Washington Masquerade (17 page)

“Put another way: his wife no longer turned him on.”

“And she was missing the action.”

“And he was seeking a solution elsewhere.”

So much of this speculation depended on gender perspective, Fiona thought. Some women needed sex as regularly as they needed their morning caffeine fix. She counted herself as someone who might easily fit into that category. Men often didn't have a clue about such female needs. Their motives were often different, pure orgasmic pleasure, manhood validation, the self-aggrandizing glory of exhibiting their hard-ons, a delight to some, a turn-off to others. In this case, about all they could deduce from Mrs. Burns' attitude was a pattern change.

“Okay, then,” Fiona said, “let's say because of this mysterious need three people were primarily impacted.”

“Four, perhaps more, certainly Lisa, their daughter. Dad was distracted elsewhere. She was not happy about that.”

“Okay then, four people impacted. So what are you suggesting?”

“Only that Burns' meanderings might not have had anything at all to do with politics, government, his columns, whatever, and all this huffing and puffing is pure fantasy.”

Fiona pondered the idea.

“That, Izzy, is not our focus. That is their focus—them, the info hustlers, the political opportunists, the big-time power guys. All we have to do is answer the central question—suicide or murder? We're homicide cops, remember? We don't have to prove why the man committed suicide, only that there is no evidence to conclude otherwise. As for murder, motive and opportunity might be present, but the perp is seriously missing.”

“But wouldn't it be nice to rub their arrogant noses in their own ignorance and posturing?” He smiled and nodded. “Don't you just love the idea of making them eat their words, humiliating the pompous narcissists who think everything in this town revolves around politics?” Fiona smiled. “And those media guys who think the sun rises and sets daily when they inflict their immortal words of alleged wisdom on the unsuspecting and gullible public.”

“You amaze me, Izzy. You are one aggressive cat.”

“You forget I'm a black Jew. We take it from all sides and have learned how to fight back.”

“How can one forget the obvious?” Not every tree bears the same fruit, she thought suddenly. “But I do agree with your take on the media, Izzy—self-righteous hypocrites.”

“And they're especially happy when they're shoving it to somebody, anybody.”

She imagined she could hear Larry's voice in rebuttal.

“That's their business, finding someone to fuck over.”

Izzy looked at her obliquely as if surprised at her sudden vehemence.

The
Post
's coverage, as expected, was voluminous. The in-your-face headlines telescoped the story: “Treasury Secretary, Two Others Accused of Fraud in Creating Nonexistent Presidential Assassination Attempt. Assistant Secretary Kills Self, Implicates the Three in Death Note.” There were pictures of Phil, the Treasury Secretary, and Dolly, as well as the President, shown holding an impromptu press conference in the Rose Garden, where he expressed shock at the conspiracy in his name and offered condolences to the Burns family.

In addition to the Treasury Secretary, the other two coconspirators mentioned were an administrative assistant to a senator from Texas running for reelection, and an assistant to the White House Press Secretary. All denied the accusation. Despite the denial, the President had immediately asked for the resignation of the Treasury Secretary and had fired the Assistant Press Secretary. The Texas senator had fired his assistant. It was a genuine fourteen-carat Washington Donnybrook. The media went wild with speculation and harvested, as predicted by Larry, a cornucopia of eyeballs.

While Phil's death was validated as a suicide, Burns' death was still considered an open question and had attracted both the FBI and CIA. As predicted, the role of MPD was considerably diminished. Most of the morning was spent in briefing sessions, with Chief Hodges and Fiona bringing the agencies up to snuff on what the investigation had discovered so far.

Both Wallinski and Kinney continued to operate in their own clandestine manner outside of openly official scrutiny as a kind of outside/inside contracting firm reporting to their own bosses. They had defined their role from the very beginning of their relationship. “Think of us as wheels within wheels.”

By deliberate design and with the Chief's and the two internal sleuths' approval, Izzy and Fiona offered the Feds a thorough briefing as far as it went, leaving out any theories that disagreed with the prevailing view. Privately, she and Izzy outlined to the Chief the personal theory they were following at Izzy's insistence.

“By all accounts you told me he was a family man,” Hodges had countered.

“Doesn't mean he couldn't be a double dipper,” Fiona told him.

“Unrequited love,” Izzy said.

“A favorite of the suicide set, Chief,” Fiona said.

“Be a gas if you pinned that on the guy,” the Chief said, practically exulting at the possibilities of the idea. “Make the great media gurus and the bureaucratic hotshots look like horses' asses.”

