American Sextet (9 page)

Ignoring her while the bartender poured, he took his drink
and moved nearby to a deserted corner. The cocktail crowd was thinning as the
guests made their way to designated tables. She followed him.

"I did what you told me, Jason," she repeated,
her voice small and remorseful.

He started to move toward the doorway, assuming she'd again
follow. When he arrived there, he noted that she'd been waylaid by a tall man
with a colorful decoration pinned to his lapel. From the corner of her eye, she
looked at him, hesitating. He signaled approval with a nod, the smile bloomed,
and the brief moment of contact continued. Dutifully, she slipped the tall man
the card which he looked at briefly before sliding it into a pocket. Jason
recognized him. He was Edward Templeton, Army Chief of Staff, slated to be the
next chairman of the joint chiefs.

Passing through the doorway he stood waiting on the stairs,
ignoring the questioning eyes of those who still manned the entrance. He
breathed deeply, trying to control the strange inner eruption as she approached
him.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, confused. He was
as confused as she about his strange reaction. They walked down the wide stone
steps. Attempting to keep up, she held the hem of her gown to free the movement
of her legs. Her high heels made pocking sounds along the pavement.

"But I thought..."

"Don't think."

He had parked near the Ellipse, a lawn setting behind the
White House, across Seventeenth Street. An early fall chill had come in with
the darkness, chasing the Indian summer's day. A three-quarter moon cast an
eerie light from the cloudless sky. The Ellipse was deserted, although the
twinkling lights of the White House and the old State Department Building gave the illusion of activity. Occasionally a car drove past.

"What did I do?" she asked, facing him.

He said nothing, lit a cigarette and puffed smoke between
them as if to obliterate her. Why was he so annoyed? It was all his doing.
Dammit, he thought, am I jealous?

Watching his eyes, she seemed to be trying to penetrate his
and her own confusion. Maybe, he thought, he hadn't the courage to go through
with this. He returned her stare, softening. Her eyes had the look of a hurt
puppy. Just be good to me, she'd said. That was always her one condition.

"Maybe we should stop now," she said. Tears had
begun to spill onto her cheeks. "I'm afraid, Jason."

"Of what?"

"You promised it was all right. That you wouldn't get
upset."

"No. It's fine." His sudden hesitation sobered
him.

"If it comes between us, it's not good."

"It won't. I promise."

They stood near the trunk of a tree. A stone's throw away
was the booth of the White House guard at the south entrance. He could see the
man's vague outline in the lighted booth.

Was it time to seek some validation? He looked at Dorothy,
her face shadowed, its expression distraught, as if all she needed for her
happiness was his approval. Was what he needed now a test of his surety?
Something to thwart his hesitation about the project? And hers? Reaching out,
he drew her toward him, enveloping her in his arms. He was leaning against the tree,
watching the guard's booth while he breathed in the sweet smell of her. He
unfastened the top of her gown freeing her breasts, which caught the glint of
the faint light.

"Here?" she asked.

"Yes."

Without hesitation, she responded. It was a test, he told
himself. Right here in the shadow of the White House. In the face of danger.
This would be the validation, he decided, a flaunting as well.

Lifting her, he felt her naked legs entwine themselves
about his torso as his organ speared her and her tongue reached inside of him.
He continued to watch the guardhouse as her body undulated, the novelty priming
her pleasure while his own waited, testing his omnipotence, challenging his
vulnerability.

He felt her orgasmic contractions and heard soft moans,
wondering what would happen if she screamed out, alerting the guards. All would
be over then. In his heart, did he want it to be over, leaving just the two of
them ... under the stars in the soft night?

When his own release came he lifted himself on his toes,
stretching himself taut, his head turned upward like a wolf baying at the moon.

"Are you happy, Jason?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"And not angry?"

For what, he wondered. He had never been angry with her.
Only himself.

For a moment, nothing stirred. Life seemed suddenly
suspended. No cars moved through the park. He had heard no horn sounds in the
distance nor the roar of jets taking off and landing from National Airport across the river.

"In there," he said. "You were wonderful.
For a moment I didn't feel worthy." He stroked her hair. He wondered if
she would be able to face what was to come. Run, he urged her silently, as fast
as you can. If he had shouted it out, would she have obeyed? He didn't want to
know the answer.

They got into the car. She moved close to him, like an
insect to a flame.

"You know something, Jason?"

His mind had drifted as he maneuvered the car out of the
parking place. Finally, he responded.

"What?"

"It was easy," she said. "The men liked me.
I mean, they were just like ordinary people."

