Immaculate Deception (12 page)

"You listen, bitch. This is my turf here. I can have
you thrown out on your ass. Like this." He snapped his fingers.

"Who is this jackass?" Greg asked. He had moved
behind the man to get in position to defend her.

"He's Jack McGuire. Husband of the deceased."

"Doesn't give him license for this," Greg
muttered.

McGuire shot him a look of contempt.

"Disturbed your little shack-up, did I?"

Greg snarled back at him, obviously preparing himself for
any physical eventuality.

"Couldn't blame the lady ... if it was suicide."

"Whatayamean, if?" McGuire sneered. His face
flushed as if he were working up another head of anger.

"Under control," Fiona said to Greg.
"Really."

She turned to McGuire, studying him. No contest, she
thought. The man was heavy, out of shape. With one well-placed blow with the
edge of her hand she could break his windpipe. He seemed to consider the odds,
then appeared to retreat from contemplating any violence.

"Grady told me," he mumbled between clenched
teeth.

"Just what did he tell you?" Fiona asked.

"That..." He paused, licked the spittle from the
corners of his mouth. "...that you were implying that Frankie was ... well
... a loose woman. I don't know what you people are up to. But we have
children. And she had constituents. Nothing must blemish her memory. Nothing."

He was running out of steam fast and she dropped her hands
and tightened the belt of her bathrobe.

"Sit down and have a drink," Fiona said. Who
could resist the Irish salutation? she thought. Sure enough, he responded.

"I won't drink that swill," he said, looking at
the Champagne.

"We have Scotch," Greg said, his eyes probing
Fiona's.

McGuire nodded and Greg went into the bedroom for the
bottle he had brought with him.

"Why can't you just let her rest in peace?" he
sighed, sitting down on one of the chairs. His festering sense of outrage had
obviously exhausted him. Greg came out of the bedroom with a bottle of Chivas
Regal and a bathroom glass still wrapped in plastic.

"No ice or soda," Greg said, undoing the plastic.
"I could call down."

"Just pour," McGuire said, watching Greg as he
unwrapped the glass and poured three fingers of Scotch into it.

"D.C.'s got chummy cops," McGuire said watching
Greg as he handed him the glass. He was still in his terry cloth robe which
matched Fiona's. He looked at Fiona. "What happened to the black
boy?"

"He's doing Frankie's case in D.C.," Fiona said
in clipped cop talk. McGuire, she decided, was one nasty bigot.

McGuire upended his glass and drained it in two swallows.
Greg watched him and reached for the bottle.

"Why don't you leave it while I talk to Mr. McGuire
here?" Fiona said, hoping that Greg got the message. He gave her his
little-boy-insulted look and shrugged. He didn't like being dismissed. She
couldn't blame him, but this was now an official interrogation and Greg's
presence would be an inhibition. He knew that, of course, but still didn't
relish the dismissal.

"You want him. You got him," Greg muttered as he
left the room.

"Touchy one," McGuire said. He poured himself
another three fingers, but only took one small sip before putting it down on
the table again.

"I'm here trying to get to the bottom of this,
McGuire."

He finished his drink then looked at her, anger smoldering.

"There is no bottom," he said. "She killed
herself. People do it every day. She pushed it too hard. It takes its toll. I
don't know what set her off. But nobody murdered Frankie. She snapped, is all.
There is no other explanation."

"Why, do you think?"

"I don't know what goes on in people's heads." He
tossed her a cold look, "Either do you."

She let him finish his drink, pour himself another, take a
deep swallow and put down the glass. No point in humoring the bastard, she
decided.

"How hard did you press her about wanting to marry
Beatrice?"

It took him totally by surprise. But instead of rage he
registered confusion and knitted his brows. His forehead wrinkled into deep
frown lines.

"The son of a bitch told you."

"They tell me it's common knowledge," she said,
as if she had spoken to others. He lowered his eyes and stared at his drink for
a long time. He hadn't even bothered to ask: "Who's they?"

"So it's no secret. Big deal." He emitted a cold
joyless chuckle. "Yeah. We talked."

"No dice, right?"

"Not at first. But after awhile she changed her mind.
Then, all of a sudden she did a turnaround, called the whole thing off."

"Why?"

He hesitated, then shrugged.

"Maybe she wanted me back. Who knows?"

"She said so?"

"Danced around. Led me to believe that was it. But I
know better."

"I don't understand."

"Politics. Everything was politics with Frankie. Maybe
she thought a divorce would hurt her chances? Hell, she was a shoo-in. But who
knows what goes on in the devious mind of a politician."

"That's an old fashioned view, Mr. McGuire. Lots of
divorced Catholics are in politics now. Lots of divorced politicians, too.
Reagan was divorced. They're all over the House and Senate."

"Tell me. I argued until I was blue. Couldn't budge
her. It made no sense. She was entrenched. Nobody could beat her. A real
hardhead, she was." He nodded in agreement with himself, then looked up.
"But a great lady just the same." His finger came up again and he
wagged it in front of her nose. "We mustn't drag her name through the mud
now. It's over. She's gone. Nobody killed her. Who would kill Frankie?"
His gaze drifted, fixed on the window through which could be seen the lights
from the buildings surrounding the Common. "She's at peace now. No one to
harass her. Not anymore."

"Who, Mr. McGuire?"

"Who what?" he said after a long silence.
Wherever his mind had gone it had come back now. He lifted his glass and
emptied it.

"Who harassed her?" she said quietly.

"Harassed her?" he said, his eyes glazed with
confusion. "Did I say that?"

