Washington Masquerade (8 page)

“They had to be angry enough to react. I reread some of his stuff online—real nasty, every accusation in the book. No question, it was inflammatory. Words have consequences.”

“I read them, too,” Izzy said. “He was over the top.”

“But did it get him killed?”

“Lots of people seem to think so.”

“Maybe we should call for a vote,” Fiona snapped, quickly regretting her sudden burst of anger.

Jack Perkins was the administrative assistant to Senator Clark Bauman, a Democrat from New Jersey. He met Fiona and Izzy in his office in the Senate Office Building. Perkins' office was small, spare, and his desk piled high with papers. Perkins was thin and wiry, and from the way he moved, Fiona observed, agile and athletic.

His look was somber, and because of an unruly shock of long blonde hair, he had developed a kind of head movement meant to keep it from falling over his eyes. Apparently, he was not given to any interest in ingratiation and did not smile. Fiona felt that their presence was an intrusion. He had briefly observed her card.

“Fitzgerald, is it? You're the daughter of the late Senator. I remember him. Heard you were with the cops. Struck me as weird.”

Fiona ignored the reference. She wasn't here to be analyzed, and she hadn't run into Perkins on the social roundelay, which was not uncommon, since assistants worked day and night for their bosses. Many of them were manipulators who worked the strings for their politicos. Senator Bauman was old, a retread who had retired once and been dredged up to keep the party's seat. There was no doubt that Perkins ran Bauman's show, despite his title and his shabby office.

“Adam was a buddy, and we played squash a couple of times a week. He was a fierce competitor, but we usually split wins. Upfront I have to tell you, he could not have killed himself, not Adam, last man on earth for that. Tell you the truth I'm devastated. Feel sorry for his wife and kids, a fierce foursome—all for one, one for all. I'm divorced. I envied them.”

Through this conversational introduction, Perkins remained stoic. Fiona decided, in tone and attitude, he was hostile.

“Did he show any outward signs of depression, any change in demeanor in the last, say, ten months?”

“Shit! Get off that suicide kick. He was killed, dispatched, eliminated. If you're still following that stupid suicide line, you're looking the wrong way. I'm so fucking mad… Adam? A suicide? And there's a heat wave in the Arctic Circle. As for an accident, Adam was nimble and coordinated. Scratch that. You people just don't get it. He was whacked, as they're saying in some quarters. And it's about time you looked hard in that direction.”

Fiona, used to such diatribes, nodded and waited patiently through his little speech, knowing that more was sure to follow. Izzy sat beside her, watching the man with laser concentration. She was just beginning to note the intensity of her partner, as if he was trying to see into the brain of the subject being questioned.

“Are you saying you noticed nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Of course not. I would know. I saw him twice a week for the last four years—and for years before that. We went to high school together in Paramus, New Jersey, and kept in touch when we went off to different colleges. He was Harvard, and I was Amherst. I even dated his wife before he did. He was always one lucky son of a bitch.” His throat caught, and he looked away, fighting for control. “Until it ran out.”

“And you saw nothing that would make you question…?”

“Jesus! He was murdered. You need a brick to fall on your head? I can't believe you're that thick-headed.”

“No change in pattern or behavior?”

“Hell, no. He was still a formidable opponent on the squash court, even with his knee trouble.”

“Knee trouble?” Fiona asked.

“Arthritic knee, he called it. Kept him out of action from time to time.”

Fiona made a mental note to check with the medical examiner about the autopsy results.

“But he continued to play, although less frequently?” Fiona asked.

“He was very competitive. We were like two kids. Our objective was to devastate the other on the squash court. Believe me, the knee didn't make a difference. On the court, the times he didn't postpone the game, he was a tiger. Does that sound like someone who wanted to kill himself? Besides, he was a devoted family man.”

They listened patiently to the familiar litany. After a while Perkins' mood, despite his hostility, morphed into nostalgia.

“Odd how we both wound up in Washington. We were political junkies, although we took different occupational paths. Adam gave the bastards hell. He pissed all over them. You had to hand it to him. I warned him. I told him he was pushing the envelope too fucking far. Politicians are hardball players.” He stared at Fiona. “It's a blood sport now. No gentlemen players, like it was in your dad's day. Now they stick the knife in and turn it a few revolutions to increase the pain.”

“You must have read about the phony moustache and the glasses?” Fiona asked.

