Washington Masquerade (11 page)

“So now we know,” Izzy said as they drove.

“Know what?”

“That he was using his game time for other purposes.”

“But why would he lie to his best friend?” Fiona asked out loud.

Izzy pondered the question.

“Maybe he didn't.”

Without another word, Izzy, who was driving, made a U-turn and headed for the Senate Office Building.

Perkins was in the middle of a staff meeting that he was running and was annoyed at their intrusion.

“You could have called,” he snapped. He was obviously in a foul mood. His office was filled with staff and colleagues, and he led them out to the hallway.

“This won't take long,” Fiona said.

“It better not,” he snapped.

“When did you say Burns first told you about his knee problem?”

He seemed exasperated by the question.

“I think I told you that.”

“Then tell it again,” Fiona said. This was not a morning for tolerance.

Perkins stared at her for a moment, read the irritation in her expression, sighed, and seemed to surrender. He thought for a moment.

“Nine, ten months before he was….”

“Before he died.” Fiona said.

She was on his case now. Izzy remained silent.

“Yes, before he died.”

“Did he play after that?”

“It was sporadic. He wore a knee brace.”

“Did it affect his game?”

“I don't think so. We competed like kids, and we split our wins about evenly.”

“Did he limp after the games when he played with his knee brace?”

“I think so. Sometimes. I didn't pay much attention.”

“He told you that he might need arthroscopic surgery?”

“Yes, he did.”

“When you played, Mr. Perkins,” Izzy suddenly interjected, “did you suit up at the club?”

“Of course, we did. We both had lockers.”

Izzy and Fiona exchanged glances. Perkins caught the movement and shook his head.

“Why are you asking these questions? Are you implying that he was faking his knee problem?” He shook his head. “Why would he lie about that?”

Ignoring his question, Fiona pressed on.

“When he cancelled, how much notice did he give you?”

“Sometimes a couple of days, then sometimes….”

He paused, his brows knitting as if he were searching his memory.

“There were times when he called when it was too late to find another partner. Really riled me, but he told me he was just in too much pain to play. I was pissed, but I understood. He was very apologetic. I could never believe he was lying, not to me. We were buddies, childhood friends. No way.”

His eyes met Fiona's stare.

“You guys. Are you going to blame the victim for his demise? Is that the setup? You're just going to go round and round.”

He looked downward and shook his head from side to side.

“Anyway you look at it, I believe he was, as the expression goes, whacked.”

Suddenly emboldened, he raised a finger in front of Fiona's nose.

“Senator Bauman is going to call for an investigation by the Senate. We were working on the strategy when you barged in. I know, I know. You're just doing your job. I'm not faulting you. But this I'm sure of, you're misguided.” He nodded. “This was no suicide and no accident. I knew Adam longer and better than anyone in town. Believe me, he would never lie to me—never! He got killed because he was working on something, something big, something incriminating to you know whom.”

“Like what?” Fiona pressed. “Enlighten me.”

“I wish I knew. But sooner or later we'll find out, won't we?”

“Thanks for your time,” Fiona snapped, her eyes narrowing. She was conscious of offering him a thin smile. She turned away and began to move down the corridor with Izzy. Suddenly, she turned and moved back to where Perkins was standing, just in front of the office door he was about to open.

“Here's something for your cud, pal. Autopsy showed no knee injury. None.”

She turned, not waiting for him to react. She did not look back.

***

Getting into Burns' locker at the Army and Navy Club proved easier than they had expected. The attendant was well aware that Burns had died and opened his locker with a spare key.

They entered the locker room. A couple of men in various states of undress looked at them curiously. Fiona nodded appreciatively to a naked man, who winked and smiled.

“Made my day, lady!”

“I'm a cop,” Fiona replied, showing her badge.

The man shrugged and turned away.

“We should have emptied it earlier,” the attendant said as he put a spare key into the locker slot. “Got to read the obits to stay ahead. Big demand for these lockers.”

