The Witch of Watergate (14 page)

THEY SAT IN the darkest corner of Paddy's, a little bar
that Fiona occasionally frequented by herself when she needed the blandishment
of solitude and the stimulus of alcohol.

It was after midnight and weariness had seeped into her
bones. But it had been impossible to sleep and she had roamed the house like a
ghost unable to find peace. She had tried to read the material provided by
Sheila Burns but after a few futile tries she had put it aside.

Then she had turned on the television. But she quickly
turned it off when a bulletin offered the news that four more gang murders had
occurred in Southeast Washington. The news fed her anger and her agitation and
added to the idea that was at the root of her discomfort. She felt the awful
sense of losing control of her life, of being rootless, ineffective and unsure
in the face of Charleen Evans' certainty.

Being in that frame of mind, she was not surprised by the
Eggplant's call. A similar dilemma can merge agendas. He was undoubtedly
involved in his own soul-searching.

"We gotta talk," he said, his voice hoarse with
fatigue. She suggested Paddy's.

Now they sat opposite each other in the dark booth. They
had often put aside their rank, antagonisms and confrontations to take time out
like this. Such moments, they knew, were an arranged truce, designed to cut
across the natural borders of race, gender, class, background and philosophy and
to meet on the common ground of humanity. They had not clashed much on this
case. They had Charleen to soak up antagonisms.

A few people sat at the bar watching a hockey game. The
other booths were empty. The Eggplant had sipped a scotch from a shot glass and
chased it with a beer, while she nursed a white wine. His hand shook as he
lifted the shot glass to his lips, spilling a few drops on the dark table. He
looked up with bloodshot eyes, noting her concern.

"It's getting to the old Eggplant," he said, shaking
his head. "It's a bitch, FitzGerald."

"This, too, shall pass," Fiona said, feeling
genuine compassion for him. The strain on him was telling. He looked drawn,
grey, pinched.

"The shame of it is we're losing the war out
there," he said hoarsely. "It may not be worth the candle."

She sipped the wine, sour to the palate. Then she put it
aside, having no desire or taste for it.

"It's everything piling on at once that's doing it,
Captain. You haven't got a chance to step back and see what's really happening."
It was the kind of advice she had been giving herself all night, without
effect. It also had no effect on the Eggplant.

"I had an hour with the Mayor tonight," he said.

"You told him?"

He did not have to ask what she meant.

"Hell, no. Why add to the poor bastard's troubles?
He's got everybody on his ass—the press, the city, the bureaucracy, the feds.
Hell, the whole country is pointing its finger. He's the Mayor of the fucking
capital of the U.S. of A., taking the heat for every damned politician who's using
the dope-and-gang-war issue to get elected. Country needs a scapegoat and he's
it, so he's got to find his own scapegoat."

"The Police Commissioner?"

"I feel for that sad bastard, too."

He finished his scotch and put the shot glass back on the
table with such force it made a popping sound. People sitting at the bar turned
around.

"Did he offer it to you?" Fiona asked.

The Eggplant nodded. Then he motioned for the bartender to
bring him another drink.

"Not for me," Fiona told the bartender. She
turned back to face him. "Cheer up. That's what you wanted all along,
Captain."

"It showed, huh." He smiled, showing big teeth
and a half inch of pink gums.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd think about it for a few days."

"That's smart. Don't be too easy to get."

The drink came and the bartender sat it in front of him
with another beer. He looked at the shot glass but made no move to pick it up.

"I'm not sure I want it."

She studied him, looking for signs of sincere reticence.
She found them.

"You're not joking," Fiona said.

He shook his head.

"Do I deserve the job? Sure I do. I've got the savvy
and experience. I'd do a helluva job. You know me, FitzGerald, I'll kick
whatever ass I have to get it done. I won't stop all the gang killings, the
dope, but we'll get a handle on it. That I can promise. Problem is..." He
paused, picked up the shot glass and upended it, downing the liquor in one
gulp, then chasing it with a swallow of beer. His eyes watered. "I don't
feel right about taking it under the circumstances."

"Am I hearing right? You, the bottom-line man?"

"You know what I mean, FitzGerald."

Of course she knew. Suddenly, the way of the winning was
more important than the prize.

"Charleen and that damned computer," Fiona
muttered, feeling a sudden surge of anger. "If you didn't know what was in
it, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"That's the point. We do know and we had no right to
quash it. Wrong is wrong."