“I sure did.” He shifted his glance from Fiona to the Izzy. “You think it's strange, right?”

“We do.”

“Not me. I figured he was onto something. He didn't want to be recognized. Adam was always into dramatics like that. You know why they got him? Not for what he had written, but for what he was going to write—something really big. Adam was one of these guys who once he got his teeth into something never let go. To me, this disguise business was not strange at all.”

“Had you any knowledge of him doing such things before? In all the years you knew him?”

“As a kid, he was into magic—played magician, knew lots of card tricks.” He laughed suddenly. “Had one of these fart makers he bought at a magic store. It was hilarious. He was—don't you see?—a man with a great sense of humor. A hell of a friend.” He cleared his throat. “I'll miss the hell out of him.”

“Do you still have the regular squash game?” Izzy asked suddenly.

Fiona had still not reconciled Izzy's penchant for oblique questions, the kind she had observed in their interrogation of Miss Desmond.

“Sure. I would never give that up. Harry Latham. Works at State. Hell of a player. He was always the designated substitute when Adam wasn't available.”

“Because of his knee?” Izzy prodded.

“Sometimes he said it hurt so much, he could barely take a step without screaming bloody murder.” Perkins shrugged. “Stupid description, considering the circumstances.”

“When was the last time you played together?” Izzy asked.

Perkins looked askance, showing that the question was irrelevant.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

“On the prowl for that change-of-attitude answer?” He looked at Fiona. “Why don't you people get off that wagonload of shit? It's all the same question asked in different ways. I used to be a defense attorney. I know the turf. An injury of the knee is a physical downer for the game of squash. If you count that as a change in attitude, you're off the charts. There's a big difference between physical and psychological.”

“Who can argue with that, Mr. Perkins?” Izzy asked politely. “I understand. My game is tennis. An injury of the knee is a bitch. When did it hit him?”

“I don't know. Maybe nine months, give or take. His games were sporadic after that. He was thinking of arthroscopic surgery. Said his knee was bone on bone.”

“A bitch,” Izzy said, becoming silent again. “Which knee?”

Perkins blew air between his teeth in frustration.

“Left, I think. Yeah, left. He wore a knee brace on his left.”

Fiona picked up as Izzy retreated.

“So there was nothing you can point to about any changes in Mr. Burns? Except the knee.”

“What is the point?” Perkins sighed. “Do you think we're all a bunch of naïve morons? We're going to call for an investigation of Burns' death. We just can't let this one fall through the cracks. There is something obviously fishy here. Might make Watergate seem like a walk in the park. We're talking murder here, silencing a voice of protest. I don't know how they did it. But they must have been pretty clever if they have you guys going around to make it look like suicide. Time to deep six that turkey.”

He was growing increasingly irritating, and Fiona was having a tough time holding her temper.

“Look, Mr. Perkins. We're homicide detectives. Our job is to investigate every death of this nature that happens in the nation's capital. Note that our cards say we're with the Homicide Squad. Murder, suicide, accident—that's our mission. We will get to the bottom of this one way or another.”

“There is no bottom,” Perkins said.

Fiona stood up. Izzy followed. They left Perkins' office without shaking hands.

“You think it escaped me, don't you, Izzy?” Fiona asked as they headed back to headquarters.

“Not for a minute.”

“For the moment, it did escape me,” Fiona admitted. “Charlotte Desmond transferred, a bona fide change. This knee business, another change.”

“Consider the time frame.”

“You are one hell of a black Jew, Izzy,” Fiona said, laughing.

In a gesture of camaraderie, she slapped Izzy on his upper arm. He smiled, showing his incredibly white teeth. At that moment, her phone vibrated.

“The suits are here,” Hodges said. “Sherry's. Better come.”

The suits were two men who showed Homeland Security credentials, but Fiona suspected they were really CIA operatives. It was only a suspicion, but it did suggest some of the paranoid tendencies she had discovered in her earlier interviews, paramount of which was not trusting the government as it currently did its business. She did not have to ask, why Sherry's? Sherry's was, they felt certain, swept regularly and kept clean from electronic surveillance. It was, after all, a cop's hangout, and who knew more about wires and surveillance than cops?

When they arrived, the Chief was sitting at the large booth that could hold six. They were five. Three coffees in white mugs were sitting on the table before the three men.

“This is Wallinski,” Hodges said, “and that is Kinney. They're from Homeland Security. They know why we're meeting here.”