He peered into the locker, and they carefully searched through the contents.

It did not surprise them to find three knee braces and an assortment of fake moustaches and drug store spectacles tucked away in a letter-sized envelope, and of course, the expected athletic gear; two squash rackets, shorts, underpants, jock strap, T-shirt, sneakers, and socks. They carefully searched through everything for any obvious evidence before bagging the items.

“We'll give the lab a shot at these,” Fiona said, “and see what the missus has to say.”

***

They called Mrs. Burns on her cell and found her sitting in the stands in the field outside the school building watching her daughter at soccer practice. Fiona had seen the daughter in grieving mode a week before. A tall, attractive, blonde girl, she looked graceful and concentrated as she moved. A male coach was running them through various exercises. They wore yellow uniforms with blue trim and blue numbers. When Mrs. Burns saw them, she nodded, turned briefly, then went back to watching her daughter.

“I guess she's out there, Mrs. Burns.”

“Yes, she is.”

The coach blew a whistle, and the girls gathered round. Mrs. Burns turned to them.

“Poor kid. I thought this was the best therapy. Unfortunately, it cuts into my day. Adam had been the designated family driver, carpooling for practice and games. Now, I've got to be the chauffeur when my turn comes up. Plays hell with my business, but Lisa needs me more than ever. I'm hoping that soccer will keep her mind off… off… you know.” She shook her head and looked out again on the field. “They're very competitive. She didn't want to lose her starting position as striker.”

Fiona nodded but had no idea what that meant. Soccer was not the game in her day or now.

They watched the drill for a few moments. There seemed to be some sort of an altercation on the field. Two girls were fighting on the ground. The coach pulled them apart and gave each one a pointed lecture. They couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was angry. Mrs. Burns stood up, watching the situation with unusual intensity.

“It goes on and on,” Mrs. Burns muttered.

“What?” Izzy asked.

“Unfortunately, one of them is my daughter. For some reason, Deirdre McGrath and Lisa have developed a bitter antagonism to each other. I don't get it. They used to be the best of friends. They're the two best players on the team, both strikers, high scorers. The team is at the top of its league. When the game starts, you'd think they were bosom buddies.”

The practice began again on the field, and Mrs. Burns sat down.

“Months ago they were inseparable.” She turned toward Fiona and Izzy. “What is it with teenage girls?”

“I've got one, Mrs. Burns,” Izzy said. “The boy is no sweat. But the girl….” He shook his head. “They say that most parents live through it. I wonder.”

“We do the best we can,” Mrs. Burns sighed. “But this… what happened with Adam has not helped. She's much edgier than she was.”

They sat down on either side of Mrs. Burns.

“More questions?” Mrs. Burns asked, keeping her eye on the field. The girls began lining up for goal kicks.

“I'm sorry about this, but….”

“I know. It's your job.” She said dismissively, still not turning to face them. “I suppose I have little choice but to cooperate, even though you know where I stand on your prospects.”

“Yes, we do, Mrs. Burns,” Fiona said. “We do appreciate your cooperation. Some of our questions may seem… well… unimportant, but we've got to explore every little detail.”

“I won't stand in your way,” Mrs. Burns muttered. “Although I'd appreciate a little advance notice. This is neither the time nor the place.” She waved her hand. “Okay, okay. Fire away.”

“Did Mr. Burns ever complain about knee problems?”

She turned toward Fiona, her expression confused.

“You're kidding?”

“He had this regular squash game with Jack Perkins,” Fiona said, ignoring her obvious irritation at the question.

“Yes, he did,” she said, suddenly becoming more forthcoming. “Jack was one of his oldest friends. We used to see a lot of Jack and Shelly. Then they got divorced, and we sort of drifted away. Happens.”

“Too bad,” Fiona said in fake sympathy.

“Shelly is delightful. I got a beautiful letter from her yesterday.”

“How long has it been since, well… since you got together as couples?”

She thought for a moment, keeping her eyes on the court.