"Wrong? Nothing is ever as it seems." She smiled.
The line was a cliché they had often relied on as gospel. "You know what
will happen if Barker gets his hands on that information. The Mayor will be
tarred and feathered in the paper without a chance to defend himself. Okay, he
was a bad boy years ago. People will say once a rotten apple, always a rotten
apple. He'll be the perfect whipping boy. The story will hound him right out of
office."

"You got it," he said. "And who is keeping
that from happening? Us. And who has the most to gain by this act ... hell,
call it what you want ... it's a cover-up. And it's wrong. Also against
regulations. We have no right to do this thing."

"No right?" She mulled over the implications,
then said, "If you need balm for your conscience, then order us to turn it
in."

"Shit. We'd be aiding and abetting a political murder.
I'm not saying he's a saint. Point is he's no worse than most of them. I just
don't like the idea of handing Barker the meat axe to chop off the
Mayor's..." His voice trailed off.

"No you don't, because that's not right, either,"
Fiona said with a triumphant air.

"Two wrongs don't—"

"Oh Christ. Not that," Fiona said.

"Actually three wrongs," the Eggplant said sadly.
"Me toadying up to Barker. I hate it. I'm ashamed of it. Trying to curry
favor with him. It offends me."

"Let's say it's not exactly an ego builder. But why
beat up on yourself, Captain? Accept the facts. Barker has the biggest stick in
town. You're doing what any sane man would do in similar circumstances."

"Protecting my own ass," the Eggplant muttered.

"That's no crime."

"Fact is, FitzGerald, you people don't have to go
along with any of it. I were you, I would turn those disks in, get out while
the getting is good. I won't stand in your way."

"Nobility makes me nauseous," Fiona said, pulling
an appropriate face.

"Okay, then try on self-interest. Think how it looks
if it ever comes out. We deliberately cover up this information to keep the
Mayor viable so that he can appoint me Police Commissioner. There's a great
career-builder for you."

"Won't do much for Charleen and me, either,"
Fiona said.

"Evans," the Eggplant groaned, signaling the
bartender for another drink.

"The ever-certain Charleen. That puts a topper on the
evening." She called out to the bartender. "Make it two."

"Now there's a nightmare for you. If I take this job,
I'll always have Charleen hanging there, like the sword of Damocles, ready to
tell what she knows if it suits her. How the hell did I ever bring that lady
into the squad?"

"I was meaning to ask you that question," Fiona
said. The bartender set down their drinks in front of them.

"She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Fifteen years ago Charleen Evans' parents were
murdered in cold blood in Baltimore. The killer was never found. That kind of
motivation sold me to take her on. She had the credentials, paid her dues on the
street. We needed another woman on the squad. Bright, tough, black. Why
not?"

"I've been with her a few days and I can think of a
hundred reasons."

"Only a hundred."

"She's impossible, I'll grant you, Captain. And I know
it will be hard for you to believe. She's infuriating, exasperating and
compulsive. I also think she lacks insight and has an uncanny talent for the
wrong timing. She's obsessed, overly tenacious and obnoxious. In short, she's a
twenty-four-carat pain in the ass. But I don't think she's venal."

"Probably not. She's lethal."

"She's determined to make Downey or his father or both
the Dearborn killer.

"Even if they're not?"

"That won't stand in her way."

"Is she onto something we don't know about?"

"That's the hard part. I'm not sure."

She told him about the man who visited the Dearborn
apartment and her suspicion that it was Robert Downey.

"You don't think it was him?"

"There's no real evidence to support it. Not that that
bothers her. But I can't put it totally down. She might have something. Might.
Maybe. Problem is there are no mights and maybes for her."

"That's another thing. Charleen Evans is not a
desirable conspirator."

"And I am?"

"We're here, aren't we? Doing the whole number."

He studied her for a long moment, then smiled. Briefly, the
fatigue seeped out of his face.

"Damned females," he said, the smile slowly
fading.

"Fate worse than death, eh, Captain? Beholden to two
pushy broads."

"That's part of it, I suppose," he sighed,
looking at his watch. Then he dipped a hand in a side pocket and pulled out a
folded paper, which he threw on the table. "I got the bastard his search
warrant."

Fiona touched it, but did not pick it up.

"Do we find the computer, Chief? There's nothing in
it."

"You find it, there will be," the Eggplant
sighed.

"You want us to put the disks back in?"

"I would appreciate that," he said. Fiona allowed
him the sophistry. The chances of finding it were slim at best. It was the
exercise that was important.

"Chips fall where they may?"

He nodded. Fatigue had gripped him again. Wearily, he slid
out of the booth.

"On us, probably," he said. "Chances are the
Post
will get their injunction. In this town they always get what they
want."

