Washington Masquerade (16 page)

“What can we say?” Wallinski asked with a shrug, exchanging glances with Fiona.

“Don't say anything,” Fiona shot back. “I suppose we could expect nothing less from you hotshots. It is no secret that Phil and Dolly are my close friends. Unfortunately, you're not quite up to date.”

Without giving them a chance to respond, she told them about Phil being missing, leaving out no detail, especially about the gun and the note. After her revelation, the Chief was the first to respond.

“Nothing so far,” he said. “Izzy filled me in.”

“I know Phil. He was ethical to a fault. If he was forced to knuckle under, it was a challenge to his core beliefs,” Fiona said.

“So who was doing the pushing?” Izzy asked.

“The powers that be,” Hodges said. “Who else?”

“And, of course, the media loves this shit,” Fiona said, thinking of Larry.

“They don't always get it right,” Wallinski said.

“Except that they think they do,” Izzy said, “which is worse.”

“Doesn't matter,” Fiona said, speculating that the Homeland guys already had the answer as to who was doing the pushing. “The media shits hook the fish but don't pull it out immediately, keep their readers guessing. Nothing like “what happens next” to mesmerize the eyeballs. I'm sure they know who pressed Owens, but not who pressed the presser.”

“That's what Dolly figured,” Fiona said. “Somebody starts the ball rolling. It bounces around the pinball machine, touching all the hot spots, and the media does the rest. That's the dark side. The other side is that one can go to the media and air one's grievances. Apparently, that's what Phil did, and he knew it would blow his career, perhaps his life.”

At that moment, it occurred to Fiona that these men knew a lot more than they were telling. Why not? They were sleuthing within the establishment, an anthill of tunnels leading everywhere and nowhere.

“So where was the pressure coming from?” Fiona asked, hoping that the repetition would elicit a more specific answer.

“Upstairs, where else?” Wallinski shrugged.

“That's a given,” Fiona said. “Is there a who?”

The redhead and his partner exchanged glances and smiled.

“That's the bureaucracy,” Wallinski muttered. “The higher you go, the more asses are covered. Phil had no place to go. He was the end of the line. His role in this scenario was to leak the manufactured idea of an assassination attempt. Obviously, he couldn't. This business is not for anyone with a moral conscience.”

“Well, well. I'm not the only Talmudic philosopher in the group,” Izzy said.

Wallinski looked puzzled. “This is fact, guys,” he said. “If the guy blows himself up, we got us another dimension to this case. The media will have a field day. This guy was in charge of the Secret Service, which is the ultimate in secrecy. Think of the implications. The poor bastard might even be accused of being the instigator.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Need I explain the obvious? The shit will hit the fan.”

Fiona felt a wave of nausea engulf her. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead.

“Speculation will run rampant—suicide or murder? Here we go again,” Wallinski said cautiously.”

“Poor Phil,” Fiona sighed. She looked toward Hodges who avoided her gaze.

“You got it,” Wallinski said. He turned toward Fiona. “Unless, of course, your boy doesn't pull the trigger.”

“And if he does,” Izzy said, “people will think otherwise, like Burns—maybe like Burns.”

“Except if there was a note. Proof positive.”

There was a long moment of silence. Izzy nodded and was the first to speak.

“Watergate on steroids.”

Wallinski nodded. “Power must protect its turf.”

“Or lose it,” Kinney said suddenly, an echo.

“You make it sound as if we live in a cesspool,” Fiona said, shaking her head and illustrating her disgust at the idea with a mock shiver.

“Sad but true,” Wallinski said. “But we live with the illusion that we're the good bacteria.”

“So you think Owens was set up?” Izzy asked.

“Way it works,” Wallinski said, pausing, “unless you have evidence to the contrary.”

“We're on it,” Fiona muttered.

“Good luck,” Wallinski said.

“And what do you believe?” asked Hodges, a question obviously addressed to both men.

“In personal survival, Chief,” Wallinski said, casting a quick glance at his partner.