“I don't know, maybe a year or less. We used to go out for dinner every few weeks. I guess we just got busy, or they did. We all have different agendas.” She cut Fiona a confused look. “What is so relevant about that?”

“Nothing really,” Fiona said. “Forgive me. That's not what I came here to ask. I wanted to ask about Adam's knee problem.”

“That again.”

“Perkins said that he sometimes wore a knee brace during their squash games.” She studiously avoided any mention of Burns canceling games.

“So what's so important about that?” Mrs. Burns said, shaking her head with skepticism. “I don't know what you're getting at. Knee problem? Not that I know of. As for wearing a knee brace, it's news to me, and I've never heard him complain about his knees. I don't get it.”

At that moment, the coach's whistle blew, and Lisa Burns came over to her mother, wiping her face with a towel. She ignored Fiona and Izzy.

“That stupid Deirdre McGrath! Always screwing things up. She'll try anything. I can't stand her.”

“Who started it this time?” Mrs. Burns asked.

“She did. Always saying nasty things.”

“Like what?” Mrs. Burns asked.

“Things,” Lisa shrugged. “Calls me a klutz! Always comes up with an insult. Thinks she's hot… you know what I mean? Just because her mother's a big-shot judge.”

“Grin and bear it, darling,” Mrs. Burns said soothingly. “Don't let her upset you.”

“She's just so angry at me all the time, causing trouble with her big mouth! Sometimes the coach blames me.”

“Shall I talk to her parents?”

“A lot of good that does.”

“I just don't get it,” Mrs. Burns said.

“Neither do I, Mom.”

Fiona noted that one of the players, a dark-haired girl with short hair, hands on hips in an arrogant stance, was staring at them from the field.

“Deirdre's become a bitch, Mom. I can't stand her.”

“You used to be such great friends.”

“Use' ta, yeah.”

The whistle blew again, and Lisa hurried to the coach's side, and the goal drill began again.

“They used to be such good friends,” Mrs. Burns repeated. “I did manage to talk to her mother, Judge McGrath—court of appeals, very devoted to her daughter, carpooled in our group, busy lady. Her dad's a doctor. She commiserated, but these kids live on their own planet.” She looked toward the girls going through their practice paces. “Poor kid. Adam and she were like that.” She crossed her fingers. “But even he was baffled when the kids fell out.” She shrugged. “Oh, well. We'll blunder through as always.”

Fiona waited through her explanation. A parent's first obligation is to their children. She decided to maintain a polite silence until Mrs. Burns' ruminations concluded and she could continue her interrogation.

“So you're saying that to your knowledge Mr. Burns never had a knee problem?”

“Not that I knew of, and I would know, wouldn't I? He never complained, never limped. If he wore a knee brace when he played squash, so he wore a knee brace.”

“And there were no knee braces around the house,” Fiona pressed.

“Is this a trivia question?” she sighed. “No, I never saw a knee brace around the house.”

Her attention turned suddenly to the field where the girls were now running around in quick strides while the coach threw the soccer ball in front of them, which they moved forward then kicked toward the goal.

“Somebody is giving you a lot of stuff about Adam,” Mrs. Burns said. “Predictable. Chase the red herrings, folks. It won't matter. The real truth will come out sooner or later.”

The coach blew a whistle calling an end to practice, and the girls put on yellow athletic pants and jackets on which was sewn the school name and a soccer-ball logo. Then they gathered around the coach again, embraced each other, and belted out a school pep cheer, then the group broke up and scattered.

Mrs. Burns stood as her daughter came closer.

“That it? I'm carpooling some of the kids.”

She turned suddenly to face Fiona.

“For the moment,” Fiona said, standing up.

They had barely driven out of the school parking lot when Izzy glanced into his rearview mirror.

“We have a tail,” he said.

Fiona turned and looked through the rear window.

“Bolger, the bulldog,” Fiona said. She spotted a strip-mall parking lot. “In there,” she told Izzy, who pulled into an empty slot.