"Crazy, isn't it? Like hunting for a stuffed
animal."

The Eggplant smiled thinly.

"Keep me apprized." He pronounced it
"apprahzed." Then he forced a spring into his step and walked out of
the bar.

BARKER WAS RIGHT. Even in his silk paisley robe and
matching pajamas and ascot, Farber struck Fiona as a sleazeball.

He had opened the door of his townhouse on Capitol Hill
himself, as if he were expecting them. It was promptly seven A.M.

"Come in, officers," Farber said, smiling
broadly. "Right on time."

Fiona showed him the folded warrant. He brushed it away
with a pudgy hand.

"No need. My house is yours."

"We'll do the office later," Fiona said.

"I have a summer home in Nantucket," Farber said,
continuing to smile. "When will you do that?"

Fiona had often seen bravado mask anxiety. His attitude did
not foreclose on the possibility of finding it.

Farber's house was well furnished. He apparently had a
passion for soft leathers and ultrasuede. Most of the furniture and backgrounds
were done in these materials. On the walls were a collection of etchings
depicting early days in Washington.

"Shall I show you around?" Farber asked.

"That isn't necessary," Charleen said.

"It's a big item," Farber taunted. "You
shouldn't have much trouble spotting it."

He followed them as they moved through the house, opening
drawers and closets, all of them knowing that it was an exercise in futility.

"We can play 'hot and cold,'" Farber said,
chuckling. "At the moment you're both sojourning in the Ice Age."

"We're just doing our job," Charleen said. Fiona
shot her a look of rebuke. The first of the day. Fiona detested this cliché of
absolution. They hadn't said much on the way over to Farber's house, a
five-minute ride from headquarters.

They moved through the downstairs portion of the house into
the kitchen, where Charleen opened the oven.

"Baked computer. It's the latest rage," Farber
said. He wanted to bait them and was enjoying the process.

They went through the basement, then upstairs on the
bedroom level. Farber obviously was doing quite well financially.

"Any leads yet on who did Polly?" Farber asked in
a mock serious way as they went through his bedroom. He was obviously single
and indulgent of himself. A neuter, Fiona guessed. Also shrewd and devious, the
kind of attorney that Polly Dearborn might choose.

After forty-five minutes, they stopped. It was a thorough
search.

"Just close the door on the way out," Farber
said. "I've called my secretary at the office to make you feel welcome. It
won't be easy."

"Cocky son-of-a-bitch," Fiona said when they were
back in the car heading toward Farber's office in the National Press Building.

Fiona had not told Charleen about her meeting with the
Eggplant. The need for commiseration would be difficult for Charleen to grasp.
But that didn't foreclose on her mentioning what the Eggplant had told Fiona
about Charleen's past.

"I want you to know, Charleen, that the Eggplant told
me about your mother and father," Fiona said. She did not place the
revelation in the context of time or place. Fiona was driving and, therefore,
did not have to see Charleen's reaction.

"He shouldn't have discussed it with you,"
Charleen said after a long pause. Surprisingly, Fiona did not get any sense of
Charleen's indignance.

"Come on, Charleen," Fiona cajoled. "Loosen
up."

"My private life is my private life."

"Touché," Fiona said, taking her hands off the wheel
for a moment to emphasize her frustration. They drove on in silence. Then
minutes later, as if on a cue known only to herself, Charleen suddenly began to
speak.

"I was seventeen. We had this house in Baltimore. You
know the kind. Flat front with a stoop. My Dad was an inspector for Bethlehem
Steel. Mom taught school. Good people. Made it on their own. I was going to be
a doctor. I had a scholarship to Johns Hopkins." She was paying out her
lines in a flat staccato. "I was upstairs reading. I heard sounds coming
from downstairs. I thought Mom and Dad had visitors. Then I heard these pops. I
had never heard gunfire before, and, therefore, I felt no sense of urgency. I
should have rushed down there. Maybe I would have got a glimpse of the fleeing
gunman. Not that it would have helped Mom and Dad. They were both shot in the
back of the head, gangland style. The Baltimore Police said it was a mistake, a
gang hit gone awry."

She paused and sucked in a deep breath.

"I accepted that notion but not their subsequent
actions. They did little or nothing, contending that a hit man was anonymous
and almost impossible to trace. I didn't buy that and I vowed, at that moment,
to become a homicide detective in any department but Baltimore. Washington was
the closest one to where I lived and I joined the MPD ten years ago."