“Fondly to be wished,” Fiona said. The idea was making headway in her mind now.

“Then get on it,” the Chief said gruffly.

“Got any ideas for starters?” she asked Izzy. “You're the one with the itch.”

“We've talked to all the principals but one.”

“Who?”

“The daughter.”

***

Fiona spent the night alone twisting and turning, unable to sleep. She had not yet cut the cord with Larry, still debating options but knowing where she was headed. Timing is everything, she told herself.

“Not tonight, Larry.”

“I understand, Fi.” She waited through a long pause. “Dolly gave us the big one, Fi. The missing pieces.”

“You'll sell lots of papers. Wonderful,” she said without enthusiasm, hanging up.

She called Dolly at The Hay-Adams where the
Post
had put her up. The editor had requested police protection for her security, and the department had immediately complied. Distrust was now the occupational disease of government.

“I did it for Phil,” she said. “He laid it out. It was all there in my computer.”

“Of course you did. It took courage, Dolly.”

“I didn't feel courageous, Fi. Especially seeing Phil's… you know.” She cleared her throat and paused, obviously trying to get control of herself. “The
Post
people have been very gracious.”

“I'm glad,” Fiona said. She had no stomach to rebut the compliment, considering that Dolly had given them a giant-sized bite of the media pie and, above all else, a circulation boost.

“We'll talk when I get home in a few days, Fi. I'm pretty secure here.” She lowered her voice.

“Have you made funeral arrangements?” Fiona asked.

“I'm having Phil cremated. I plan to scatter his ashes all over Washington. Maybe spread a little integrity over the Capitol.”

“Great idea, Dolly,” Fiona said. “Might help, although I doubt it.”

***

Not wanting to alert Mrs. Burns that they were to interview her daughter, Fiona went into the girls' locker room while Izzy waited outside. Fiona recognized Lisa Burns, who was suiting up at the other end of the room. She noted, too, that her nemesis, the McGrath girl, was already suited up in her yellow uniform and was arranging her hair in a tight ponytail.

She left the locker room, and they found the coach in his small adjacent office. He was stocky and muscled and spoke with a British accent.

“Have you notified Mrs. Burns about this interview?” the coach asked. “This has been a terrible time for them. All this publicity….”

“This is just routine.” Fiona assured him. She wanted to talk to the girl before her mother arrived. “You know what I mean—different point of view, different perceptions. We won't be long. We understand how such a trauma could devastate a child. I assure you there will be no problem.

“I don't like it,” the coach said. He looked at his watch. “We're scheduled on the field in twenty minutes. We're playing one of the other schools. I would hate to have her upset. She'll need all her concentration.”

“We'll hardly be that long,” Fiona assured him.

She watched as the coach went over to Lisa, who looked at Fiona, frowned, and then shrugged. She was suited up in her uniform, which looked lovely on her tall spare frame. Fiona noted that she was quite beautiful, with large blue eyes that showed bright and clear above high cheekbones. Her blonde hair was cut short, and when she walked she showed an athlete's grace.

With an expression of unmistakable reluctance, she moved toward Fiona, who beckoned her to follow her into the corridor outside the locker room where Izzy was waiting. They found a small, unused room nearby with folding chairs, which Izzy quickly opened. Fiona smiled and introduced her partner. Lisa looked at them more with resignation than hostility.

“I'm Sergeant Fitzgerald and this is Sergeant Silverman,” Fiona said, calmly smiling to offer reassurance.

“I remember,” Lisa said nodding.

“Don't be frightened,” Fiona said. “We just have to ask you a few questions, nothing to be alarmed about.”

The girl's response was an indifferent shrug.

“I know you must miss your dad very much. I understand he was a great fan, carpooled you to practice and watched every game.”

She nodded slowly but remained silent.

“Didn't he sometimes have to rearrange his carpooling?”

The girl looked up suddenly, frowning.

“My dad was a very busy man. He was very famous.”

“But sometimes he was too busy and had to make other carpooling arrangements?”

“Other parents did also,” she snapped.

Fiona could see this was indeed a sore subject.

“Did they?”

“Yes, they did… like McGrath's mother.”

“Who?”

“Deirdre McGrath's mother, the lady judge.”

The girl's face flushed, and Fiona and Izzy exchanged confused glances.

“Deirdre McGrath,” Fiona said. “Is that the girl your mother said used to be your best friend?”

“Used to,” the girl said with rising anger.

