Washington Masquerade (23 page)

By the time they let this new theory sink in, analyzed and vetted it, the logical step was to revisit Mrs. Burns. Certainly, she had access to her daughter's soccer jacket, although it was not clear why she would wear it for such an occasion. Considering her daughter's size, it was sure to fit. They had been able to establish her exact whereabouts at the time of her husband's death. She was showing a house. But there was always the possibility that the time frame was dead wrong.

Motive and opportunity, those two old standbys of the homicide profession, both kicked in. Certainly she had a motive, her protestations notwithstanding. Betrayal and jealousy were strong motivators despite Mrs. Burns' ardent retailing of the administration-hit theory. They did consider the daughter as a possible perpetrator, but it was hard for them to put their arms around such a theory, especially Izzy, who had a teenager daughter. To both of them, it was an unthinkable premise but not to be easily dismissed.

Through her real estate office, they tracked down Mrs. Burns, who was showing a house in Spring Valley. They waited until she had completed the showing and bid the client good-bye.

“Not again,” Mrs. Burns said, after they had shown themselves as she was getting into her car.

“We need to talk,” Fiona said, her tone deliberately grave and authoritative. She studied Mrs. Burns' face, looking for those little tics that could display fear, anguish, deception, or anxiety. Aside from merely annoyance, little else was communicated through her facial expression.

“You always need to talk, Officer,” Mrs. Burns said with sarcasm, casting a glance at Izzy.

Fiona looked toward the house that was being shown.

“No one is home. They're on holiday,” Mrs. Burns said.

Fiona did not want to question her in a public place, certainly not at headquarters, which was teeming with reporters and television cameras, all apparently believing they were covering the story of the century. The thought made Fiona scoff. Oh, what fools these mortals be, she told herself, a perfect description of what was happening in the world media, always on the lookout for the most bizarre spectacle.

Grudgingly cooperative, Mrs. Burns led them into the house, a large Colonial-style affair, well-appointed, and obviously owned by people of wealth, apparently Mrs. Burns' specialty. The weather had been overly warm for spring, and the house was uncomfortably hot. Mrs. Burns made no move to open any of the windows or turn on the air-conditioning. They sat down around an upholstered conversational grouping in the living room.

“Okay, what the hell is so damned urgent?” Mrs. Burns said, obviously irritated and aggressive. Clearly, she was either sincerely feeling or acting the part that this intrusion was an imposition. With one exception, it had been her standard pose, but this time she was patently angry.

“We have reason to believe that your husband was murdered, Mrs. Burns.” The woman's face wrinkled in an “I told you so” grin.

“I've said that since day one.”

“The subway driver remembered,” Fiona said cautiously.

“What exactly did he remember?”

Fiona kept the woman's features in her gaze, intensely. Izzy did the same, as if they were both determined to look inside her mind.

“He believed that your husband was pushed off the subway platform by someone wearing yellow,” Fiona said. It was, she knew, still a dubious theory, but it was the only clue that had a shred of logic.

“How creative? The killer wore yellow. How fashionable and Springy.”

Fiona paused and continued to observe the woman closely. The scrutiny was meant to be intimidating. A thought resounded in Fiona's mind. If she's guilty, let's break the bitch.

“Do you own a yellow dress, suit, or jacket, Mrs. Burns?”

The woman wrinkled her nose as if she had encountered a terrible odor.

“Are you serious?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Okay. If you must know, I am not a fan of yellow. No, I do not own anything yellow.”

“But your daughter does, a yellow uniform.”

Mrs. Burns stiffened.

“Damn you!” she snarled. “My daughter again, I don't believe this.”

“The perpetrator,” Fiona said, deliberately exaggerating, “according to the testimony of the subway driver, was wearing a yellow piece of clothing.”

The woman closed her eyes in pain as if someone had run a hot poker through her body. She rose to her feet, obviously enraged.

“Are you seriously suggesting that my daughter murdered her own father? Have you people gone berserk? The thought of it makes me want to wretch, worse than that. How dare you? How absolutely disgusting, the very hint of it is nauseating. You people are pigs.”

