The Ties That Bind (21 page)

"We got a shitload of trouble, FitzGerald."

She covered the mouthpiece and looked up at Gail.

"The Eggplant!"

"You there, FitzGerald?"

"I'm here, Chief."

"It's all over the bulldog edition of the
Washington
Post
. Herbert's work. I'm sure of it. Says we have a suspect in his
daughter's murder and we're planning to pull him in."

"Does he mention him by name?"

"Yup."

"Jesus."

She looked toward Gail and shook her head in despair.

"Barker will go up the wall," Fiona said.

"He already has. Blew his brains out nearly a
half-hour ago. A neighbor called us. He left a note to you and Gail and one to
his parents." There was a long pause. "We opened the note addressed
to you. You want to hear it?"

"Of course."

"Six words," the Eggplant said. "'Sorry.
It's too much to bear.'"

"There could be any number of explanations," Tom
Herbert said. "Mine is that he was trapped in his own guilt, too ashamed
to admit what he had done. He couldn't face the music."

They were sitting in Herbert's suite in the Hay-Adams.
Herbert sat in one of the upholstered chairs, legs crossed, looking imperious.
He seemed smugly convinced of his lack of culpability in Barker's death. Gail,
her long legs crossed in front of her, sat on the couch.

The revelation last night about Barker's death had had a
strange effect on Gail. She had been stunned by the news and had left Fiona's
house in what could only be described as shocked silence. She had said little
in the car coming over to the Hay-Adams. During the ride, Fiona had reported on
her own search of Barker's apartment.

Before picking up Gail, she had stopped by Barker's
apartment alone. Since it was the scene of a death and under the jurisdiction
of the police, she had no problem getting inside. The resident manager was very
cooperative.

The body, of course, had been removed, although there was
still blood spatterings on the floor and walls of his bathroom, where he had
done the deed.

It was a small efficiency apartment, rather messy, but
typical of that occupied by a single man. It had the feel of a hotel room that
had rarely, if ever, been cleaned by a maid. Fiona rifled through drawers and
closets. She found books, magazines and newspapers scattered all over the
place, but nothing that could remotely be associated with the subculture of
Bondage and Discipline. Nothing. No props. No magazines. Not even
run-of-the-mill porno magazines, which seemed a staple in the living quarters
of single males.

The results of the search, while not conclusive, buttressed
Fiona's original theory about Farley Lipscomb.

* * *

"There's a certain flawed logic in your
interpretation, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said. She had not sat down and was
gripping the back of a chair. "The man feared media exposure most of all.
He was panicked by it."

"Of course. Because he was guilty," Herbert said.

"We never proved it," Fiona snapped. "Nor
did he confess to the crime in his note."

"His own action proved it," Herbert replied,
turning toward Gail, who continued to observe a stoic silence.

"You could have prevented it. Pulled him in. Put a
twenty-four-hour guard on him. He'd be alive to pay the piper."

"Mr. Herbert, by going to the
Washington Post
you precipitated his action. Don't you realize that?"

"When all else fails, the media is there. I took
advantage of that when it was obvious you, the police, were not doing your job.
What other recourse did I have?"

"How about the criminal justice system?" Fiona
said.

"I'm a lawyer. You can't be serious."

"Did you think we were trying to deliberately cover up
this terrible act?" Fiona asked.

"You were overly cautious, fearful, afraid to make a
mistake," Herbert said. "The homicide situation is a mess in this
city. Your department is a target. You were more interested in covering your
ass."

"Why are you so certain that he was the man?"
Fiona asked.

"He was in her room. He had lied about what he had
done the night Phyla was murdered. And he had a history of violent treatment of
women. What more proof do you need?"

"Somebody could have come after he left your
daughter's room," Fiona said cautiously. She detested Herbert for what he
had done, a feeling that more than overshadowed her initial sympathy for him.

"Don't be ridiculous," he sneered. He looked
toward Gail.

"She agreed with me. Isn't that correct, Officer
Prentiss?"

Gail seemed to struggling to find an answer.

"At first, yes," she said finally.

"And now?" Herbert asked.

"His note is not conclusive," Gail muttered.
"He was paranoid about media exposure, worried that it would ruin his
career."