"Didn't I tell you?" he said, smiling easily as
he swung the car onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

Fiona sat on the upholstered white chair, her hands
caressing the satiny arms. The room faced west, but the setting sun's last rays
had already disappeared behind the houses that lined the street. Logic, she
knew, had not brought her here. Why couldn't she let the poor lady rest in
peace?

She had let her own frustration get out of hand. She had,
indeed, stepped beyond the bounds of police protocol, grilling Martin for no
reason, superimposing morbid fantasies in which he was the villain. Her target,
she knew, was Clint. It was the damnedest thing how thoughts of him stuck to
the surface of her mind, tinging every thought.

She closed her eyes, probing the hushed silence, wondering
if this was the place where the dead girl waited. Waited for whom? Had it
become, like her own place, a cage?

Thinking of Clint, following his day's routine, she
wondered if images of her surfaced in his mind, confusing him. Did it prompt
longing? Emptiness? Or was he able to isolate the idea of her, their love, and
put it away until he saw her again? She cursed her vulnerability. It was
impossible to exorcise him. Her longing was acute, pervasive, uncontrollable.

Was the doomed Dorothy also the victim of this impossible
terror? Had the loneliness become unbearable? Did she really bring on her own
death?

Tell Ann, Clint, she begged in her heart. And come to me.
Was this the whimpering plea of valiant, plucky Fiona FitzGerald, a woman who
had stormed the male ramparts of the most macho organization in our society? It
sickened her to see herself so helpless.

She got up and began to search the apartment again, peering
into closets and drawers. They were not as neat as they had been earlier. She
attributed this to Cates, who had poked around and found the little silver pin.
Although he had obviously tried to put things back in order, he had not been as
fastidious as the former occupant. It offended her to know that a man had
disturbed this very private woman's world. She opened Dorothy's underwear
drawer, where white satin panties had once been filed like index cards. It was
a mess now.

Determined to right this male violation, she began to
refold the garments in that special way that only women know. For some reason,
she could not get it right. Something was wrong with the uniformity of the
pile. It took her some time to discover that three of the satin panties were of
different sizes from the rest. Removing them from the drawer, she stretched
them, noting that they were at least three sizes larger than the others. There
was also one bra much bigger than the others.

She began to rummage through the rest of the drawers. One,
which she had assumed was filled with pantyhose, contained as well a collection
of garter belts and, also neatly folded, a pile of stockings, the kind that
only sheathed the legs up to the thighs. It was the kind her mother used to
wear. A number of them were a larger size than the others, longer both in the
length and the foot.

Was it possible that
two
women lived in this place?
The excitement of discovery seemed to clock off her anguish. She felt
professional again, like a bloodhound locked into the scent. Poking in the
closets, she opened shoe boxes. The woman was a size six. After going through
twenty boxes, she discovered, as she now suspected she would, a pair of white
high-heeled shoes with open backs that were much larger. There were no others
that size.

A thorough search of the closets failed to turn up any
outsized dresses. An explanation eluded her. Perhaps the woman had an
occasional visitor, a larger female, who had simply left some of her things
around. She contemplated the collection, which she had lined up on the dresser:
panties, bra, stockings, and one pair of high-heeled shoes. After a while, she
put them back where she'd found them.

It had grown dark by then and she lit the bedroom lamps.
Suddenly the sound of the telephone's ring pierced the silence.

The phone was persistent. When it had rung five or six
times, she finally picked it up.

"Hello."

She heard the click simultaneously. Replacing the receiver
in its cradle, she looked at it for a long time. So somebody still thinks she's
alive. Fiona had been in the apartment for hours and the phone had never rung
before. What did it mean? Again she thought of Clint--a single love, a single
source of agony.

A tinkle of metal alerted her. Someone seemed to be picking
the lock. As a reflex, she quickly doused the lights. A key was turning in the
lock. Flattening herself against the bedroom door, instinctively unbuttoning
her holster and slipping out her gun, she waited. The door squeaked open.
Footsteps moved into the apartment. The movement was cautious, tentative. A
burst of light illumined the corridor. The intruder moved forward, less
cautious. Through the crack in the doorjamb, she saw the figure of a man. A
light flashed on overhead and she stepped into his path, sliding her piece back
into its holster.

"Goddamn," she hissed. It was Cates, his startled
eyes round as saucers.

"You scared the shit out of me," he said,
obviously glad to see her.

"I hope so."

For a moment, they glared at each other.

"I was sure you'd be here," he said haltingly.
"The key was missing from the files. Besides, you were acting
strangely." After the interrogation of Martin, they had investigated two
naturals. She had been unusually distant, tight-lipped and morose. Cates had
done most of the talking. She remembered leaving the office in a fog, heading
straight to Dorothy's apartment.