“Name of the game,” Kinney agreed with a smile.

“So what are you implying?” Fiona asked. “Stop looking?”

“No way,” Wallinski said. “You're homicide cops. Like asking you to stop breathing.”

Hodges shook his head and grimaced in confusion.

“I don't get it.”

“All I'm suggesting, Chief,” Wallinski said. “Go with the flow. Do what you do.”

“Until…?” Fiona asked.

“Until the end. If it's a government hit, it's thorough, clean, probably unsolvable, unless there's a fuck-up like Watergate. If it's not, it's pretty near-perfect—no witnesses, no motive. If you run up against wall after wall, put it on a shelf or take the easy way out, declare suicide and be done with it.”

“Does this mean you are bowing out?” the Chief asked.

“With grace, ladies and gents. Slowly, like all things, the sands of time will do their work.”

“And Phil Owens?” Fiona asked.

“Collateral damage,” Wallinski sighed. “Tragic but unintended consequences.”

The Chief's eyes narrowed. He was listening intently.

“No one could have assessed that Owens's reaction would be suicidal,” Kinney said.

“If Owens does do it, call it a bonus,” Wallinski shrugged.

Fiona shook her head, and a burning sensation assailed her chest. She turned her gaze toward Chief Hodges again, knowing she was caught between a rock and a hard place.

“I can't listen to this,” she muttered, recalling that earlier event in their lives when Phil revealed his vulnerability, uncertainty, and lack of personal esteem. She knew he had been devastated by his failure, but could it have been predictive of what was to come? “He is an innocent bystander. He knew there was nothing to it.”

“And how do you know that?” Wallinski prodded.

“I believe Phil.”

“You talked to him?” Hodges asked, obviously angered at her failure to report this earlier.

Try to understand, she implored silently before she spoke. “Phil and Dolly are two of my closest friends in the world. I grew up in this town. They are accessible to me, and I feel free to consult them on issues of importance to me.” She cut a glance at Hodges. “Surely, you must all understand that. The idea or suspicion of some Presidential cabal was an issue in this case from the beginning. Yes, I met with Phil, but he told me nothing that connected any dots in terms of the death of Burns and our case, and I let it go at that. If I was confronted with a relevant fact, of course, I would have passed it on.”

“You were supposed to, Officer,” the Chief said through clenched teeth, livid. “The interview with Owens and even the absence of a relevant fact is a relevant fact.”

“I know, Chief. I didn't want to compromise a friend.”

“We're in the homicide business, not the friendship business.”

“But why this?” Wallinski said, pointing to the paper. “Did you get any sense of his contemplating such an action?”

“Not this kind of action.” She turned again to Chief Hodges. “If I did, I would have reported it to you.” Immediately, she recognized that she was still dissembling, holding things back. “Okay, I know, I guess you might say it is subject to interpretation. Who could have possibly predicted this? I suppose I made the wrong call. Poor Phil.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Would it have mattered?”

She was at a crossroads now. It had indeed transcended the personal. It was business now.

“There's more,” she said.

“Christ, Officer!” Hodges snapped.

“I'm sorry, Chief. You're right about friendship. It does get in the way.” She paused, shook her head, and swallowed a sob. “Dolly, Mrs. Owens, came to me a couple of days ago in a panic. Phil, she said was acting strangely.” Fiona thought to herself. Who am I betraying here? I am opening up my best friends' lives to public scrutiny, and I feel like a shit. She looked at the Chief. “I really do.” Her confession met with silence, and she continued.

They listened as she told them about her meeting with Dolly at the Four Seasons, the woman's anguish and panic about her husband.

“She told me that Phil confessed to her that he was being pushed to create the appearance that Burns was somehow involved in a plot to assassinate the President, about which there was no evidence whatsoever. She knew it was a violation, but she trusted me.

Fiona internally admonished herself, And here I am betraying her… and Phil. Damn!

