Thankfully, there was no follow-up from the police. He had
sensed an eagerness in the woman detective that nagged at him, but his reason
dismissed it. If they had something, they would certainly act. There was also
not a word in the papers. It was over. He was sure it was over. He would be
patient.
Arthur called two days after the meeting in the train
station. In the crackle of the pay phone, his voice seemed calm.
"Done," he said.
"Sally as well?"
"Yes."
"I told you."
For the first time in days, he felt his tension ease. They
were, after all, reasonable, practical men, bending to conditions that were
beyond their control. Like him. He hadn't asked for much. He'd take twenty
thousand only, put the rest in trust for Trey and leave the country. Go as far
as he could go away from everything. Away from powerful people. From his past.
From Dorothy's memory.
"Tonight. Same place," Arthur said. "The
cemetery station."
Arthur had every right to be paranoid. One never knows who
was listening or watching. Despite the new laws, the Nixon days had not yet
faded from memory. Besides, people in power were naturally paranoid.
Jason packed two suitcases, eliminating any extraneous
possessions. He'd continue to pay the rent on his apartment. Someday he'd come
back, when the pain was gone and he had written whatever book he had to write.
He checked his passport and reserved space on SwissAir to Geneva the next
evening. Then he went to his bank and made arrangements for a trust account for
Trey.
"I'll be putting in a hundred thousand in cash,"
he told one of the bank's officers.
"No problem," the man said. Cash was cash. No
questions asked. Trey's education would be set. He would write to Jane about
it.
From the vault, he removed the tape cassettes from the
strongboxes and carried them home in a plastic bag. It felt odd, incongruous.
In the bag, usually used for trash, he held the public lives of six men. Now
that was power, he thought. Real power. Back in his apartment, he separated the
cassettes into categories that referred to each man. He had marked each with
the day, the date and the name of the man who had been the subject of the debriefing.
It amazed him to see how many cassettes had accumulated. Then he carefully
packed them into large envelopes, on which he pasted mailing labels. In the
post office he got them properly stamped for Special Delivery and carted them
home again. He was ready now. The bargain had been struck. Soon he would be
free of it. Still, there was one thing more he had to do.
He walked through the
Post
city room, feeling calm,
relaxed, knowing that he had in his possession a story that they would have
craved. Nodding to those whom he knew, he strode into Webster's office. The
editor was on the phone and seemed annoyed by Jason's sudden intrusion.
"What is it?" Webster asked after he'd hung up.
He was on deadline. Galleys were spread out on his desk. Some of them had
already been marked up.
"I'm splitting," Jason said. "I just wanted
you to know, to tell you to your face."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Jason knew he wasn't
sorry. He wondered if he even remembered his name.
"I had a big story. The biggest ever for this turkey
rag. But I'm not going to give it out. Not to you. Not to anybody."
Webster seemed confused.
"Whatever you say."
It didn't seem to matter either way. The paper was fat now,
and the editor was aging. Besides, Jason knew that Webster had long ago lost his
cojones. Not that it mattered to him now. Not anymore. Whatever happened, he
had proven something to himself. And that would have to be enough.
"You were a good journalist," Webster said, with
an accent on the "were." He had certainly said that many times.
"I still am."
"Sorry it didn't work out."
"I'm not."
He looked at Webster carefully. Once he had been God to
him. But, like the others, he was only a man, flawed, corrupted by privilege
and success. Jason knew what that meant. It was a license to manipulate others.
It had been important to him to say it with just that
intonation, in just those words. He had, after all, retired from the game on
the one yard line and that took guts. They made the rules which they themselves
did not obey. They paid lip service only to the fight against corruption, the
public's right to know. It was a game for hypocrites. The good, the true, the
innocent always lost. Hadn't he proved that?
He turned and walked out.
The train sped him to where Arthur waited in the deserted
station, the irony not lost on him. There, his past would be buried. Dorothy's
as well. He had held the power of public death over these men and he had chosen
to give them life, because it was Dorothy's wish.
"I can't," she had told him, and in the end he
respected that. In a way, innocence
had
won, at least a Pyrrhic victory.
He arrived at the station before Arthur, surprised that he
was late. He paced the deserted station, listening for the train, watching the
plastic rim for the flashing lights. When two trains passed, he began to grow
anxious. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the persistent ring of a
telephone. When it didn't stop, he knew it was for him. There was no one else
around and he followed the sound to a booth in a little alcove. It was still
ringing when he got there.
"It's me," the voice said. He recognized it
immediately.
"And me," he answered. The voice was no longer
mellow.
"You're a fucking liar. The police. They're still on
it. They visited Tate."
"But there's nothing. Nothing. I would have known by
now."
"No money. No deal until we make sure."