The car that was following them passed the lot then doubled back and pulled into an empty slot at the other end of the lot.

“Let's go,” she said, and Izzy drove his car to the rear end of Bolger's car and blocked its way. Fiona and Izzy got out and moved toward the car.

“It's okay,” Bolger said, getting out of the car and putting up his hands. “You got me, Officers.”

“You're one lousy sleuth, Bolger,” Fiona said.

“You're partially right. I picked you up outside the Army and Navy Club and followed you. Not high marks for you guys, I'm afraid. Not spotting a tail till now. You need a refresher course in avoiding surveillance.”

“Okay, so now you know,” Fiona said.

“Know what?”

“Yours to find out,” Fiona teased. Bolger, she knew, could be treacherous, and she had to be cautious.

“I'll trade you. I know something you don't.”

Fiona's ears perked up. She looked at Izzy then at Bolger.

“Okay then, we wanted to talk to Mrs. Burns about Mr. Burns' general health.” It was, she thought, a reasonably honest assertion.

“Mental or physical?” Bolger asked.

“Yours to discover, pal,” Fiona said. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”

“Not quite a fair trade, but I'll buy it for the moment. The big news, maybe the real news, according to my sources, which are damned good, is that the Feds are planning to link Burns with an assassination attempt on the President's life.”

“Bullshit,” Fiona snapped, with accelerating anger.

“Maybe so. But it's gathering momentum.” He shot a glance at Izzy. “Got an opinion, Officer?”

“Sounds weird,” Izzy said.

“The creep is fishing,” Fiona warned.

“Am I?” He turned to Fiona. “Put it under a security blanket, and the Feds come into the picture big time. Even if it's just air, it is a master counterpunch on the President's part. He discredits Burns by the barest hint that he was up to no good, and what is the worst no good to be concocted? Shades of Lincoln, a conspiracy to ice the Prez.”

“A media fantasy,” Fiona said.

“Maybe so, but it has promise.”

“Produce a source on that one.” Fiona shot back.

“You know we couldn't do that, nor could we even quote such an anonymous source, not in today's contentious environment.”

“Is the
Post
going to run with that?” Fiona asked, the thought bringing back the anger with Larry.

“I'm in the trenches, Fi,” Bolger said with a shrug. “I can't say what the generals decide. I'm just playing gumshoe in your wake. But this I do know. The Feds are already nosing around on your turf. A little birdie has already let that cat out of the bag. Pardon the mixed metaphors.”

Fiona felt a spear of rage hit her in the gut. The two Fed boys from Homeland were supposedly committed to silence. Of course, she knew that there were no real secrets in Washington, except perhaps the one that held Burns in thrall.

“At this juncture, Bolger, we have nothing to say to you except the usual: We are pursuing the matter. You're welcome to follow us if you can.”

She turned, and they got into the car. They sped off, leaving a baffled Bolger.

“Asshole,” Fiona hissed.

“He's worked out a pretty scary premise,” Izzy said. “It has a strange logic. The administration is bugged by the spreading notion that the man was killed by their order, and the forces ranged against the administration believe that it's true. The old Goebbels dictum: say the lie over and over again, and people begin to believe it.

“Do you, Izzy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not even a smidgeon?” Fiona teased.

“My bias is not in sync with theirs.”

“We're not supposed to have any bias that will distort our judgment.”

Izzy didn't answer, and Fiona didn't press the point. Her bias was against certainty, and it was growing as they pursued the matter.

At headquarters, the press was camped out and pounced as they entered the building.

“Nothing new to report,” Fiona cried, as they elbowed their way through the crowd of reporters.

Izzy said nothing, and they reached the squad room only to find that two uniforms were standing guard.

“Chief's orders,” one of them said.

They found Chief Hodges fuming. His ashtray was filled with a mess of smashed Panatelas. With his eyes, he motioned them to follow him. They wound up in a men's room. Some cops were buttoning up, and the Chief asked them to vacate, and then locked the door.

