Senator Love Page 6

  "She did trah. But..." The woman swallowed and turned away. From the movement of her back Fiona could see she was taking deep breaths, determined not to fall apart. When she spoke, her voice was raspy. "Unda any circumstances, a lack of communication is nevah the raht course." The rebuke was meant for herself. "Add that to prahd and you have a disasta. Aftah a few weeks of trahin, and confrontin owah rejection, she gave up."

  "But you did report her as missing?"

  "Mah husban had a heart attack and died soon aftah. She had a raht to know that." The dike finally burst and tears ran over the rims of her eyes, down her cheeks. She used a napkin to blot them.

  "Where did you think she went?"

  "As far away from us as possible," she whispered, again managing control. "The police speculated that she had just run off. Her clothes were gone. She had not shown up to work. People called from the committee and such wonderin weah she was, but that stopped soon enough. The police said it frequently happens to a young girl in the big city. She'd be back, they told me."

  The light had changed in the room. Shadows were deepening, but Mrs. Taylor made no move to put on the lights. In the darkness, there was no mistaking her race. She was a woman who knew who she was, who clearly understood her racial predicament. Fiona waited through the long silence, but it was apparent that nothing more was to be offered before the burning question was answered.

  "Weah is mah baby?" Mrs. Taylor asked.

  "I think she's dead," Fiona said, not meaning to offer hope. "I'll need the name of her dentist."

  She heard air expelled, as if it were a scream whose fury could not find any way of exiting the woman. She could see the balled fists and whitening knuckles and imagined the pain of her long night of guilt, which up to then had been merely a prelude.

  7

  SHE AVOIDED the inevitable confrontation for most of the day, spending her time in the office continuing to go over the open cases, searching for overlooked leads. But her mind was elsewhere. Mrs. Taylor had unnerved her.

  Earlier she had phoned in the name of Betty Taylor's dentist to Dr. Benton's office. Just procedure, she knew, feeling certain that the dental records would confirm Betty's identity. But considering the obstacle of the eggplant, she wanted the identification to be impeccable. In his present mood, he would challenge her on every tiny detail.

  She also called down to a friend in records who brought up on the computer the details of the investigation. Wasn't much. They had treated it routinely, assuming that the woman had run out on her job and went off to find a new life somewhere else, a common occurrence among young people.

  She looked toward the eggplant's office. He was berating one of his men, tongue-whipping him.

  "Man wants his numbers," Cates said.

  "Law and order. The old bugaboo," Fiona muttered. "Mayor's got a point, though. Better numbers in homicide will make him look good. Show the voters, especially the blacks who bear the brunt of it, that he's tough on crime. Not to mention that it's good money-raising fodder for the whites who think one day the black menace will invade their protected little compounds, guns blazing."

  "Money and votes." Cates sighed.

  "You're learning, pal."

  Again she looked toward the eggplant's office. She felt Cates watching her.

  "I wouldn't," Cates warned, as if reading her mind. She had told him of her visit to Mrs. Taylor. "Today is Monday."

  It was an anomaly. The eggplant looked forward to his weekends, then returned on Monday, more often than not, gloomy and depressed. His barometric pressure seemed directly related to how his wife, Loreen, had treated him.

  A pushy, domineering woman with antecedents that had deep roots in old black money and influence in the community, Loreen made no bones about disapproving her husband's present status and was forever prodding him to be more aggressive in his pursuit of the police commissionership.

  Since this was ultimately the decision of the Mayor, his reelection was crucial to the eggplant and his wife's ambition. Hence the tension. Boosting the homocide statistics had serious personal as well as political connotations for Luther Greene.

  "The press ignored it. No big deal. We've got it on the books. It's not that we're covering up a crime," Cates reasoned.

  "It needs work and, therefore, approval from our Lord and Master," Fiona countered.

  "So do these." he said, holding up the files.

  She looked at Cates and shook her head.