Fiona and Izzy shook hands with the two men and slid into their places along the Naugahyde-covered seats. Sherry was quick to bring them hot mugs of coffee.

“Why Homeland?” Fiona asked. “Why not FBI?”

Fiona could see that he had deliberately eliminated the CIA. And why did they consent to meet where their conversation could not be overheard?

“Call us ‘liaison,'” Wallinski said.

He was a redhead with a moon face and a manner that could be characterized as deliberately ingratiating. From his name, Fiona deduced Polish descent. He was in his mid-thirties and had ice blue eyes that gave him a colder look than his manner implied. The other was a white-bread FBI type, complete with dark suit, crew cut, and a clipped way of talking, which Fiona attributed to his Quantico education.

“I asked,” Hodges said.

“Upstairs, they think Burns' death is relevant,” Kinney said.

“Relevant to what?” the Chief asked.

“To national security. What else?” the redhead responded pleasantly.

“How so?” Fiona asked, pretending to be naïve.

“A prominent critic of the President dies. He is wearing a disguise. Surely you can see the implications and why it should interest Homeland.”

“Are you saying you think he could have been involved with a terrorist group?” the Chief asked, his startled glance studying both men in tandem. “Meaning that his critical view of the President and the Administration might have been deliberately organized as a psychological terrorist attack. Is that the reasoning of the agency?”

“Whatever happened to free speech, the First Amendment?” Fiona said.

“You're jumping to conclusions,” the redhead said.

“It must be the prevailing view of your people,” Hodges said. “Otherwise, why stick your nose under our tent?”

The idea of intrusion by the Feds, or for that matter the local politicos, was the bane of the Chief's existence. Nothing but nothing could get his back up more than interference by so-called higher authority. Sometimes, as was probably the case now, he would pretend surrender, but in his gut this was the big no-no. Inside, Fiona knew he was seething and was calling on all his acting skills to present a congenial façade.

He was also a realist and knew how to play the bureaucratic game. At this stage, he probably felt he had no other option but to appear conciliatory and to cooperate. From his perspective, the men from Homeland knew his attitude and were trying to placate and ingratiate. What it told Fiona was that this case was becoming a far bigger deal by the minute.

“No need to be upset,” Kinney said. “We're here to help, not hinder.”

“This is ridiculous,” Fiona said, thinking that maybe the people at the
Post
were correct in their assumptions. She knew she had no right to question the position they were in, but she couldn't contain herself. The Chief cut her a look of rebuke.

“We understand,” the redhead said with diplomatic smoothness. Apparently these men had been handpicked. “It does sound strange. We are not the speech police. Get that out of your head. But think about this: Why was one of the most prominent critics of the President walking around in disguise? Where was he going? Who was he meeting? Did he have a relationship with someone within the government, someone who wanted to do us harm, someone who was feeding him inside information?”

“About what?” Fiona asked.

“Sounds like you're looking for a media mole inside the bureaucracy,” Hodges said, almost as a toss-away line.

He was smart enough not to get the government men riled, holding himself back. Fiona agreed with the approach, but wasn't sure it was exactly applicable. In her view, the men were scouting the terrain for any embarrassing fissures within the government that could hurt the Administration. People might disagree with the President's position, revile him, boil him in media oil, curse him, smother him with an onslaught of ugly accusations, but despite the conspiratorial theorists, no sane politician would take the risk of assassinating a critic. In her view, the Administration was counterpunching the growing idea spreading like molasses on a hot pan that the Burns murder was a government hit.

“Look, folks,” Kinney said with ingratiating patience. “This is low key, no big deal. We are not Big Brother. We're Americans just like you, and our agency is charged with the security of the nation. We're not just jingoistic chauvinist pigs, and we don't want to tell you how to run your shop. The man Adam Burns and the way he died are of profound interest.” He used his eyes to indicate “upstairs.”

“Because of his writings?” the Chief probed.

“No,” Wallinski said, using a hand gesture that was appropriate to the negative. “Absolutely not. We've checked this man out. There is nothing remotely in his background to suggest that he is an enemy of the United States in any manner or form. But, we believe the strange circumstances of his death deserve a deeper look. That is the opinion of the agency.”

“And you're the deeper-look guys,” Fiona said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Kinney said. “All we ask is that you keep us in the loop.”