There was a long pause and this time Jason felt panic. He
did not want to stay around this town a minute more than necessary.
"Did they make accusations? Give any hints?"
"No."
"Well, that proves it. They're just fishing, just
leaning on people. The same way they did with me."
"With you? They visited you?"
"Just routine. A lady detective and her partner.
Nothing to worry about." Still, he didn't tell him about the pin.
"And you didn't tell me? You bastard."
"It wasn't important," Jason mumbled.
"Not important," Arthur fumed. "It was the
same two."
"But how did they know about Tate?"
"I don't know."
"If that girl was murdered..." Arthur faltered.
"...and they have some kind of evidence, there will be hell to pay. I'm
innocent of that, whatever else I might be guilty of."
"It's that woman detective. She's got some bug up her
ass. I don't know why. But if they had something..."
"Never mind. I'll find out. I've had enough of your
bullshit."
"I get my money or I use the tapes," Jason
hissed. "And I'm set to leave the country tomorrow. I've got reservations
on SwissAir."
"I'll know by tomorrow," Arthur said.
"What are you going to do?" Jason asked. It was
impossible for him to shift gears now. He had already decided, had promised
Dorothy in his heart.
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"I'm set to leave at ten tommorrow evening."
"Long before then."
"Look, dammit." Jason felt the perspiration
running down his side. Things were getting out of control again, and he'd be
damned if he was going to let someone like Arthur Fellows blow it for him now.
"If there's no foul play, they have no right pressing people, accusing
people, intimidating people."
"Who said you need rights for that?" Arthur said
tersely. The phone went dead.
It was wrong, Jason thought, jabbing the toe of his shoe
against the wall. "And it isn't fair."
He took the next train back to Washington and walked the
few blocks to his apartment. Almost before he opened the door,he knew that
someone was inside, waiting, but he couldn't stop himself. Absolution was a
hard process. He opened the door.
"I've been waiting for you," Cates said. "We
got to talk."
Jason Martin hadn't arrived yet at Dr. Benton's house. The
doctor had placed a stainless steel pot of coffee and some cups on his dining
room table.
"No," the eggplant said. "No coffee. Not for
him. And draw the blinds."
Fiona knew what that meant. Interrogation was a police art
form and it had its conventions. Close off the outside world. Force the subject
into a confrontation with himself. No stimulants. No comforts. Dole them out in
tiny rewards.
"Where's Cates?" Fiona asked, trying to ignore
the eggplant's sullen mood.
"He wasn't home," the eggplant said, raising his
bloodshot eyes. "I'm gonna have his ass," he said, knowing that
Cates's action could be, for him, the straw that broke the camel's back.
"It seems so out of character." Fiona, too, was
angry at Cates. Soon they would know just how much damage he'd done. The
climate was very bad for a harassment action.
"Let me see that xerox of the Curtis report," the
eggplant snapped at Dr. Benton, who produced the report from an envelope that
lay on his cluttered desk. He opened it and grumbled. "Women."
He looked up at Fiona and shook his head. He had every
right, Fiona thought, agreeing with him for the first time. We're the damnedest
creatures. But it occurred to her that Martin, too, might have had something to
hide or he wouldn't have agreed to meet outside of the office. Perhaps, too,
the eggplant had already showed him his own vulnerability. For both, she knew,
the objective of the talk would be a stand-off. No sense rocking any boats. Not
now. Any hint of a coverup could be fatal. For this reason, Martin, wittingly
or not, held in his hands the mallet to crush the eggplant's career with a
single blow.
Martin's ring was firm, a long press of the button,
indicating confidence. She exchanged worried glances with the eggplant as Dr.
Benton rose to answer the door. If Martin was startled by the drawn blinds, he
said nothing. There was a bruise on one of his cheeks. So Cates had, indeed,
been physical.
"I'm Captain Greene," the eggplant said, holding
out his hand. Martin took it mechanically and turned to Fiona. "We've
met."
He looked slightly thinner from when she had seen him last,
more than a week ago. There was the same guarded look, suspicious and
defensive. That seemed to be the mark of all journalists. And cops, she
thought.
Dr. Benton excused himself from the room as the eggplant
sat down at the table, a signal for both her and Martin to follow. She noted
that the eggplant was displaying a remarkably sure sense of authority. In the
presence of superiors, he always seemed to be groveling.
"I see you haven't found him yet," Martin said as
he sat down. The table before them was completely empty and she was thankful
for having bolted down three cups of coffee beforehand.
"He wasn't reachable," the eggplant said.
"Well, he reached me all right," Martin said,
fingering his bruise.
"I'm sorry," the eggplant said. "As I
explained on the phone, he did it on his own."
If there was any hesitation on his arrival, it seemed
dispelled now, as if Martin were certain that he had, indeed, the upper hand.