  "You're getting to be a real kiss-ass, Cates," she told him. An idea was emerging in her mind, a plan.

  "Considering the manpower, he has a point about the more recent cases," Cates said. "Murderers are walking around. The streets are running with blood." He chuckled.

  "This one's been walking around for twelve years."

  "Why so personal on this?" Cates asked, obviously puzzled.

  "Good question." She had been asking it herself. She thought about it a moment, then felt the compulsion to articulate something.

  "She was expendable and she was dumped," Fiona said. "Could be I'm offended by the constant drumbeat of female abuse. Maybe I'm relating too much. I know it's a problem. But I don't want to stop myself."

  "Some things are out of your hands, Fi," Cates said seriously. She knew he had no stomach for admonishing her, perhaps afraid he might set off some Irish fireworks. All right, she was, as her father would say, headstrong. Tame it, he had warned. She was working on it, she promised him again and again.

  "There's still a right and wrong," she said, watching his face. "Could be that someone who thought she was white found out she was really black and got very pissed off. As a black man doesn't that fry your guts, Cates?"

  She knew it didn't, which was a problem for Cates. The fact was that he did not have the inner sensibility of the oppressed black. He had been born in Trinidad and had arrived in America as a teenager. By then, he had a fixed view of himself in relation to the white world, determined that he was an educated equal responsible for his own destiny, and let it go at that. For this reason, he was, along with her, a white woman, considered an outsider by his colleagues. She was merely reminding him of their alienation.

  "Murder is beyond race, gender or nationality," he said, deliberately offering the warmed-over cliché. She got the point.

  "All right, then," she said, springing the trap. "What about simple partner loyalty. Are you going to let me go in there by myself?"

  He averted his eyes and she could see a nerve palpitating in his jaw. Without looking at her he shook his head. A minute later they were sitting in the eggplant's office.

  Since she had been thinking about it all day, she was able to encapsulate the information before the eggplant could raise a full head of angry steam. He lit a panatela and blew a geyser of smoke into the already cigar-smelly room. In the pause of the long puff and exhalation she followed her plan.

  "Somebody around here was incompetent a dozen years ago," she said.

  It stopped him short. Incompetent was always a wounding word loaded with racial implications. The fact was that the level of competence was much lower twelve years ago, statistically speaking. It was the time when the racial balance was in flux, on the verge of moving to a black majority. There were those that blamed it on the flux and others who ascribed more bigoted motives.

  "And your evidence for such an accusation?" the eggplant asked, nostrils quivering with repressed anger.

  "It was just a surface job. Nobody really showed any interest."

  "Can you be more specific?"

  "They did no investigation, made no attempt to go beyond the obvious."

  "And what would you have done?"

  "I'd have talked to co-workers, former roommates, her landlord."

  "Why? Was there evidence of foul play?"

  "Nobody ever looked."

  "Why should they have?"

  "Because she was a young beauty, living in a plush apartment, obviously living above her means."

  "And that would b
e grounds to assign manpower, spend the taxpayers' money?" He puffed deeply on his cigar and the smoke came out with his words. "Maybe she was a hooker. That would account for the apartment."

  She berated herself for her oversight. Worse, she had built her case on Mrs. Taylor's intuition about Betty having a white lover, thereby neglecting the obvious. The missed beat told him that she was vulnerable.

  "You didn't check?"

  "No, I didn't." She stole a look at Cates, who, obviously seeing the debacle, turned away. "Christ, Chief. I was with her mother yesterday." She paused and raised her hands in a cease-and-desist gesture. "It was on my own time. Anyway, this was a good family. Her mother was a proud woman. I told her what we had found."

  "And the ID was positive?" the eggplant asked. He was boring in on the obvious, magnifying the flaws.

  "Except for the dental," she said defensively. "The Medical Examiner will confirm. I'm sure of it." She looked up at the eggplant's face. Was he intrigued? With him, it was impossible to tell.

  "Suppose it doesn't check?" he asked.

  "It has to."