“But Dolly's anguish was real” she continued. “Nor could I advise her to do anything but hang in there. There was no question in my mind that Phil was being pressured in a way that was making him crazy.” She looked at the two federal men in front of her. “It's a dilemma that afflicts many a loyal government servant. Keeping things from your spouse, allegedly your most trusted friend, creates a problem.” She paused and stared at both the Feds in turn. “No further comment needed.” The men exchanged glances but made no comment. She assumed they were family men.

“Nevertheless,” Wallinski said, again pointing to the paper now in Hodges' side suit pocket.

He was quite obviously avoiding the philosophical question, since for him and his colleague there was only one official answer. The bond with the government had to be stronger than the bond between friends, lovers, and spouses, especially the latter.

“It doesn't excuse this. There were other avenues of protest within the government.”

“If I know Phil, he probably tried,” Fiona shot back, “but when all else failed, he went to the
Post
. Hell, this is their meat. He threw it on their stoop, and they ran with it… gleefully.”

“The old
bête noir
,” Wallinski said. “First Amendment versus national security.”

“Honor versus dishonor,” Fiona shot back, in defensive mode now.

“Truth and consequences,” Izzy murmured.

Suddenly, Fiona erupted.

“Fuck you all! These are my friends. I never turn my back on my friends.” She looked at Hodges then turned her gaze on the two government men. “That's my personal code of ethics. Sorry, gentlemen.”

Hodges looked at her pointedly and rubbed his chin. “The white princess speaks,” he muttered, then smiled, and looked at the two men. “You see what I have to contend with? Behind my back, they call me the Eggplant—means ‘dummy'—not exactly a compliment.”

“It's a term of endearment, Chief,” Fiona said, cooling.

“Not to Italians,” Wallinski blurted. “I have an Italian mother.”

Fiona simmered then slowly cooled. Izzy's eyes had widened in astonishment. He had never seen her anger at white heat. The two federal men looked embarrassed.

“I'm sorry, Chief. I was out of line.”

Chief Hodges nodded and cast his glance among the group.

“Let's cut the bullshit,” he said, his nostrils dilated, a physical tic that often described his inner frustration. “For us, all this government intrigue is a red herring in terms of our investigation. It's all political preening and spinning. The way I read it….” He looked at Fiona and in a gesture of forgiveness, offered a tiny wink, “…the Administration, or some eager beaver on the inside who tried to make it look as if Burns was in on some farfetched chicanery that might be connected with an assassination plot against the President. But that was merely a reaction against another unproven allegation that Burns was somehow whacked by either orders from the top in the Administration or from an eager beaver on the inside. The very fact that this guy Owens had been asked to manufacture such a scenario indicates to me that Burns' involvement in such a plot was pure fiction, a countermeasure against another fictional idea being retailed by the media.”

Fiona was proud of him—under all his posturing was the purest of investigative minds. Best of all, she sensed that he had understood her dilemma and forgiven her.

“Right on, Chief,” Fiona said.

Hodges lowered his head and smiled.

“Contents noted,” the redhead said.

Fiona was certain that they now had gotten what they had come for.

They stood up and shook hands all around.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Wallinski said. “We'll be in touch.”

As expected, they were deliberately vague, following their own rulebook conduct. Fiona was certain that their next move was to attempt to find Owens, whose action was now clearly defined as a matter of national security.

“Doesn't sound too good for your buddy, Fitzgerald.”

She was relieved. He was calling her Fitzgerald again.

He unwrapped a Panatela that he had pulled from his jacket pocket and jammed it between his teeth. He was being reflective, a faraway look in his eyes.

“If your buddy pulls the trigger, we will be cast aside, declared irrelevant. There will be no way to stop the Federal avalanche.” He opened the paper again, reviewed it briefly, and shook his head.

Fiona rarely questioned the Chief's instincts. People in this line of work, she had learned, develop an intuitive sense, and Hodges was a mature example of this attribute. They left the men's room and walked down the corridor to their squad room. A uniformed officer approached them at the door. He directed his gaze to Fiona.