They filled him in on what they had learned, which merely underlined what they already knew, that Burns was involved in some sort of deception. They reported, too, on their discussion with Bolger and the new assassination theory that the administration was alleged to be floating.

“If true, it is not smart,” Hodges mused.

“I prefer to think it isn't true,” Izzy said.

“The mayor wants more action. Thinks that this case is the defining moment for his Administration. Meaning, do we have the stuff or not to break this case? ‘The world is watching' is his new mantra. I'm supposed to put more crew to work.”

“Your call, Chief,” Fiona said.

“My call?” He pointed with his chin. “Did you see the crowd out there, the ghoul brigade? They want raw meat. Think of it: the President as the Godfather. Chills the blood. The media is churning out such theories, the talking heads are in high dudgeon, and the engine is careening blindly forward. Worse, they may have a point.”

“Not you, too, Chief,” Fiona snapped.

“Nobody is immune to chicanery. If they were, we wouldn't need cops.”

“It's media bullshit,” Fiona said, pointing with her chin at Izzy.

“I'm in the open-mind department.”

“Then damn it, give me something to refute them with!” Hodges said, obviously exorcised. “Established: Burns was a liar. He faked his face, and he faked his injury. He was working as a lone wolf outside the orbit of home, hearth, and workplace. Obviously, he was onto something, in pursuit of something.” He swept his glance from Fiona to Izzy. “Of what? Come on girls and boys. Of what?”

“He was cunning, Chief.”

“Some are more cunning than others.”

She had been deliberately holding back what Bolger had told her, waiting for the right moment to avoid a conflagration. Since she could not answer his pressing question, she had no choice but to tell him. He seemed genuinely startled, unwrapping a Panatela, which he took from an inside pocket of his jacket. He shoved it between his teeth.

Shrugging, she turned to Izzy. “You tell him the Bolger revelation.”

“As a counterpunch, Bolger says that the administration is on the verge of accusing the late Mr. Burns of planning a Presidential assassination.”

“Whoever said this administration is not creative?” Hodges asked, his face crinkling into a wry smile.

Fiona thought of Philip. Even in his gestures, expression, and body language, she did not detect any sign that might hint of such speculation. Philip, after all, was on the payroll. One could never judge the power of blind loyalty in others. She decided that she would have to explore that aspect further.

“Have you heard from the Homeland boys?” Fiona asked, restoking her frustration at Bolger's revelations about the Feds' involvement.

The Chief shook his head then smiled and pulled out a satellite phone, holding it up.

“Gift of the Homeland brothers,” he said. “Guaranteed clear channel.” He winked at them. “Sorry, only one to a team. These boys take no chances.”

***

Of all places, they arranged to meet late in the day at Fiona's house. In the rear garden was an enclosed gazebo that she doubted would have tempted any surveillance. It seemed as good a spot as any for a private confabulation.

“Nice place,” Kinney said, casting his eye across the expanse of garden that led to the main house.

“My parents' home,” she admitted, as if to explain to the federal agents the disparity of wealth.

The real estate boom had greatly inflated the value of the house to multimillion-dollar levels. She set up a bar and filled some dishes with nuts. The night was cool and clear and not uncomfortable.

She offered drinks and the two agents took soft drinks while the Chief was proffered his usual brand of single malt scotch, which he accepted. Izzy took nothing, and Fiona poured some vodka over ice for herself. As she poured, she heard the faint ring of the telephone from the house.

“Let's cut to the chase, gentlemen,” Hodges began, after first sipping his scotch.

“Somebody has wind that the Feds are involved in this investigation and that the Administration is deliberately touting the notion that Burns was plotting the President's assassination.”

The redhead and his partner exchanged glances.

“Media paltering,” Wallinski said.

Fiona was impressed with the use of the word, the meaning of which she could only assume.

“What is your implication?” the Chief asked after another sip of his scotch.