Fiona felt the old Irish ire rise in her, a physical thing now, crawling up the very middle of her body.

“Did you know your husband was having an affair with the mother of one your daughter's teammates?”

Mrs. Burns staggered suddenly. Her chest heaved, her face flushed, her lips tensed, her eyes flashed with anger, all obvious signs of someone about to keel over. She didn't, but did reach for the chair and sat down heavily.

“Oh, Jesus! What kind of drivel are you serving now? How absolutely awful—what exactly are you trying to do? Discredit him? Are you really police people or shills for corrupt government bureaucrats or those sinister people in the White House?” Her voice rose. “How dare you make such an allegation? I will see to it that you are prosecuted for this. I swear to you I will get you both for this.”

She started to rise, then fell back. For a moment, she was silent, but there was no hiding her inner fuming. They let her settle.

“And who is the so-called lucky lady?” she said, her eyelids fluttering.

“Judge Carol McGrath.”

The woman swallowed hard, and her ashen complexion deepened.

“Have I entered a lunatic asylum?” Mrs. Burns asked, her voice rising. “Judge McGrath? Have you ever laid eyes on Judge McGrath? She is a middle-aged lady, her hair graying, plain as rain, hardly a lady who could fit the part. It's impossible to picture her doing such a thing, with my husband no less. You people are crazy. This is beyond belief.” She groaned and shook her head. “My husband was at least ten years her junior, a handsome man. Why would he even look at her in that way? Really? What are you saying? Judge McGrath? I couldn't buy such an accusation in a million years. Frankly, I think you people should be committed.”

Fiona knew now that she had to press on relentlessly. She was certainly not a drama queen, but her reaction would have won her an Academy Award. Either the woman would break or stonewall.

“She has confessed, Mrs. Burns. They were engaged in an affair for many months. Meeting for sex twice a week, hence his disguise and use of the subway. She apparently followed a similar pattern.”

She watched as the woman metamorphosed. She closed her eyes, and her fingers tightened around the arms of the upholstered chair.

“I can't believe this,” she mumbled. “No way.” She shook her head vigorously from side to side, like a baby rattle, and her hands trembled perceptibly.

Reluctantly, Fiona pressed on. This woman was not acting.

“Consider this, Mrs. Burns. She told us in her own words, knowing that the revelation and eventual exposure is certain to finish her career. Your assumption of mismatch won't fly. I am sorry to tell you that they were sexually obsessed with each other.” She watched as the woman silently struggled to absorb the information.

“I don't believe any of this,” she whispered, making an effort to keep the wall of disbelief from crumbling. “It's a trick. I get it. You're trying to trick me into….” She paused, then spit out the words and pointed at Fiona with a shaking finger. “I get it. All this is designed….” She could barely get the words out. “To suggest that I murdered Adam. I get it. You're part of it. Now I understand.”

Fiona exchanged glances with Izzy. At this stage the woman was fantasizing, disoriented, grasping at straws. It was cruel work that Fiona knew would get even more painful. By then, she had fully rejected the notion that Mrs. Burns had murdered her husband.

“We need to speak with Lisa, Mrs. Burns,” Fiona said gently. It was a grim suspicion, but it had to be dealt with. Patricide was a legitimate homicide motive and could not be ignored.

The woman erupted.

“Over my dead body!” she screamed.

Fiona waited for a long moment then spoke again in a tone she hoped would be conciliatory, although that was a long shot.

“Mrs. Burns, believe me, we can do this one way or another. There is no way you can prevent this. We have the full force of the criminal justice system at our disposal. At this stage, we are not accusing anyone. We have no choice.” Fiona looked at the woman; her compassion acute now, steeling herself for whatever revelation might be uncovered. “Either you will cooperate or we'll have to take the matter into our own hands.”

Fiona observed the first faint signs of surrender. She raised a trembling hand to her forehead, and a nerve in her cheek began to twitch.

“I want a lawyer present,” Mrs. Burns whispered.

“You can.”

With nervous fingers, she opened her pocketbook and removed her cell phone. She tried to dial but could not negotiate the buttons. Then she threw the cell phone back into her bag.