“Your man's been found.”

Her heart banged like a bass drum in her chest.

Perhaps motivated by the confusion surrounding the death of Adam Burns, Fiona speculated, Phil went to great lengths to validate his own suicide. He had booked a room at the Willard Hotel and sitting on the bed, put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The room was splattered with blood. There was no note at the scene, only the one in Dolly's possession that contained a broad hint of where he was headed emotionally.

“Would you like off the case?” Hodges asked.

He had accompanied them to the scene. When Fiona saw the body of her old friend, she turned ashen, staggered slightly, and was prevented from falling by her boss. She managed a negative shake of her head and left the room to recover in the hall.

In the years she had been with the Homicide Squad, she had never investigated the death of someone she knew as intimately as she knew Phil Owens. Although she had been called upon often to break the news of a death to a close family member, she had managed to maintain an air of businesslike detachment. To reach such a state required great discipline and self-control. She doubted she could summon up those qualities in this case.

“Are you up to notification of next of kin?” the Chief asked gently.

“I have to do this,” Fiona said.

“I'll go with you,” Izzy said.

“I could use a driver, but this has to be done by me alone.” She started to leave the scene, then stopped and addressed her boss. “Can we keep a lid on this until I notify her?”

“I'll sure as hell try,” he replied.

***

For Dolly, the hours of anxiety had steeled her to fear the worst.

“I expected this, Fiona,” she said, as the two women embraced. “How awful for you to have to be the one who gives me the news.”

“Awful for me, Dolly? Your whole life comes apart, and it's awful for me?”

“The pistol?” Dolly asked.

Fiona nodded.

“It was instant. I doubt if he felt anything.” Fiona paused, her throat constricting. “There was no note at the scene, nothing.”

“No note?”

“Just the one you received earlier.”

Dolly turned away then fell to her knees, wailing hysterically, tears rolling down her cheeks. Fiona attempted to console her but she brushed her aside. Watching her, Fiona strangely felt only contempt now, silently rebuking her dead friend for not having the courage to face life, then castigating herself for such a foul thought.

Confronting the truth of her reaction, she realized that she felt no real pity for suicides. Phil should have found the mettle to resist such a cowardly solution.

After a while, Dolly stood up. She dried her tears and Fiona observed a sense of stiffened resolve as she walked to the little office she used adjacent to the kitchen. Fiona observed her as she sat in front of her computer on which a screensaver showed a picture of an American flag waving in the breeze.

She took a deep breath and hit the computer. A moment later she screamed and closed her eyes. Tears rippled over her cheeks. With the back of her hand, she wiped them away and focused on the screen. Fiona did not intrude, knowing what was happening. She waited for a long time as Dolly read, wiping away tears as she tried to focus.

At times she stopped and murmured.

“It's too much to bear.”

Fiona watched her silently. Dolly came to the end, and with the back of her hand wiped away tears. Inexplicably, she put her face to the screen and kissed it then turned off the computer and shut it down.

Fiona knew that police protocol was to obtain the note and make it available as evidence. But she did not have legal permission and left it at that. At this point in time, it was a murky legal issue.

Dolly rose, suddenly transformed with a severe look of determination on her face. She moved to the phone and dialed a number as Fiona observed her.

“Whom are you calling, Dolly?” she asked gently. Dolly did not answer her query, turning away, expressionless and determined, her eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Jack Brady, please. This is Mrs. Philip Owens.”

She did not look at Fiona.

“Maybe you should think about this, Dolly,” Fiona said.

Dolly ignored the entreaty as she waited, turning her face away so that it was not visible to Fiona.

“I have something for you, Mr. Brady,” she said then moved out of earshot. After a few moments of conversation, Dolly signed off and turned to Fiona.

“They're coming,” Dolly said.

“Are you sure about this, Dolly?” Fiona asked.

“I owe it to him, Fiona. I'm going to bury the bastards.”