“And we can be of help,” Wallinski said. “We do have resources. Above all, we don't want this to look like we're part of some great fascist conspiracy to root out critics. And we are very aware of the First Amendment. Please don't put us in that category. We know how you might think of us. Beady-eyed government suits bent on breaking the heads of nonbelievers. Isn't that the way Hollywood usually portrays government gumshoes? No comment needed. We understand. This is not a turf war, and we don't in any way want to infringe on your prerogatives. We've done our homework and wouldn't presume to interfere with your expertise.”

“Checked us out, have you?”

“Yes, we have,” Kinney said.

“Be careful,” the Chief said, his manner softening. “We are wary of compliments.”

Fiona was swiftly revising her opinion. Both men were articulate and obviously intelligent, warning signs that they were not ordinary agency robots but higher up than first thought. For this job they had sent their best, specialists. Fiona surmised that they had been more oblique in describing their mission. They were charged with plumbing depths, inside and outside the government, seeking the truth of the Adam Burns mystery. Chief Hodges looked toward Fiona and nodded, a signal for Fiona to lay out what they had come up with so far, which wasn't really much. She summarized where they were in the investigation.

“Smart lady,” Finney said with a glance toward Hodges, who winked in response. “We're on nobody's side. We're authorized to dig, and if possible, come up with the real facts, let the chips fall where they may. We're working independent of all the initials.”

“And you want us to join your network?” Fiona asked.

“You got it. We're two. You're three. That's it for now.”

“That said,” the redhead pressed, “where are we in this?”

Chief Hodges exchanged glances with his two subordinates. She could tell he was not quite buying it, but he was at the very least willing to play the game.

“You're good. Very good,” he said, acknowledging his own surprise at their diplomatic skills. Not that he trusted them. It had taken Fiona years to interpret his shorthand.

“We're also wary of compliments, Chief,” Kinney said.

Fiona felt the air clearing of animosity and tension.

“Do we have to say it?” the redhead asked.

“No. Loose lips sink ships,” Fiona said. “My dad was in World War II. A submariner.”

“And a terrific Senator,” Finney said.

“You must have a full book on us.” She looked at Izzy. “Him, too?”

“Shalom,” the redhead said.

Izzy laughed.

“
Shalom aleichem
,” he replied.

Fiona responded to their questions as best she could, complete with the universal prevailing opinion of everyone they had interviewed.

“The central question is still the central question,” Fiona said. “Why the disguise? Except for that… no,” she corrected herself, “it would have raised questions no matter what. The disguise issue just put the frosting on the cake.”

“So we have an understanding?” Wallinski asked.

Although the men seemed ranked as equals, Wallinski appeared to be the more senior of the two in responsibility.

“No secrets,” Kinney said. “You get something, tell us. We get something, we tell you. Are we on the same page?”

“Are we being surveilled?” the Chief asked, deliberately avoiding an answer. In the end, he would decide what secrets to tell.

“Not by us. We're working this alone,” Wallinski said, winking. “Except for you guys.” He grew silent for a moment, looked around him as if checking to see if there were others present. “Think of us as wheels within wheels,” he muttered.

“The fearless five,” Fiona chuckled. “The truth seekers.”

“All we ask is your trust,” the redhead said.

“Have we got a choice?” Fiona asked.

“Yes, you have,” Kinney said. “You could drag your feet, keep us in the dark, work around us.”

“Or try,” Wallinski said smiling, sugar coating the rebuke.

Fiona grew thoughtful during a long silence as everyone exchanged glances. The message was clear. These men worked their own side of the street, outside regular channels, spawned by a paranoid bureaucracy. She was certain now that Homeland was their cover story and that their brief came directly from the bowels of the White House. They were the internal chameleons, independent, all-seeing. In this case, their little cop quintet was a temporary measure, like invisible ink.

“We'll behave,” Hodges said.

Fiona could see he had taken the measure of these two men, understood the truth of the interaction, and had warily accepted the arrangement. Usually far more cautious in making fast judgments, Fiona was surprised. The men slid out of the booth, stood up, and they shook hands all around.

“They're the bird dogs,” the Chief said when they left.

“Bird dogs are the servants of hunters?” Fiona added.

“But only after the prey is dead,” Izzy said.

The Chief smiled, nodded, and winked.

“What was it Reagan said? ‘Trust, but verify.' They'll have to earn their bones.”

Fiona and Izzy exchanged glances and nodded.