The Witch of Watergate (9 page)

FIONA WAS UP at five-thirty. She had stood in the open
entrance to her house in her nightgown, waiting for the
Post
delivery
boy.

"Up early," he said, handing her the paper and
ogling her body through the translucent nightgown. She slammed the door, opened
the newspaper and sat down on the stairs to read.

There it was, the stuff of books and movies. She quickly
read the two major headlines on the front page. They had carried the Dearborn
murder and the Downey suicide as separate stories, a not-so-subtle attempt to
keep the connection separate.

Both stories were written with an eye toward scrupulous
neutrality, designed to discourage the reader from making rash speculations, an
impossible task. Barker was leaving it to others to draw conclusions.

Speculation, however, was inescapable. There was absolutely
no way to read the stories without forming a theory or an assumption that
connected the two tragedies. Indeed, one only had to read the third installment
of the Downey piece to draw conclusions.

They had begun it on page three and jumped it to the front
page of the Style section. The evidence of Barker's editing was easily
apparent, probably shortening the story by half. There was no mention of the
cult trial testimony, although there was more on Downey's hiding assets from
his wife in their divorce battle and some background on Robert Downey, his son.

In fact, the stories provided something for everyone to
chew on—media bashers, police lovers or haters, armchair detectives, mystery
novelists with hyperactive imaginations, Fed gumshoes, whether they were CIA,
DIA, FBI, NSA or whatever other initials were appropriate to describe those
involved in the intelligence community.

The Eggplant was also quoted in the story. Polly Dearborn
was murdered, he had announced. "We are following up numerous leads."
They had printed his picture on the jump page.

Fiona did not begrudge him the glory. It was a respite from
the drumbeat of death he got each morning. Last night there had been six more
gang murders. Fiona noted that Barker had kept his word on this as well. The
story was buried in the back of the local section, told straight, without
hysteria or innuendo. There was not a word about the Mayor in any of the
stories or in the editorial.

The Eggplant called her at six.

"Looks like we're in it up to our eyeballs,"
Fiona said.

"Kept his word. That's the important part," the
Eggplant said. "He buried the murders. No more murder capital of the
United States. No more Mayor-bashing."

"Not today anyway," Fiona said.

"It's a biggie. The Mayor has given us carte blanche.
You and Evans have now got to find me that killer."

"Evans?" She had forgotten. "Yes, of
course." She had been on the verge once again to request Cates. Again, she
had reconsidered, but for different reasons. Charleen Evans knew computers, an
absolutely essential ingredient in this case.

She called Evans' number and got no answer after numerous
rings. That was odd, since all homicide cops were supposed to have answering
machines.

Fiona dressed quickly and drove to Charleen's apartment in
Southwest Washington. However she felt about the woman, Fiona could not
conceive her to be irresponsible. She was too tightly wound, too proud, too
controlled to show weakness.

When she didn't come to the door at the first ring, she
kept her finger on the buzzer. Then she noted that the
Post
was still on
the doorstep. She picked it up and resumed her attention to the buzzer.

After a few minutes, she heard movement and had the
sensation of someone peering at her through the peephole, then the door swung
open.

A bleary-eyed Charleen Evans stood in the doorway in a
flannel nightgown. "I was dead," Evans said.

"We got to get us a killer, Evans. The world is
watching."

She carried in the
Post
. Evans looked at her
briefly, then, leaving the door open, dashed inside the apartment and
disappeared. Fiona came in and shut the door behind her. She heard a shower
running from somewhere inside the apartment.

She stood for a moment in the center of the living room
contemplating the surroundings. The room was as neat and orderly as anyplace
she had ever been. There was a couch, chairs, family pictures in shiny frames,
an oriental rug of intricate design, an abstract painting on one wall.

On the opposite wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She
noted the titles—books on criminology, pathology, psychology, computer
sciences. No novels or biographies. Charleen Evans was the kind of woman who
made every spare moment count.