There seemed no point in even trying to dissuade her. This new mission might help her cope with the process of grieving. She would not be the first spouse who had spent her life justifying her husband's actions.

Fiona helped her friend work out the details of the funeral and plans for the burial when Phil's body would be released. Dolly was calmer now, her determination helping to keep her functioning. Fiona attributed this sudden burst of energy to a kind of hysteria.

Suddenly her cell rang. She didn't answer. A few moments later she picked up the voice mail. It was Larry.

“I just heard,” he said. “How awful. Call me, please.”

She debated her reaction and finally called him. He picked up after the first ring.

“I'm with Dolly now. She is coping.”

“I've been told she has something for us,” Larry said.

Us? She thought. Not for him and me but for
them
, meaning the
Post
and its relentless agenda. Again, she felt the strain on their relationship, their career dissonance, and assessed the growing gulf between them. The so-called truce between them was concluded, she told herself firmly.

“You knew,” she said.

“Knew?”

“Last night. That it was Phil.”

She waited, hearing his breathing, while he contemplated an answer.

“We have rules here, Fi. It was confidential.”

“Was it?”

She hung up, forcing her calm.

“Prick,” she muttered, disgusted by the irony.

Then she called the Chief on his satellite phone. She noted that Dolly had gone back to her computer and was printing out what Phil had written, although she was certain the deeply personal material had been edited out.

“He sent a note to his wife's computer,” Fiona said. “She's about to give it to the
Post
.”

“Have you read it?”

“No, Chief. We need a warrant.” She paused. “Better tell our new best friends.”

“Stick around and keep me in the loop.”

She pushed the button, ending the conversation. The front buzzer sounded. Fiona opened the door to Harrison Bolger, a photographer, and Brady, followed by Izzy. Dolly stood in the doorway of her small office.

“World works in mysterious ways, Fi,” Bolger said.

Brady put out his hand. Fiona took it.

“How is she taking it?” he asked.

“See for yourself,” Fiona sighed.

Dolly turned and walked into her office. The men and the photographer followed. Izzy turned to Fiona.

“What's going on?” he asked. “Must be a biggie to bring out Brady.”

“It is.” She explained about the note on the computer. “Whatever is in it is about to be public domain.”

In a few moments, the photographer came out of the office and without a word to Fiona left the house.

Waiting, Fiona felt powerless. Soon, they came out of the office and without a word Dolly went upstairs.

“Is she alright?” Fiona asked Brady.

“She's fine. She's coming with us,” Brady said. “We'll see that she's taken care of.”

“One tough lady, Fi,” Bolger said.

“She'll be in good hands. I guarantee it,” the editor said.

Dolly came downstairs with a rolling suitcase.

“I have to do this, Fi,” Dolly sighed.

“Can you handle it?” Fiona whispered.

“I'll have to, Fi,” she said, stifling a sob, but remaining clear-eyed.

“You'll have to identify….” Fiona began but could not continue.

“I know, Fi.”

“You could always stay with me, Dolly.”

Dolly nodded.

“I'll be fine. They think it's better for me this way. I think they're right.”

The two women embraced for a long moment.

“God, Dolly,” Fiona whispered. “I have no words.”

“I know, Fi. I know. Phil wanted this, and I've got to do it.”

The executive editor took the rolling suitcase, and they accompanied Dolly to a car and drove away. Just as they left Dolly's driveway, the media trucks began to arrive.

***

For a long time as they drove back to headquarters, Fiona was silent, trying to sort out the events of the past few hours. The impact on her personal life was profound. Throughout her career at homicide, she had drawn a circle around her personal life—then this. Her carefully drawn boundary had disintegrated.

“I'm not comfortable with any of this,” Izzy blurted suddenly.

“Who is?”

He shook his head and made a clicking sound as he drew in breath.

“I'm talking about Burns.”

“Burns?” Her thoughts had been concerned with Dolly and Phil.