"I've been seriously mishandled," he said. His
belligerent undertone was unmistakable. As a trained journalist, he could be an
actor as well. As he talked, Fiona continued to observe him. He kept his hands
below the table, a sign perhaps that he was frightened, but his voice seemed
strong. She wondered if he was sweating under his arms.
"That's why we're here," the eggplant said,
nodding. "To hear your grievance."
He waited, making a church out of his fingers, like a
priest listening piously. She wanted to burst out laughing.
"First the two of them," Martin said, narrowing his
eyes in Fiona's direction. "Then that crazy man last night. Capes?"
"Cates," Fiona snapped. The eggplant rebuked her
with a sharp look.
"He shoved me around, as you can see. And I got kneed
in other places, like a common criminal."
"It's not police procedure to use violence. Did you
give him any cause?" the eggplant asked.
"Don't be ridiculous."
The burst of arrogance seemed to bring the oil to the
eggplant's skin, a sure sign of his growing inner turmoil.
"Did he accuse you of anything?" He seemed to be
proceeding with remarkable restraint.
"Accuse me? He tried and sentenced me. Said I killed
Dorothy Curtis. That's nonsense."
He broke off abruptly and shook his head.
"I think you're all trying to manufacture something
out of whole cloth." The voice was more cautious now. "Look. I don't
want to make trouble. I really don't. But I do know my rights and I completely
understand the vulnerability of the police. First it was this lady." He
jerked a thumb in Fiona's direction. "Her implications were quite clear.
Then Cates roughing me up, demanding explanations that I couldn't give him. His
accusations were wild. Wild. I think that man is unbalanced. Oh, he'll deny
everything, I'm sure..."
So he didn't know about the suspension, Fiona thought,
taking a deep breath. She wondered if a simple apology might suffice and was
sure the idea was running through the eggplant's mind.
"If you've got any evidence..." Martin began,
then he seemed to edit himself. "I can't believe she did that to
herself," he said, very slowly, as if he were testing a frozen pond.
"Suppose I told you..." the eggplant said,
casting an odd glance at Fiona. Don't overkill it, she thought to herself. Just
apologize and get it over with. All the jerk wants to know is that he's off the
hook.
The eggplant took a deep breath and lit a cigarette,
leaving what he had begun hanging in the air between them, a deliberate red
herring. She was totally confused.
"How well did you know her?" the eggplant asked,
still benign, although she could sense the wind-up within. What the hell was he
doing? she wondered, her fingers digging into her palms.
"I brought her here from Hiram. Started a new life for
her. We lived together for awhile. Then she moved out. These things
happen." He seemed to drift, losing control for a moment. "It didn't
end badly. We were friends. Saw each other occasionally." She could see he
wanted to stop, but couldn't. "She was a terrific lady." He shook his
head and it seemed quite genuine. "I can't imagine her doing this."
"Doing what?" the eggplant asked, suddenly
focusing Martin's suspicion.
"Now you. I don't understand any of this."
"Did you know anything about her private life?"
"When I was with her. Yes. But we haven't been
together for months." She could see that he was growing more annoyed with
his own inability to stop himself. Abruptly, he stood up.
"I won't stand for this. If you've got something on
your mind, then say it."
"I was just asking you if you knew about her private
life."
"I know what you asked. I also know harassment when I
see it."
"Am I harassing him?" the eggplant asked Fiona.
"This is a routine police investigation."
"It's not routine."
"Is this routine, FitzGerald?"
"Just routine."
She was surprised at her own reaction. Now she was being a
lackey. But his interrogation fascinated her.
"We know an awful lot about her activities," the
eggplant said.
"Like what?" Martin asked. Again, the cautious
tone.
She was sure Cates must have told him a great deal of what
they knew. But it was still no crime.
"Who she was seeing. Things like that," the
eggplant said ambiguously, playing with fire. Now
he
was becoming part
of it. She couldn't understand why. He's going crazy, she decided. Like Cates.
Like her.
"Who she saw was her business," Martin replied,
but for the first time his throat had caught.
"You know who she was seeing?" the eggplant
asked, with sweet innocence.
His eyes suddenly became frantic as he searched their
faces.
"I heard some pretty wild things last night."
"Like what?"
"That's not the point. That's not my business." A
thin line of sweat had begun to form on his upper lip.
"Important men like that?" the eggplant said
quietly, letting another red herring hang in the air.
"What has any of that got to do with me?"
"That's just the point."
"No, that's not the point," Martin exploded. He
sat down and stood up again. "The point is that I've been harassed. And I
don't like it. I'm also going to do something about it." He sat down
again, sneering contemptuously at them. He was not very likeable, Fiona
thought. Did Dorothy once love this man? She quickly dismissed the thought. It
was exactly what had gotten them all into this fix in the first place. And
there the eggplant sat, helping to dig their graves. Was he deliberately trying
to abort their careers?