  The eggplant lowered his head and shook it in mock disbelief.

  "Now we're stuck with it," he said. She observed the protocol and made no comment, knowing she had won a tiny victory. "Pretty clever, FitzGerald." He offered a sneer, but she could tell from his eyes that he was relieved that he had found a way to give his consent without surrender. What was most maddening to her was her inability to lay down a matrix of his logic system. He could feign stupidity with the best of them, could pose as a hardhead, while all along he would be creating networks of subtle new logic to test and challenge them. He seemed always to be probing, forever challenging, playing the flunky, even the stereotypical black incompetent to infuriate them, setting out decoys and red herrings to confuse them, leading them through minefields where only he knew the path of safety.

  "Does that imply that you want us to continue?" she asked cautiously.

  Despite the victory, she was annoyed at being bested. Her plan was to unleash a nasty racial weapon to force his hand. The woman was black, asshole. That's why they swept it under the rug. Twelve years ago, who gave a shit about a missing black woman? Even black detectives were singing whitey's tune.

  "It implies," he said slowly, crushing the stub of his panatela in his overflowing ashtray, "that we are also stuck with the baggage of the past. There's lots out there who want to think we're incompetent, a label far more politically damaging than merely showing lesser homicide numbers." He lit another panatela. "We mustn't stand in the way of identifying the lady. That certainly counts as official interest. If you get my drift." Then he turned away, his attention now concentrated on some paperwork on his desk.

  As she and Cates left, she felt his gaze on her back. Perhaps he was smiling as well. But she dared not turn back to find out.

  8

  THE LAB confirmed the identity of Betty Taylor through her dental work. She was sure it would. Indeed, she was certain that the eggplant knew it would as well. Considering the quid pro quo of the transaction, she assumed that, if she postponed telling him, her permission to pursue the case further was automatically extended.

  "Madness," Cates said, as she attempted to explain it.

  "Not when you understand the code," she told him.

  It was enough to motivate him into a frenzy of investigatory activity. Once committed, he was a tiger at footwork and a whiz at details. He went off to the Hill to speak to the staff director of the committee that had employed Betty Taylor, while she called the District Building to track down the owners of the building in which the young woman had lived.

  She was shifted through a tangle of bureaucratic ineptitude, from one bored clerk to another, none of whom were intimidated by her official position.

  "All I want to know is who owned the building in the late seventies."

  "I got to check the tax records."

  "Isn't there a simple list of property owners?"

  "There's a problem with the computer stuff for that period. We gotta find it by hand."

  "How long will that take?"

  "It's nearly four."

  "So?"

  "So I'm off at four."

  "You sound like you're off now," Fiona snapped.

  "You want me to get your answer or not?"

  "Do you realize you're obstructing justice?" Fiona said. It was the kind of question that telescoped its response.

  "Kiss my ass."

  "The way you move it that ought to take a week."

  Round and round. She hung up in disgust, but with a greater understanding of the eggplant's fear of being labeled incompetent.

  Then she got a call from Monte Pappas.

  "What are you doing?" he asked. Although it had the air of flippancy, she could sense the tightness under the forced levity.

  "If you were giving the bureaucracy an enema where would you put the nozzle?"

  "Can I substitute a person and keep the water going until he explodes?"

  "My answer was the District Government. What's yours?"

  Suddenly, all happy-talk pretense evaporated.

  "Fi, I've got to see you."

  "Nice to be needed."

  She retained a lightness, hoping that it had another connotation. But she knew better.

  "More than you think," he said. "Urgently."

  "When?"

  "As fast as you can, Fi. Can I pick you up in fifteen minutes?"

  "That bad?"

  She looked at the notes on her yellow pad, contemplated the frustrations ahead of her, regretting now that she had put the wheels in motion.

  "You know where headquarters is. I'll be in front."

  * * *

  SHE WAS prompt, but he was already there, his Caddy glistening from the rain. She had barely opened her umbrella before she had to close it again. He had swung the door open and she had hopped in.