"I can't believe this," Herbert shot back.

"He was a young and ambitious man," Fiona said.
"To be shown in the media as a suspect in a terrible crime like that could
be devastating to his career chances."

"My daughter is dead," Herbert said, sputtering
with anger. "That is devastation."

"So is Phelps Barker," Fiona said.

"That's different," Herbert said. He was adamant.
"He executed himself for his own crime."

"But can we be absolutely, one hundred percent
certain?" Gail said, her voice trailing off.

"You can't. But I can. That's because neither of you
truly understand the character of a man ... let me reiterate ... a man ... What
do you women know of what goes through the mind of a man who would do a thing
like that ... force a woman into the kind of horrible perversion, then do what
he did? He couldn't take the shame of it. If he was innocent, he wouldn't have
taken such a drastic step."

Fiona resented his resort to using gender to justify his
conviction. She also knew it would be impossible to shake his opinion.

"Whatever your conclusion, Mr. Herbert," Fiona
said, "the man is dead. He cannot defend himself."

"That was his choice," Herbert said smugly.
"If you had any insight, you would face the fact of his guilt. Get real,
ladies. This case is closed."

Gail looked at Fiona, shrugged, then reverted to silence.
The events of last night had made a profound impression on Fiona. For the first
time in her life she felt that she had found an unconditional friend. We are
sisters, she told herself.

Long ago, Fiona was certain, before the connotation of true
and loving friendship had been skewed by sexual innuendo, there were
relationships like this. To find it in a partner, brought together by random
selection, was almost a miracle. She was grateful to the Eggplant for his idea
and now she was determined to work her damndest to make the idea viable. Gail's
support gave her the courage to press on.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said.
"We can't accept the case as closed." Fiona had no illusions as to
how the Eggplant would react to such a suggestion.

"We? Come on, girls. This is bullshit."

"Maybe so," Fiona said, determined to be patient,
"But wouldn't you at least concede that you could be wrong? I mean as a
lawyer, in the face of no real proof..."

"As a lawyer," he said, "I will always leave
room for a big fat maybe. As a father of a victim, I reiterate my comment.
Bullshit! Barker did it. No question about it. I hope he is rotting in hell at
this very moment."

Fiona had seen relatives of loved ones who had been
murdered deliberately defy logic to accept the concept of vengence. Revenge,
despite moralizing opinions to the contrary, was therapeutic, cleansing, a
catharsis. She could understand why Herbert clung to the idea.

"We need to continue this investigation, Mr. Herbert.
And, unfortunately, we may need your help."

"I gave you my help. I spent money on my own investigation,
which proved my theory. What more can I give?"

Again, she could detect the tiniest concession to the idea
that he could be wrong, although it was unlikely that he would ever admit it,
even to himself.

"I need to know who else she might have known well
enough in this town to contact."

"This is really stupid. Hell, she knew lots of people
here. We've entertained many of them in our Minnesota place."

"Such as?"

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"Very." Fiona paused. "How would you like it
if—this is purely hypothetical, mind you—a man was still at large who could do
this again?"

She studied Herbert's face, saw the briefest twitch of
doubt.

"There is no downside for you on this, Mr.
Herbert," Gail said. "We'd be less than thorough if we just declared
Barker guilty, even if he was, without..."

"You people," Herbert shrugged with contempt.
"Alright, what the hell." He turned towards Fiona. "Yes, we
entertained important people. Let's see ... Both our Illinois senators. The now
Vice-President. Two sitting members of the Supreme Court." Gail shot Fiona
a quick glance, apparently unnoticed by Herbert. "We're plugged in. I am
very involved politically."

"Did Phyla set up any appointments with these
people?" Fiona asked.

"She knew them. She could have. Frankly, she preferred
to do this on her own. I could have gotten her a job anywhere, but she wanted
to find one on her own. Eventually she would have gone into the firm."

"Was she close to any of them? Like, who among them
did she respect the most?"

Herbert stood up and looked out the window, which offered a
clear view of the White House shining in the morning sun.

"I know she corresponded with a number of them and
they were enormously solicitous of a young girl with a very bright
future."