“Do people change their behavior so abruptly?” Izzy asked. “Like there was a dividing line, before and after. Before, he was happy with his assistant. He begins to disappear from the office at odd hours. He assumes a disguise. Then he gets rid of his assistant, he suddenly alleges that he has a knee problem, and begins wearing a brace. But he has no knee problem. He suddenly takes subways, although he brings a car to work. He stops showing up for his regular turn at carpooling his daughter.”

Fiona didn't comment, but continued to dwell on her friend Dolly's dilemma and a growing discomfort concerning her relationship with Larry. Was her anger misplaced? After all, the
Post
did have confidentiality rules. It wasn't that exactly—something deeper perhaps, something that transcended the intimately personal. She dismissed that aspect, which brought her to the issue of spousal confidentiality, surely a thorn in the side of national security.

On the one hand, the government expected those involved in sensitive national security business to withhold from their spouses any confidential information concerning their work. On the other hand, when a troubling business event affected the sacrosanct relationship between a husband and wife, a serious lover or a deep friendship, where confession and absolute transparency was a necessary palliative, what was one to do? Was pillow talk verboten?

Although she was very young at the time, she could remember the story of the Pentagon Papers and the attempt by the Nixon people to raid the records of David Ellsworth, a psychiatrist, to break the knot of physician confidentiality on a political enemy. The
Washington Post
, being the true house organ of the Washington movers and shakers, blared the story with loudspeaker intensity. In the case of Phil and Dolly Owens, that territory was being revisited once again. Indeed, Fiona thought, there was a déjà vu quality to all of the
Post
's stories, including the one now being promulgated.

In Larry's case, he was protecting the confidentiality of his employer, which quite obviously trumped his relationship with Fiona. Nature of the beast, she thought, which included her own occupation and its security caveats. She sighed audibly.

“What is it, Fi?” Izzy asked.

“I feel so bad for Dolly Owens,” Fiona replied. There was no doubt in her mind that Dolly was determined to avenge her husband's death and in the process deliberately destroy the careers of a person or persons unknown, largely based on her husband's dying testimony—another Ping Pong game of accusation and denial, raw bloody meat for the media.

“Did you hear anything I said, Fi?” Izzy asked.

“I heard, but I'm afraid the Eggplant is correct. The Feds will have to step in big time.”

“I agree,” Izzy said. “Nevertheless, I have this itch about Burns' demise.”

“I'll say this for you, Izzy. You do stay on message.”

“Owens' suicide is open and shut, no doubts at all. Burns' act, I'm convinced, was an act with a personal component, something far removed from government influence or intrusion.

“Suicides are always personal.” Said Fiona pedagogically. Without a clear documented intent and incontrovertible evidence of self-infliction, like Phil Owens' calculated demise, it is difficult to connect the dots. Sometimes there is family history, some weird genetic fault that goes from grandparent to parent to child… or even further back. Hemingway is a good example—father, sister, himself.”

To herself, she sounded pretentious and scholarly. A paranoia virus invading the figurative bloodstream of all branches of the government was usurping the events surrounding the death of Adam Burns.

“I just don't think his death had anything to do with politics or the Administration, and that all this media hysteria is manufactured manure,” Izzy said, as if he was reading her mind.

It occurred to her that while she was involved with her private conflicts—the death of her friend, the agony of his spouse, another friend, and her own tenuous relationship with her present lover—her Talmudic partner continued to fixate on the case at hand.

“Okay, Izzy,” she said, focusing her attention. “Let's have it.”

“Here's what I register. Months ago, things changed in varying degrees for a small group of people: Charlotte, Jack Perkins, and presumably Mrs. Burns. When asked about her so-called intimate relationship with her husband, she reacted suspiciously. Do you buy that, Fi?”

“I suppose I could,” Fiona said, “but that's pure speculation. The alchemy of sex is too mysterious and complex to be understood, especially if the principals don't come forth as articulate witnesses. Who can say when or why a man can't step up to the plate, with or without Viagra? A woman has the luxury of fakery and products of the oil industry to buttress the illusion. You get my drift, Izzy?”