"...and I'll tell you why I'm pissed. Really
pissed." Again, he edited himself. It was completely transparent.
"Yes," the eggplant said.
"I'm just going to take action. This is ridiculous.
It's worse than that." His eyes narrowed as if a new thought had struck
him suddenly. "You're trying to cook something up that doesn't exist.
There's a lot more here than meets the eye."
"Yes, there is."
"I'm not going to be a party to it. And I won't be a
victim. I don't know what you've got, but it has nothing to do with me."
He stopped, caught his breath, then drilled a stare into the eggplant.
"Are you saying that she was murdered?" But he didn't wait for an
answer. "Because if you're saying that..." again he hesitated,
grimaced and suddenly started to cough. The veins expanded on his forehead and
neck. They watched as he attempted to recover.
"It's impossible," he whispered.
"That she was murdered?" The eggplant pressed him
now. Fiona was completely confused, digging her fingers deeper into her palms,
but still she was fascinated. The eggplant was dissecting the poor man. Poor
man? When had he gained her sympathy? I know why you're torturing him, she
decided. You got your hooks into a honky.
"She wasn't. She could have been. They..." He
checked himself. "I..." For some reason, not apparent to her, he
seemed trapped. He was sweating profusely and his nose had begun to run.
"You..." the eggplant said increasing the
pressure, coaxing him.
"I saw her."
"You saw her?" Fiona asked. The eggplant threw
her a contemptuous look, stilling her with his hand.
"Saw her what?"
He seemed to have begun to shrivel, like burning paper.
"Saw her jump," he squealed, like a man breaking
suddenly. Was it possible? Had he pushed her? Had her instincts been right? Her
knees began to shake and she had to press them together to stop them. The
eggplant reacted like a mad dog, who had picked up the smell of blood.
"What time?"
The man was helpless, his lips moved but nothing came out.
"What time?" the eggplant shot back.
"I'm not sure."
"Where were you? In a car? On the bridge? Why didn't
you stop her?"
"I couldn't. She had started to run. I don't
remember." He desperately tried to calm himself. "Yes. I ran after
her. I couldn't catch up."
"She was wearing track shoes? She was in goddamned
high heels." The eggplant had risen and put one of his haunches on the
table for balance, bending over the man, pressing. What was he doing?
Manufacturing a killer? She was horrified, frightened.
The eggplant called to Dr. Benton, who came in from the
kitchen.
"What time? Tell the medical examiner here. He knows
pretty near exactly the moment of death. Tell him, goddammit. Tell him."
He screamed at the man, who was utterly confused now.
"I don't remember," he said helplessly.
"And you never called anyone. Just let her lay
there."
"I was afraid."
"Bullshit."
She wanted to stop him, but her courage had failed. It was
as though all the eggplant's pain, his frustration, all the vitriol and bile he
had stored in him had suddenly erupted. There was absolutely no evidence of a
crime, unless he confessed to pushing her. The idea chilled her. Then he said
it.
"You pushed her over, you lousy little turd. You
walked her to the bridge and pushed her over. Just like that. In cold
blood."
"No," he shouted. "I loved her."
"You don't love anyone, you shitass son of a
bitch."
Pushed her. Walked her in the rain in her cocktail dress
and pushed her. Impossible, Fiona thought. Even in her panic, her police mind
speculated. He could have driven her, but she wouldn't have gotten out on the
bridge without a struggle. There had been no sign of a pre-fall struggle.
"A crime of passion pure and simple," the
eggplant snapped. "You came in, saw her with one of her bigshot
boyfriends. Maybe the congressman. Or the Supreme Court justice. Or the
general. Or the Czech. Or that shit from the White House..." He was
stabbing wildly, saliva flecking his lips, the tendons in his neck stretching
to the breaking point.
"All right," the man said. "I did it. I
killed her."
He lay his head on the table and began to sob. The eggplant
stood up, lit a cigarette, breathed deeply, and paced the room. Martin's
shoulders shook with agonized sobs. Fiona sat there, stunned, and Dr. Benton's
complexion seemed to turn olive green.
Finally the eggplant walked back to the table and poked a
finger in the man's shaking back.
"You fucking lying little bastard. Covering up for
those cock-suckers. You think anyone will believe your turd shit? Whitelivered
honky liar." He wasn't acting this time. This was genuine anger, white
hot, right from his gut. "Covering up for those bastards."
The man raised his pained eyes.
"Covering up for those bastards?" Jason repeated
it between choked sobs. "She was murdered?" he said, trying to wipe
his face with his sleeve.