  The rain had turned nasty again, vast sheets angling against the windshield, winning the battle against the wipers. The grey skies were darkening into night.

  "Hope you got your ark ready, Monte," Fiona quipped. His mood was gloomy, but he managed a polite grunt of acknowledgment. He made a sharp turn into the tunnel heading for Capitol Hill.

  "I appreciate this, Fiona," he muttered. In profile he seemed to be biting his lower lip.

  "What are friends for?" she said, hoping that the light touch wasn't off-putting. It didn't matter. He seemed to be ignoring it, lost in his own thoughts. She let him brood. Finally he spoke.

  "I don't know how to handle this, Fi," Monte said. He took one hand off the steering wheel and gripped her arm. "It's your expertise."

  "So far it's an endless prologue," she said.

  "There's something else." He cleared his throat. "I need your word on this. Complete silence. No one."

  She thought about that for a moment and searched for a way to say it.

  "I render unto Caesar."

  He nodded as if he understood. Then he seemed to be mulling it. "Fair enough," he said. He rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth.

  "She's disappeared," he said, shaking his head. They were out of the tunnel and into the rain again, heading in the direction of the Capitol dome, lit now, a welcoming beacon in the downpour.

  "Who?"

  "Helga Kessel, wife of the Austrian Ambassador."

  "The beautiful Helga, mistress of Senator Love."

  Again, he ignored the attempt at a lighter touch. And yet, the subject matter belied his obvious panic.

  "Who needed this?" He shook his head. She had turned to watch him and he had met her gaze briefly. A headlight illuminated his troubled eyes. "It was supposed to be all handled. Sam had taken the pledge. Clear sailing. Then this."

  "There's missing and missing," Fiona said.

  "I know." He expelled air through his teeth. "It's bizarre. He ... Sam ... gets this call no more than two hours ago. The Ambassador himself, Hans Kessel. Remember him?" She nodded. "Says they shou
ld meet at the Dupont Circle subway stop. Something urgent. Sam, naturally, calls Bunkie, who follows him."

  "Not you?"

  "I come later. I'm the fireman, you see. When I get to it, it's already a conflagration." He sucked air through his teeth. "Assholes."

  "So they meet," Fiona prompted. He was obviously too upset to focus logically. The explanation seemed painful.

  "A brief talk. Kessel is panicked. The lady has vanished. As near as he can see no clothes missing. No notes. Nothing. She had gone out yesterday. He wasn't sure where. He let it go by one night. Maybe he's had some experience along these lines. When nearly another day went by, he got the message."

  "Why Sam?"

  "He knew. The son-of-a-bitch knew that Sam was diddling his wife."

  "Was he hostile?"

  "No. Nor irate. He's a European, if that explains it. He and Sam have a common cause." He turned toward her. "Not what you think," Monte sighed. "A morbid fear of embarrassment. He's also a diddler with political ambitions back in Austria. Takes one to know one."

  "Did he have any ideas where the woman might have gone?"

  "None. That's the point. He asked Sam that very same question."

  "So what's the bottom line?" Fiona asked, her mind spinning with scenarios. Maybe the woman was teasing both of them, scaring the shit out of both of them, getting even. Fiona could empathize with that.

  "You're the bottom line, Fi," Monte said.

  The car sped through the rain, turned and proceeded on Independence Avenue.

  "We're all way out of our depth. To report this thing could spell political sudden death for Sam and Kessel. It will come out. That's a given. Unless we can find some way to keep the lid on." He looked again toward Fiona. He slapped his chest. "We don't know how it's done."

  "You think I do?"

  "You're a cop. She's a missing person, for crying out loud."

  "Could be just a game's she's playing."

  "Some game."

  "She got dumped. She was pissed off. Could be her way to twist your you-know-whats."

  "We wish," Monte sighed. "That kind of pain we can live with." He grew silent. "But for how long?"

  "Longer the better."