“What am I doing?” She raised her eyes to Fiona. “She'll be crushed. You can't believe… not possible… absolutely not possible. Teenagers are so fragile. Will you have to tell her everything?”

“Not at this point, Mrs. Burns.” She turned to Izzy, as if looking for help.

“Not at this point,” Izzy repeated. “I have a teenage daughter, Mrs. Burns. I understand. We'll be gentle. But there is no way we can ignore this.”

Mrs. Burns nodded and lowered her head. A few tears dropped onto her shaking hands.

Lisa Burns sat beside her mother on the couch of their living room. Her mother held her hand and was making a brave effort to portray the questioning by two police detectives as routine. Fiona thought she was doing a good job of it, and Lisa appeared calm and cooperative. Izzy's declaration that he had a teenager daughter had come at a perfect moment. It might be too much to hope for, but Fiona was optimistic that some bridge of understanding had been established between the detectives and Mrs. Burns.

Leaving Fiona to questioning the teenager, Izzy left the room. He was following Fiona's instructions to check with the school authorities to see if Lisa had been present during classes that day.

“I know this is a lot to ask, and I don't want to upset you,” Fiona said in preamble. “That morning when your father died, can you remember where you were?”

Lisa looked at her mother who nodded, a sign of permission.

“I was in school,” Lisa said, puzzled.

“I don't mean when you got the terrible news,” Fiona said gently. She calculated that it had been about three hours from the time they had left the crime scene and visited Mrs. Burns. “I mean before.”

Seeing this young girl, still gawky, her long bare limbs like two crane stalks, Fiona could not conceive of her pushing her father to his death. It seemed beyond her comprehension, although she had been fooled before. Her intuition and her insight she knew were not infallible.

“She means earlier that day, darling,” Mrs. Burns said.

Lisa frowned and narrowed her eyes in contemplation.

“I was in classes.”

“What classes?”

“Let's see…,” Lisa said, trying to remember, “…math, science, ecology.”

“Then you had lunch,” Fiona coaxed. Her objective was to pinpoint Lisa's whereabouts at the exact moment Burns fell in front of the train, but she was cloaking her real motive in an account of Lisa's full day.

At the same time, she was calculating that a subway ride to the Metro Station from the Tenley Circle station, a five-minute walk from the school, meant that she would have to have taken roughly about twenty minutes to get there and twenty minutes to return to the school. Unfortunately, her calculation raised too many logistical questions. How would she know the exact time that her father was to appear at the station? Had she cut classes that day during the time period in question?

“I had lunch, then I think I had an English class after lunch, then social studies, then we had to suit up for practice, which began around two.” Lisa looked at her mother, who nodded.

“Were you present at all those classes, Lisa?” Fiona asked. “Those in the morning as well?”

“Sure, I was present. Why are you asking?”

“Science and math are her best subjects,” Mrs. Burns said. “She is a straight
A
student.” She exchanged smiles with her daughter.

“I never cut classes,” Lisa said. “Some people really get away with it. I would never. That's one thing I would never do.” She looked at her mother. “Not like that little bitch, Deirdre.”

“Let's leave that alone, darling,” Mrs. Burns said gently.

“I mean really…,” Lisa said, shaking her head, “some people.”

“Then came practice?” Fiona asked, although the timing was not relevant.

“The coach is a stickler for practice,” Lisa said. “He is very strict. If you want to stay on the team, you had better show up.”

“Lisa would never miss soccer practice,” Mrs. Burns said.

“The coach wouldn't stand for it,” Lisa said. “Mr. Henry likes the senior girls on the team to be in the same classes. You know, a bonding thing. But I'll tell you, when you fall behind or something he gets really upset. No matter how good you are, he'll throw you off the team.”

“He's not exactly a tyrant,” Mrs. Burns said.

“A stickler, I said.”

“So on that terrible day, you did not leave the school premises?” Fiona reiterated. Lisa looked at her mother in confusion.

“Why would I do that? I never would do that.”

Fiona was beginning to doubt the credibility of Parson's account. Perhaps she and Izzy had, in their effort to prove the inaccuracy of the prevailing view, jumped to a false conclusion. She was certain that Izzy would have the relevant answer when he returned.