Oddly, the atmosphere reminded Fiona of Polly Dearborn's
apartment. It had the feel of being inhabited by someone who was intense and
obsessive as to order, neatness, cleanliness, function. Only the abstract
painting on the wall hinted at another dimension to Evan's personality.

Fiona wandered through the kitchen, where pots and pans
hung in ordered sequence on a punch board. Here, the same passion for neatness
prevailed. Fiona heard the shower stop and wandered into the bedroom. Even the
bed in which Evans had slept seemed barely used. The blanket was still tightly
tucked under the mattress and the pillows were barely indented. It was as if
Charleen Evans had simply inserted herself into a tightly made bed.

Off to one side of the bedroom was a computer and printer
on a clean-lined Scandinavian-type desk. Beside the desk, piled neatly on the
floor, was a stack of papers.

Charleen Evans emerged from the shower in a white
terry-cloth robe. Her short curly hair was wet and shiny and her skin darkly
attractive against the white of the robe. With barely a glance toward Fiona she
removed her robe, showing a tight, muscular and not-unattractive body. Turning
her back to Fiona, she began to dress quickly.

"Worked on the computer all night," Evans mumbled
as she dressed.

"No note, right?"

"No note," Evans said.

Fiona walked around her and held up the
Post
. As she
dressed, Evans read the stories on the front page.

"Because it's murder, that's why," Fiona said.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"I was wrong. I admit it," Charleen said, zipping
up her skirt.

"No sweat, Charleen," Fiona said, deliberately
using the woman's first name, hoping that might crack the ice between them.

"But I'm glad I took the hard disk," Charleen
said. She buttoned up a white shirtwaist with a bow, fastened the leather strap
that held her holster and put on her suit jacket.

"We're in something big, very big," Fiona said.

"Bigger than you think, FitzGerald," Charleen
said. She looked toward the stack of papers on the floor. "I printed out
five hundred pages of hard copies. It'll blow your mind."

Charleen stooped and picked up the sheaf of papers.

"Stuff here on lots of people, potential victims.
She's cross-referenced scores of data banks, searched legal records, testimony
in trials, credit reports. You name it. She's even busted into some files that
are probably verboten. I'll tell you this. What she's got is worth its weight
in gold."

"To who?"

"The media, the CIA, anybody who deals in information.
I can't prove it but I swear she's been in and out of the FBI and CIA files. I
don't know which. But there's stuff about some of these people that could only
come from there."

"And it's all in that stack?"

She nodded."

"You really know your computers, Charleen."

"Yes I do."

Fiona could spot the pride, but still no softness, no real
pleasure in Fiona's compliment.

"Problem is we're tracking a killer, not bringing down
the government." Fiona could not hide her irritation.

"I'm aware of that, Sergeant."

"Have you any ideas, any suspect?"

"Yes I do, Sergeant."

"Come on Charleen, loosen up. Make it Fiona."

"Downey for one. Father or son. One or both. Take your
pick. You can't imagine what she had on them."

"Yes I can. Barker told us. He cut it out of the story
today."

"That doesn't rule them out," Charleen said.

"No it doesn't," Fiona agreed. She had turned and
now looked directly into Fiona's eyes.

"There's another suspect," Charleen said.

"Who?"

"The one she was getting ready to do. She's got more
than enough to do him. Not a pretty picture, I'm afraid."

"All right Charleen, you can stop with the
games."

"Our mutual boss. The Mayor."

"He had one conviction for possession, one for
peddling."

"The Mayor?"

"When he was a kid, living with his grandmother in
South Carolina. He used his father's name then. Later he changed it to his
mother's."

"Did he go to jail?"

"Not for that."

"Jesus."

"He did six months for attempted murder. When he got
out he was picked up for rape, then released when the woman changed her
story."

"How long ago was all this?"

"All before he was twenty-one. When he got out he
changed his name to his mother's, went into the civil rights movement. He was
arrested for demonstrating, but we both know that doesn't count."

"And it's all there?" Fiona pointed to the stack.

"That's just the printout. It's on the hard
disk."

