so. I've been reliving it in my head, just as I've relived that other….” He grimaced in pain and gritted his teeth. “The thing is I was, or thought I was, paying attention. I was just slowing down at the yellow light then when I should have braked, I must have continued to move. I don't know why. Next thing you know, this SUV comes barreling at me. He did have the right of way, but I was still moving, you see. I just can't recall the events clearly. I know I slowed down for yellow. It's that yellow color that I keep seeing, like a haze, a sunburst, or something, but that's all I can remember.”

“Trauma does strange things to people,” she said. “You had a rough patch the other day.”

“I'm even drawing blanks over that one. Maybe I was not paying attention because I was so damned tired. I wasn't sleeping. Here they give you pills that knock the hell out of you. I've gone over that other thing a thousand times. Why didn't I see it coming? Why? It's bugging the shit out of me.”

“Never mind that,” Izzy said. “Just get on your feet. And if you can think of anything, anything at all….”

“Yeah,” Parsons muttered. “The more I try, the harder it gets to recall.”

“Don't push it,” Izzy said.

“There's something there,” Parsons mumbled. “I know it. Something.” His eyes closed and he dozed off.

“He goes in and out,” the nurse said.