Her eyes met Mrs. Burns, and while Fiona could still observe the residual shock of her earlier revelations, there was some evidence that she was relieved that her daughter's interrogation had not mentioned her husband's adulterous affair.

Izzy, who had been gone for longer than expected, returned to the room and beckoned Fiona to step outside. Fiona excused herself and followed Izzy to where they were out of earshot of Mrs. Burns and her daughter.

“She did not cut her morning classes, Fi. They call the roll, and she is marked present.”

Fiona contemplated his findings and shook her head. Oddly, she felt relieved.

“Could be the subway engineer was hysterical, and we got it wrong,” Izzy said. “Maybe we moved too fast.”

“Back to the drawing board. That kid is not the perp. Neither is her mother. I'd bet my life on that one.”

They came back into the room. Mother and daughter were talking quietly together, a tableau of family affection and solidarity. Fiona felt terrible. She had had to inform the mother that her husband had been unfaithful and worse, had rushed to judgment. She hated the harm she had inflicted on Mrs. Burns, falling back on the time-honored cliché about the unfairness of life.

“I hope you're satisfied,” Mrs. Burns said when Lisa had left the room.

“We are, Mrs. Burns. I wish we didn't have to do this.”

“You wish. This has been the second-worst day of my life.”

Having put on a brave front for her daughter, Mrs. Burns sighed with frustration, and her fingers shook as she brushed back an errant hair.

“You can be sure the FBI will pay you a visit,” Fiona said. “They do not know what we've told you about your husband's…,” she hesitated, “activity prior to his death. It would be better if you told them nothing… at least for the moment. Sooner or later, they will find out.”

The woman nodded in sarcastic indignation and ignored their good-byes as they left the house and began to drive toward headquarters. Izzy was at the wheel. They turned on the radio. The saga continued. Despite the firing of the Secretary of the Treasury, the assistant press secretary, and the Senator's administrative assistant, the opposing party stalwarts on the Hill were shouting cover-up. Charges were coming from all sources, and the President seemed trapped in a media vise from which he could not dislodge himself.

Fiona felt little satisfaction in knowing the bald truth of Adam Burns' mysterious meanderings prior to his death. Although it might put the lie to any suggestion that Burns was actively pursuing some conspiratorial plot against the President, it would still leave the matter of Burns being eliminated for his views open to continued speculation with the resultant media hype. And it will have destroyed the aspirations of one woman and the illusions of another. The truth was that she empathized with both women.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the backrest. She felt enervated and generally depressed. She wanted to go home, take a hot bath, as if that would wash away the scum of her day's work, then overdose on alcohol, and disappear from planet Earth. Before she could ask Izzy to drive her home, he pulled up at a strip shopping center, parked the car, and turned to her.

“I'm not convinced,” Izzy said.

“You think the girl was lying?” Fiona murmured, only half listening. “Really, Izzy, no way.”

“Something bothers me, but I can't put my finger on it. We're missing something, Fi.”

“That girl was telling the truth, Izzy.”

“Maybe so, but still.” He bit his lip and rubbed his chin. “Parsons saw something.”

“He saw yellow, only yellow.”

The effort at enhancing a hazy-eyed witness account into the testimony of certainty was always a challenge. She knew she had reached the point of mental exhaustion.

“Well,” Izzy said, “we did stumble onto one possible piece of the puzzle.”

“Doesn't fit, Izzy. Merely supposition. But we did discover something going on around the edges. We've torpedoed that lady's career. Maybe it's a sister thing, but I feel for her. A late passionate affair with a younger man—I know women who would kill for the experience.” She snickered. “Poor choice of words, Izzy.”

“Look at it from his point of view. Why her?”

“Figure that out, Izzy, and you've solved one of the great mysteries of mankind. Desire. Lust. Love. Christ, Izzy. I think I've had it for the day. Take me home. I can't think straight at the moment. I feel like shit.”

Izzy quickly moved the car out of the mall, and in less than ten minutes, he deposited her in front of her house.

“I'll pick you up tomorrow for the meeting with the two mystery men,” he muttered as he drove away.