He had turned around, then as his eyes began to well with
tears, he spun around again. They waited until he got himself under control.
When he turned again, he showed more belligerence.

"Are you pointing an accusing finger at these people?
Really, how can you possibly think that any of them could be responsible for
such a base act? Just the idea of it is repulsive. This is crazy. How do you
people justify your jobs?"

Fiona watched him calmly, proud of her own restraint. He
apparently needed this little tantrum to preserve his equilibrium.

"By doing it, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said. He did
not respond, turning around once again to face the view.

"Okay," he mumbled.

"I was asking if there was anyone special that she was
particularly fond of, respected deeply. Someone she might have called or seen
when she came here for wise advice. We've interviewed three people who she met
with formally. What we are looking for is someone she might have talked with
who could have referred her to others."

"She was very fond of the Vice-President. We knew him
when he was a senator. The man had a daughter her age and they were friends.
She might have called him."

Gail took out her notebook and began to make notes.

"Anyone else?"

"She corresponded regularly with Justice Farley
Lipscomb."

Peripherally, Fiona saw Gail freeze. She needed all the
self-discipline she could muster to maintain a calm demeanor. But her heart was
pounding in her chest.

"Did you ever see any of that correspondence?"
Fiona asked, without missing a beat.

"Of course not. Occasionally, she would read me some
passages. Usually they referred to some points of constitutional law about
which she was seeking clarification. He was remarkably cooperative. She could
inspire that kind of relationship."

Fiona masked her excitement with a cough.

"And was he ... and Mrs. Lipscomb ... one of your
regular visitors at the lake?"

"Yes, they were. He loves fishing. When Margo was
alive they came up every summer. It's been more sporadic since she's
gone." He had turned to face her, then turned again, to hide his emotions.

"Any other long-term visitors?"

"Our two senators came up regularly with their wives.
The governor." He reeled off a list of titles. This was a man who knew how
to ingratiate himself with powerful people, especially those with official
titles.

"Were you always present when your guests came up to
visit?"

"I tried to be," he said, clearing his throat and
turning to face her again. "What are the implications of these questions,
Sergeant? They make little sense to me. Besides, my patience is being
strained."

"Sometimes they came to stay with your wife while you
were away?"

"I have a very busy practice."

"But Phyla and your wife were around to host your
guests?"

"Yes. When Phyla was in from school."

"And you don't know if she called or saw any of those
people who you entertained?"

"If you were thorough investigators, you would have
checked the telephone log of the Mayflower."

"We did," Gail said, reading from her notebook.
We considered the calls routine. No, she did not call any of your powerful
friends, Mr. Herbert. She confirmed her appointments. She checked on her
airline reservations. She called some old friends who lived out of town."
Gail paused. "There's also no record of her calling Justice Lipscomb. Not
from the Mayflower," she said pointedly, again exchanging a quick glance
with Fiona.

"Phyla was headstrong," Herbert said. "Maybe
she wanted to show me she could do it on her own."

"But her relationship with Justice Lipscomb
was..." Fiona paused. "More fatherly. Wouldn't she have made it a
point to call him?" Fiona asked blandly.

"Her prerogative," Herbert shrugged. "I
don't understand where you're going."

"All I'm trying to do is explore all the
possibilities. She might have actually gone to see him. There might have been a
referral. You know, Justice Lipscomb might have passed her along to someone who
might have helped."

"I got a long condolence letter from him in Chicago,
handwritten, telling me how much he admired Phyla."

Fiona felt heat rush to her face. She hoped the flush would
not catch Herbert's eye. It didn't.

"Did the letter say he met with Phyla while she was in
town?" Fiona asked casually.

"No. It made no mention of that."

"Did she ever inquire about a clerkship with
him?" Fiona asked.

"If she did, he'd have given it to her without
question," Herbert said.

"It might be helpful to know," Fiona asked.

"Know what?"

"If they were in touch. Phyla and Justice
Lipscomb."

"Why?"

"She might have said something to him, told him what
her plans were, who she was seeing in town..."

Fiona knew she was taking a chance. She hoped that
Herbert's overbearing vanity, his political star-fucking, would goad him to
call Lipscomb, the object being to apply pressure, unnerve him, force him to
deal with Fiona.