"They use it, the Mayor is done," Fiona said.
"All validated?"

"Chapter and verse," Charleen said. "It has
all the earmarks of truth. Burns me up, too. Oh how they'll run him down. Here
is a rehabilitated man. Doing his best. Maybe he's not the greatest Mayor in
America. But he's been straight for more than three decades. And just because
they'll want to dump on this black Mayor, they'll use it, all these things he
did as a kid."

"Must it be a racial thing, Charleen?" Fiona said
gently. "The Downeys are white."

Charleen shrugged and turned away. She began to thumb
through the papers.

"So what do we do with it now?" Charleen asked.

"It's evidence," Fiona replied, but
halfheartedly.

"It's more than that, Sergeant. It's a bomb."

"That's not for us to decide," Fiona said.
Suddenly an idea began to emerge. "You think the
Post
has
this?"

"No, I don't," Charleen said. She reached into
her blouse and pulled out a key attached to a gold chain. Fiona recognized it.

"That's also evidence," Fiona said, suddenly
remembering that there was another hard disk still in the machine in the
apartment.

"I know," Charleen said.

"Can they get to it without the key?" Fiona
asked.

"Doesn't matter. I went back and got the other hard
disk."

"But you can't be certain no one else has this
material," Fiona said. It was, she decided, considering Polly Dearborn's
passion for secrecy, a good bet that they didn't have it. Not the
Post
.
Not anyone. It was out there, of course, but someone would have to dig for it.

"If it's evidence, we have to bring it downtown,"
Charleen said. "Goes there, then somebody will fish it out."

"Then what the hell do we do with it?"

Charleen Evans shrugged.

"We've got to let the Captain know," Fiona said.

"You want the fox to guard the chicken coop."

This was one complex woman. Brilliant, in fact.

"What would you suggest?"

Charleen was deliberately, infuriatingly silent. The
message was clear.

"Burn it, right?" Fiona asked.

"You said it," Charleen Evans snapped.

Fiona again looked at the stack of papers. Her throat went
dry.

"We have no right..." Fiona began.

"Hell, we've been living without rights for
years."

"Christ, Charleen. You're fucking impossible. What is
it with you? Bottom line is we're cops. Not saviors of the world. We can't take
these things on our own shoulders."

Charleen Evans sucked in a deep breath. Then she lowered
her head and studied her hands.

"Don't you think I know that?" She pointed to the
stack. "I've seen that stuff. Read it. I already know more than I should.
I'm trying to cope with the damned system..." She turned away and paced
the room. "I do have an attitude problem. I am tight-assed and I don't
open up or trust people. It works for me. I've been on my own since I'm twelve."
She stopped abruptly. She shook her head, as if to say "enough." She
grew silent.

"I appreciate that revelation, Charleen," Fiona
said. "It will guide me in our relationship. I'm different than you. True,
I don't trust many people. I'm a cynic and skeptic and can only act
tight-assed. When it counts I can be hard. Like you, I chose this job. I love
it and I'm good at it. I'll grant you this. You know a helluva lot that I
don't. But you're an amateur when it comes to human behavior. We could be a
great team, if you'll just loosen up a little."

"I'll try," Charleen said. It was, Fiona decided,
a legitimate attempt at sincerity.

"We have to call in the Eggplant," Fiona said.

"You're the human-behavior expert," Charleen
said.

Fiona pulled a face. "You're going to drive me up the
wall, Charleen."

"I know it. I'm working on the problem."

IT WAS LATE. The material on the Mayor was more than a
hundred pages. There was trial data, the testimony of witnesses. Polly had
found and talked with both the victims of the attempted murder and the
attempted rape. Neither had been reluctant to talk and neither knew that the
man in question was the Mayor of Washington, D.C. It was incriminating stuff,
sure to make great copy. It would finish his political career.

They had been at it for two hours. Charleen had gone out to
bring in pizzas, the remains of which were still in their grease-stained boxes.