“But you still play together.”

“That's soccer. Okay, she plays well but I hate her, and she hates me.”

Fiona sensed something deeper than expected and wondered if she shouldn't go there. It seemed to have little relevance to the investigation. They were here to put a time frame in context and see if the daughter had seen any changes in her father. The girl's response seemed well off the mark. Suddenly Izzy intervened.

“What happened between you two?”

“Don't ask me. I never did understand it. Suddenly she turned on me, called me names, started fights, said terrible things about me and my family.”

“Your family?” Izzy asked.

“She said my father was a sleazebag.”

“A what?”

“A sleazebag—not a nice thing.”

“And your mother? What did she say about your mother?”

“Called my mother a retard and said that I was a freak of nature, stuff like that. I hate her. You think it's easy being on the same team with her? She's always looking for ways to hurt me. Well, I hate her. Thinks she's hot because her mother is a judge.” Her voice rose. “My dad was a lot more important than her mother. She too wasn't always there carpooling. Sometimes when my dad couldn't make it, she didn't show up either.”

“But you were once best friends,” Fiona said.

“When did this animosity start?” Izzy asked.

“Why are you asking this?”

“Look, Lisa, I mean no harm,” Fiona said. “Sometimes what seems irrelevant could offer some insight.”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Lisa said, then shrugged. “I don't know. It just happened.” She sighed petulantly. “Months ago maybe. She's just a rotten bitch.” Her face flushed and she turned away. “I've got a game to play. Can't you leave me alone? It's hard enough for us to go through this….” She grew abruptly silent.

Fiona looked at her watch, conscious of the time limitations. It was a timeline that was at issue here.

“Lisa, can you remember when your dad began having trouble meeting his carpooling schedule?”

“Jesus, my dad was a very important columnist,” Lisa said, obviously trying to control her anger. “When he couldn't make it, everybody understood and someone took his place. Miss Desmond usually called around and found someone. When she couldn't, sometimes Mom took over. It was harder with her schedule. I mean, what is so damned important about that?” She looked toward the exit door. “I really have to go. The coach will be angry.”

“I was only asking when his busy schedule started to interfere with his carpooling.”

“Dad was always reliable.”

“I'm sure he was,” Fiona said. “And he surely had good reason when he couldn't make it. He must have been involved in something very, very important. Did it start last season?”

“Did what start?”

“You know what I mean,” Fiona said. “I guess he got busy.”

She thought for a moment, but seemed to dismiss the recollection.

“Toward the end of last season?” Izzy pressed.

She seemed to be losing patience further, her expression wary.

“Why are you asking me this?”

At that moment, the coach poked his head in the door.

“You've had your twenty minutes,” he said, annoyed.

Fiona and Izzy stood up.

“We hadn't realized,” Fiona said apologetically. She looked toward Lisa. “Thank you so much, Lisa. Now go out and win the game.”

“We will,” Lisa said, rushing out the door to join her teammates.

The coach began to follow.

“Coach,” Fiona called. The coach stopped and turned.

“There seems to be a feud going on between Lisa and the McGrath girl.”

The coach seemed troubled by the question.

“Teenage girls are very sensitive and thin-skinned,” he answered dismissively.

“But they were once best friends,” Fiona countered.

“Happens all the time,” the coach said.

“Was there an issue that brought it on?”

“No issue is ever needed, Officer. I've learned never to expect logic in these incidents. My strategy is to accept it and work around it. In a few months, it will change, and they'll be best friends again.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Really, I must go. This is an important game.”

He started to move toward the door.

“When did it start? This antagonism between the girls.”

“I can't believe it. You are really persistent, and frankly I don't know how some teenage bickering could have any relevance to any investigation you may be pursuing.”

“Probably, no relevance,” Fiona said. “But sometimes, it's the little wayward details that make the difference, connecting the tiny dots.”

“I can't imagine what dots you might find here,” the coach said with contempt, hurrying away to join the team.

They came out of the locker room and stood for a while watching the girls play, their yellow uniforms and those of their opponents, which were cobalt blue, resplendent in the sun. The girls ran across the field like gazelles, reminding Fiona of her days as a high school athlete. Her sport was field hockey, and she had been team captain. While she tried to keep her emotions in check, she vividly remembered seeing her own dad in the stands and the waves of joy she had experienced when he stood up to acknowledge her with arms high when she made a goal. For a moment her eyes moistened, and she swallowed hard to keep the tears from spilling over.