Her response had been workmanlike, bloodless and
efficiently lean. Yet it seemed without heart. Emotional paralysis, Fiona
thought, confirming her earlier diagnosis. Poor Charleen, doomed to keep
searching for the killer of her parents. Truth or pop-psych, Fiona wasn't
certain, but somehow the woman's story, cold as it was, touched her heart. It
also helped explain Charleen's lack of objectivity, a fatal flaw in a homicide
detective.

"Tough luck," Fiona said. The sketchy confession
had given her some insight into Charleen, but had not bridged the gap between
them. Fiona waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.

"Think we'll find it?" Charleen asked.

"Doubtful. But if we do, he told me he wants us to put
the disks back."

"So he's taken my advice," Charleen said.

"Guess so."

Fiona did not tell her about the Mayor's appointment offer
to the Eggplant.

"And if we don't?" Charleen asked.

"Chances are Barker's lawyers will find a way to get
it," Fiona said. "Then the court case begins. Injunctions, arguments,
the works. All fighting over a computer without information. Sooner or later
the wind will blow the stink our way."

"Will Farber fight it?"

"Depends on how much is in Polly Dearborn's
estate."

They parked in the garage of Farber's office building and
started up the elevator.

"And if we do find the computer and put back the disks
we're throwing the Mayor to the wolves," Charleen said suddenly. A chill
rolled through Fiona.

"Not our business," Fiona said.

"I don't like it," Charleen said.

"Not yours to like," Fiona said, her stomach
churning. "Either way it stinks."

They entered Farber's office and were greeted by a pretty
receptionist.

"Mr. Farber called. You're to get the cooperation of
the entire office."

This consisted of a middle-aged secretary and Mr. Farber,
who would, no doubt, be on his way. Charleen and Fiona began their search. They
looked through drawers, file cabinets and inspected the two computers in the
office to see if one of them might be that taken from Polly Dearborn's
apartment.

They were thorough but not hopeful, knowing that Farber
would soon arrive to ridicule their efforts. They did not have long to wait.
Farber arrived in a pin-striped suit with a red rose in the lapel.

"Any luck?" he said pleasantly. They had just
completed searching Farber's personal office.

"You could make it a lot easier on us," Fiona
said. "Maybe on yourself as well."

"On myself? Don't be silly. I have a solemn obligation
to the last will and testament of Polly Dearborn."

"And what is that?" Fiona asked. This was as far
as she would go.

"That is between the late Miss Dearborn and me,"
Farber said.

"You should read the statutes on withholding evidence,
Mr. Farber," Charleen said.

"What evidence?" Farber asked with exaggerated
innocence.

"The evidence in Polly Dearborn's computer,"
Charleen said. Fiona was beginning to feel uncomfortable. No point in opening
that Pandora's box.

"You are mistaken, Officer," Farber said smugly.
"You are referring to Miss Dearborn's private material, hers to dispose of
as she sees fit."

"I think we can go now, Officer Evans," Fiona
interjected. The subject was not theirs to debate. But Charleen persisted.

"Have you seen the material in the computer?"
Charleen asked. Fiona's heartbeat accelerated suddenly.

"I don't have to answer that question," Farber
said. He, too, seemed surprised at the depth of Charleen's probing.

"No, you don't." Fiona said firmly, turning to
Charleen. "I think it's time to go."

"Didn't find what you were looking for, girls?"
Farber said mockingly. Fiona grabbed Charleen's elbow and led her out of
Farber's office.

"You were challenging him to get into that
computer," Fiona admonished as they stood in the corridor.

"I was not. I was merely trying to find out if he had
tried to get into the computer."

"And if you did find out?" Fiona asked.

The alternatives were dawning on Charleen again. Her answer
was a shrug. As always, it was hard to know what she was thinking.

"I have a question for you, Charleen," Fiona
said.

Charleen eyes locked into hers.

"Have you read the statutes on withholding
evidence?"

At that moment, the receptionist poked her head out of the
office door and looked toward them.

"Which one of you is Sergeant FitzGerald?"

Fiona raised her hand and the receptionist ushered her back
into the office and pointed to the telephone on an end table in the reception
area. Fiona picked it up.

"Find it?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"No," Fiona answered.

"That's the bad news," the Eggplant said.

"And the good news?"

It was meant as a facetious question and she hadn't
expected a response.

"The good news is that we've got Polly Dearborn's
killer."

"Is this a joke?"

"Not to Charleen. There'll be no living with
her."

Fiona looked at Charleen, who was studying Fiona's face.

"All right, Captain. I've braced myself."

"Robert Downey," the Eggplant said. "He
walked in here a half hour ago and confessed."