"See what I mean?" Charleen said, addressing the
Eggplant. She had repressed her cantankerous side for most of the evening, although
there was one moment of tension when she had requested that he not smoke. To
Fiona's surprise, he had surrendered gracefully.

Fiona supposed it was some deep-seated black cultural
thing, some element in Charleen's persona that commanded respect in black men.
If Fiona had asked him to do the same, he would have lit up immediately. This
could not happen on his own turf, not in his office. There, no woman, of
whatever color or sharpness of tongue, could command him to do anything.

"Reads like a rap sheet," the Eggplant said.
"Pisses me off. The guy rises above it and they'll use it to splatter
him."

"Boils down to this," Fiona said. "It's not
our business."

"It's our fucking boss woman," the Eggplant said.

"What about all the others she's got stuff on?"
Fiona asked. She sifted through the papers, held one up. "Like medical
records. Take this. This is her dossier of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
The goddamned Chairman. At thirteen years of age a Cook County hospital
diagnosed him as schizophrenic. Imagine that. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
Does it say it was the right diagnosis? Does it say where she got the
information? But it can, in the hands of someone with mean intent, bring the
poor bastard down."

"And the one about the clap in the Army?" the Eggplant
asked. "Who the hell was that?"

"Secretary of Human Resources," Fiona shot back.
"It's bizarre. Medical records, court records, scholastic records. The
Vice President's academic record is a disaster, including a flunk for
cheating."

"And these goddamned police records." He pushed
away a batch of paper in disgust. "Rap sheets. Juvenile records." He
held up one of the papers. "Here's one." He looked at the name on it.
"State Department. Deputy Secretary. Wife had an abortion in 1979."

"In today's climate that could be a zap," Fiona
said.

"Goes on and on," the Eggplant said, shaking his
head.

"Nobody's perfect," Fiona said.

"If it wasn't so serious, I'd be laughing," the
Eggplant said.

"Like the Downey business," Fiona said.

"Especially the Downey business," the Eggplant
said.

"You think Barker knew the extent of Dearborn's
files?" Charleen asked. They had filled her in, debriefed each other.

"He sure knew the extent of her obsession," Fiona
said. "No boyfriends, he said. Her own body confirmed that. A virgin at
forty-three. Dear Polly went through the sexual revolution without leaving a
trace."

"A real nutcutter, Barker told us," the Eggplant
said. His eyes were heavy-lidded and bloodshot and he needed a shave.

"Her and her damned computer. That's another thing
Barker said." Fiona patted the stack. "I really don't think he knew
how deep she went."

"And if he did?" Charleen asked. "That's his
business."

"He'd eat it up with a spoon," the Eggplant said.
"Hell, he let her go at it all the way."

"Not quite," Fiona added. "Even he pulled
back on the Downey story."

"Think it was conscience?" Charleen Evans asked.

"No way," the Eggplant said. "Not that bird.
He's just watching his own ass. They go too far, they get a backlash."

"Still," Charleen pressed, "he would run
that stuff on the Mayor."

"In a minute. That's for damned sure," the
Eggplant said, shaking his head. "Wouldn't want my dirty wash hung out for
everyone to see. We don't think about it much. Somewhere tucked away in a data
bank is stuff about us." He cut a glance at Fiona. "Got any dirty
little secrets, FitzGerald?"

"Mucho bytes-worth, Captain," Fiona said. An
image of her mother flashed in her mind. She also heard the sound of her voice.
"God knows everything. He knows all about you. Don't you ever forget
that." A cold chill passed through her.

He had turned to Charleen, but, for some reason, did not
pose that question. Fiona was certain he had it in mind. Then he quickly asked
another.

"You believe only one person did this?"

"No big deal. It's out there. You have to gain access.
All that takes is know-how and money. Not a lot, either. It also takes
dedication, hard work, long hours. Then there's this business of getting into
secure files. That took some doing. Like outside help. There's always someone
who takes a fall for whatever reason. Sure, one person could do this." She
paused, studying their faces, deliberating. "I could do it."