"I called your place first," he said, regarding
her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure. I made an ass of myself with Martin. If
he's smart, he'll complain. He has good grounds."

"This thing bugs you," he said flatly. "I
saw it from the beginning."

"Look who's talking. Who found that pin?" But it
was a lame sortie. Leave it alone, she begged herself. It was time to bow out.

"I explained that," he said. "I was just
trying to see what I missed and you saw. I mean," he stammered, "to
me, it was a simple case of suicide. I came back last night to understand it
... why you were still uncertain."

"I'm not anymore."

"Now I'm totally confused." He paused. "I
may not have your experienced instincts, but..."

"The hell with it."

He scratched his head, more as a symbol than an itch.

"I don't understand."

"Let's just shelve it. Too many naturals. Haven't had
a good murder mystery for a long time. I guess I tried to manufacture
one."

"Then you're satisfied?"

"Yes."

"I'm not," he said tentatively.

"Shit." It was out of control. All her fault. And
Clint's.

Cates drew in his breath. "In the kitchen," he
said, leading her there. He opened the refrigerator, which was empty except for
a few beer cans. Reaching behind the beer, he brought out three small cans and
held them up. She inspected the labels.

"Foreign," she said.

"Beluga caviar. Russian."

"What's so strange about that?"

He pointed to the label.

"Written in Czech."

She looked at the labels, not comprehending.

"I wrote down the words," he said. "It
bothered me all day. I didn't want to raise ... Hell, we had enough going down.
After I did the naturals, I called around to all the gourmet shops. They sell
Beluga, but not this. This is Czech. Direct. Sold only in Czechoslovakia. They change the labels."

"So?" She was determined to be noncommittal.

"So she got these as a gift from a Czech national.
Maybe a diplomat." He squinted at her. "Come on, Fiona. You see what
I mean?" He showed a brief annoyance, then became diffident. She knew
exactly what he was driving at.

"Look what we got. A miniature silver bar, studded
with the rank of four star general. Cans of Beluga caviar sold only in Czechoslovakia. Rent paid three months in advance. A suspicious reaction from a
newspaperman. Martin, you know, used to be a top investigative
reporter..." And oversized clothes, she silently added to the list. And a
single telephone call.

"All right," she said, leaning against the
refrigerator.

"Am I fantasizing?" he asked.

"That's your job," she snapped. He lowered his
eyes and fingered the small cans.

"I was all set to drop it after this afternoon,"
he said. "I felt funny after this Martin bit. You were acting..."

"Stupid."

"Maybe." He paused. "Then this other thing
occurred to me."

"Now we're both in the manufacturing business."

"Why be different?" he smiled, slyly. She felt
her resolve breaking down. "What did you find?"

Was she that transparent? She filled him in about the
oversized underwear and the phone call.

"But where is there evidence of murder?" she
asked. "We first need a victim. It's the usual chronology."

"At least it's on our own time and we're not costing
anybody anything."

They closed the apartment door behind them and walked out
into the quiet, darkened street.

"Lift?"

"Sure." She slipped into his car beside him.

"You don't think we're going bananas."

"An occupational hazard."

"I think she's trying to tell us things."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Fiona
cautioned. It was uncanny the way he was picking up her own thoughts.

He stopped the car in front of her apartment house. Before
she could open the door, he reached out and offered his hand.

"Partners?" he said.

Her hesitation was brief. It was something she needed as
well. "Partners," she said, grasping his hand, returning his grateful
pressure.

She could hear the phone ringing inside the apartment.
Fumbling with the key, panicked that it would stop, she finally made it to the
phone, slightly breathless.

"I was worried," Clint said.

"Worried?"

"I tried the apartment all night."

Her heart lurched. Had he told Ann? But the joy quickly
dissipated when she heard party noises in the background.

"I had to go with Ann to the senator's reception. I'm
here now." She held the phone away from her ear and took a deep breath.
All the earlier anguish rushed back.

"You?" he asked.

"Just the usual."

"Miss me?"

"Of course."

"I love you," he said. The three magic words, she
snickered. She wanted to scream out her anger. Tell her, goddammit.

"I ache for you, baby," he sighed. "Leave
the chain off the hook."

It was a signal between them. It meant he would be in her
bed before seven. Fresh from his and Ann's.

"I will, Clint."

Her eyes filled with helpless tears.

"I'll count the minutes. Got to go. Love you."

No one should have to endure this, she told herself,
sitting in the dark. Was it that way for you, Dorothy? she asked, palming her
ears, shutting out any sound of a potential answer.