“The obvious,” the redhead said. “A counterbalance to the general opinion about what really happened to Burns. It's a classic PR ploy, and it's an accusation that is believable, especially if the President is on your shit list.”

“Do you know something we don't?” Kinney asked.

“Are there other Feds tracking this?” Fiona said, eyeing the two men suspiciously.

“Sure as rain,” Wallinski pointed out. “They would be negligent if they weren't. These are serious implications. As we stressed, we are independent of the others.” He stopped abruptly and turned exclusively toward Hodges. “If they haven't stepped forward in person, they're listening, hence your instinctive caution. Expect them, Chief. Guaranteed. Like us, they are charged to get to the bottom of things; only, they are saddled with too much transparency and infighting. We're free of such a taint. They can be accused of being part of the PR machine. We're outside that loop.”

The Chief upended his glass. Fiona rose to pour him another.

“We know we're ahead of the curve,” the redhead said. “But that doesn't mean that there aren't others in our wake. We are constantly butting heads with competing entities within the government. No matter how we try to reform the system, everyone has his own sinecure, complete with their network of security and investigators. Nobody trusts anybody.”

“It's a greasy pole,” Kinney said. “Everyone is competing for glory, for promotion, for their fiefdom, whatever.” He looked pointedly at Fiona. “Surely, we don't have to explain to you the perils of the bureaucracy, the turf battles and the political jockeying?”

“What about you guys?” Fiona asked.

“We're the H. G. Wells contingent,” Wallinski explained, chuckling.

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

“
The Invisible Man
. That's us,” Kinney said. “Without the bandages to cover our empty faces, we're vapor.”

“Put simply, our job is to cut through the bullshit,” Wallinski explained. “No paper work, no cyber space. Unsung, although we like to think we're the key cog in the machine.”

“Like the old
Dragnet
guys,” Hodges said. “‘Just the facts, Ma'am.' They had it right.”

“So do we,” the redhead said. “Here's what we want: First, Burns—suicide, accident, or murder? Second, who's blowing smoke inside to the outside? Third—as you say, Chief—just the facts. You can't bake bread with horse manure.”

***

Considering that media, especially Hollywood, portrayed most government agents as dolts, automatons, or worse, Fiona was impressed with both these men.

The redhead turned to the Chief. “Do you believe us? You know what I mean. Do you buy into our mission?”

Hodges pondered the question.

“Am I required to answer that?” he asked, obviously debating the question, directing his gaze at the redhead's face. Then his gaze roamed to his partner.

“Trust can only be a demonstrated virtue, not an emotional choice.”

“I'll buy that,” the redhead said. “Meaning we're still on probation.”

“You got it.”

Fiona nodded and laughed. Again, she ignored the distant telephone's ring.

“No matter what,” she said, “who trusts who is not the issue here. There are probably hundreds of snitches among the Feds who talk to reporters off the record for various reasons. They're primarily motivated to push their own agendas. You know what I mean—payback, personal vendettas, frustration about lack of promotion, and, of course, the big one, acting out of conscience, or their perception of it. In a divided political climate like ours… hell, you know the menu.”

She was conscious of them paying close attention to her remarks, the length of which surprised her, but she pressed on.

“No matter what, the facts are the facts. In the case of Adam Burns, here are the up-to-date, out-of-the-gate facts. Everything else at this point is pure speculation. He led a double life. Established. Why? Not known. Motive? Not known. Did someone else know? Not known. Suicide, accident, or murder? Not known.”

“Okay,” Kinney said, compelled to direct the discussion elsewhere. “There is no way we can establish any credible connection to any government involvement in Burns' death. Within the bounds of our brief, we've tried. In such matters, lips are sealed and security is tight. Does the Administration monitor its critics? They'd be fools if they didn't.” He turned to his partner who nodded. “I mean up to a point. Too much monitoring has a boomerang effect, especially if a snoopy journalist gets wind of it. They go nuts when they smell government interference in their hallowed First Amendment rights.” He shrugged. “Are there limits?”