Suddenly the Eggplant stood up and paced the length of the
room. It was a living room/dining room combination. One wall of the living room
was filled floor to ceiling with books. Fiona had noted the titles: mostly
detective fiction, spy stories, suspense novels and technical books on crime.
The Eggplant stopped for a moment to peruse the titles then came back toward
them. He had thrown his coat on the back of one of the dining room chairs. He
stopped and looked at it, then he slipped a panatela from an inside pocket.

"I won't light up," he said to Charleen.

"It's okay, Captain. You probably need it."

He struck a match, lit up, then, before fanning it out, he
looked at it for a moment.

"There's an idea in that," Fiona said.

"Don't even think it, FitzGerald. We're here to find
killers. In this case, the killer of Polly Dearborn. Destroying evidence is a
felony."

"Granted," Fiona said. "Then what do we do
with this stuff?"

"I know what we don't do with it," the Eggplant
said. They were sitting around Charleen's dining room table. The Eggplant stood
up and stretched. "We don't give it to Barker. No way." He looked
suddenly at Charleen Evans.

"Especially not to him."

"Who, then?" the Eggplant asked. It was a
question for both of them.

"Not the feds," Fiona said. "You let the
bully boys get something on the pols, you got big trouble. Remember how Hoover
kept his job."

"And our people?" the Eggplant asked. He puffed
deeply on his panatela, held the smoke, then pushed it out of his nostrils. For
him a great deal was at stake. If the Mayor went down, his hopes of becoming
Police Commissioner went down with it.

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't," Fiona
said, leaving unspoken what was obviously the central idea nagging at them.
They could, after all, edit the material, remove the Mayor's dossier. But that
would mean establishing a bond between them that was fraught with pitfalls and
dangers.

The Eggplant took one last puff, then smashed the panatela
out on a slice of cold pizza. He did not press the issue.

"Who needed this?" he said.

They were silent for a long time. Finally the Eggplant sat
down and looked at the papers strewn across the table.

Fiona reviewed the options in her mind. They could bring
the evidence in, hard copies and hard disks, and check it in to headquarters as
evidence. They could remove the material about the Mayor, then bring it in.
Technically, that would be tampering with evidence. They could destroy it
completely. That would be both self-protective and logical, except that they
would then share a secret between them, encroaching on their individual
independence. Or they could simply put it back, wipe it from the slate. That
could mean that Barker would get it.

"What happens if somebody turns on the computer?"
Fiona asked.

"Gonna get a big surprise," the Eggplant said.

"Withholding, tampering, now burglary," Charleen
Evans sighed.

"A multitude of sins," Fiona whispered. She
glanced toward the Eggplant. "It's your call, Captain." She knew, of
course, what he wanted them to do.

"Thing is," the Eggplant mused, "will it
help us find Polly Dearborn's killer?"

"It could help make a case," Fiona said.
"Once you write off the ones we know she wrote about."

"That would leave the Mayor a suspect, along with all
the others," Charleen said.

"A motive isn't hard evidence," the Eggplant
argued.

"If we don't declare it as evidence, then it's stolen
goods," Fiona said. "We have no business with it. Technically it
still belongs to the estate of Polly Dearborn."

"You want me to put it back?" Charleen asked.

"I say let's put it on ice for a while," Fiona
said.

"Leave it here? In my apartment?" Charleen asked.

"There's still an ongoing investigation," Fiona
said, turning to the Eggplant. "We declare it evidence. Bend
procedures."

"We nail things down first then use only what's
pertinent to the case?" the Eggplant said. "Is that it?"

"More or less," Fiona agreed. They were all a
party now to constructing a credible evasion.

"Then what?" Charleen asked.

"We cross that bridge when we come to it," the
Eggplant said.

Double-talk. They all knew it.

They exchanged glances and did not speak for a long time.
Finally the Eggplant took his coat from the back of the chair.

"Let's all go home and get some sleep." He
slipped into the jacket and straightened his tie. "And tomorrow let's get
us a killer."