"Yes, you did."

"I guess I meant me, then," he said. "Me,
always at it with her, especially in the last few weeks, pushing her on the
divorce. Nothing could budge her. Nothing. Believe me, I tried every argument I
knew. Even more money. I got enough, she said. Hell, she got enough because the
Jack of Diamonds earned it for her."

"Grady said she died of a broken heart," Fiona
offered cautiously, watching his expression.

"Broken heart? He told you that? Broken over
who?"

"You."

"Me? That's rich." He actually chuckled.
"Show you the power of P.R. The ever loving Frankie McGuire. Had even
Grady fooled. Hell, it was always easy to fool Grady. I suppose he gave you
that chestnut about him loving Frankie."

"As a matter of fact."

"Hated her guts he did. Ever since old Huey dumped him
in favor of Frankie. Raised hell about that."

"He implied you begged him until he consented to be
bought off."

"Half-right, I suppose. I don't beg. But I do buy. On
that alone, she owed me one. Frankie owed it all to me in the first place. But
it worked out fine all around. Old Grady didn't have a pot to pee in or a
window to throw it out of. We got him a chunk of real power in the State."
He hesitated. "Changed his life. Good all around."

"You don't mind him running for Frankie's seat?"

"Hell let the son of a bitch have the seat. He's got
an ego on him won't quit. Inside he's dancing on Frankie's grave. Perfect
timing, too. The Jack of Clubs was losing his clout."

He was straying too far afield now. She had to reign him
in, get back to the central question.

"Did you ask her again that night?" He seemed not
to comprehend. "Ask her for a divorce?"

"That night?" His eyes narrowed and he rubbed his
chin, as if were unsure how to answer.

"That could have set her off. Been the deciding
factor. The straw that broke the camel's back."

"That's a heavy load to lay on a person," he
sighed.

"I know. But it could provide a conclusive motive for
Frankie's suicide and end this investigation once and for all." And put
the monkey of guilt on your back all the rest of your life, she thought. It was
the kind of knowledge that could be passed on without words. When he reached
again for his glass, she noted that his fingers were trembling. He put it down
quickly. It was empty and she poured him another, but he held off from taking
it.

"Did you speak to her that night?" Fiona pressed.

He shook his head, his eyes staring into space.

"Tried to, but never reached her. It was me that
called Foy, remember."

"Because you were worried about Frankie?"

"Worried about Frankie?" He mulled over the idea
for a moment, then said: "I wanted to speak with her."

"About the divorce?"

"I told you."

"Was it that urgent?"

"Yeah," he drawled. "To me it was."

She allowed another long pause to happen, then struck out
again.

"Where were you on the night Frankie was killed, Mr.
McGuire?"

She could see his nostrils widen. He seemed to be searching
for something deep inside of himself. Whatever it was, it triggered a sudden
alertness. He reached out, took the glass, contemplated its contents, then
slapped it down on the table as if to say, as Grady had done that morning,
"No more, got to keep my wits about me."

"Builders' meeting," he said. "Greater Boston Builders' Association. I was the principal speaker."

"What time did it break up?"

"About ten-thirty, I think it was. I remember because
I was back at the apartment at eleven. Turned on the eleven o'clock news."

"The apartment you shared with Beatrice
Dellarotta."

He nodded. He had reached a point where he was almost
volunteering answers as fast as she could think up the questions. It also had
all the earmarks of a prepared script.

"Why did you call Frankie?"

"I was pushing her, you see. Asking for that
divorce."

"At that late hour?"

"She always worked late at her office. I told you. She
worked her ass off, a regular workaholic. That's what done her in. But the
office wasn't the place for serious conversation. Besides, I think Foy was on
the phone, monitoring her calls. He was always there. You couldn't have a real
private talk. Not about what we had to talk about. No way."

He was embellishing the script now, ad libbing,
backfilling. She let it happen. He looked at her directly, his eyes pleading
for understanding.

"She had ever reason to let me go," he said.
"Every reason." At that he pulled up abruptly and studied his hands.
After too long a silence she decided to coax him along.

"Because of you and Beatrice?" she asked gently.

"Not just that," McGuire said. The booze had
mellowed him.

"She knew about you and Beatrice?" Fiona asked.

"That she did. Found out two, three years ago. Not
that it mattered. We hadn't been man and wife for years before that. She had
her life in Congress. I had mine back here in Boston. Common problem for
politicians."

"I know," she said. "I'm the daughter of a
senator." Often in an interrogation, she had used something in her own
background as a bonding mechanism. It relaxed the subject, made him more secure
and open. People who hold deep dark disturbing secrets are dying to reveal
them. Not entirely cricket, but it did the job.

"There you go," he said finally picking up his
glass, sipping sparingly then putting it down. "Pulls a family apart, it
does. We're only human. God's flawed children. There was a bargain in it, of
course. I showed up with her every election in the district. Many of them knew,
of course. But it was the propriety of it that was important. I respected
Frankie and couldn't embarrass her. Even Beatrice understood that. Poor
Beatrice. It's been hell on Beatrice." He took another deep drag on his
drink. "It needn't have happened this way, though."

She wasn't sure how to take that, waiting for him to
explain. Again, he hesitated and she had to stoke the fires.

"So that night you decided to have it out again,"
Fiona pressed, taking a relentless tack. "But you couldn't reach
her."

"No. No one answered."

"Did that often happen?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I was always leaving
messages at the apartment desk."

"But that night you didn't."

"Couldn't. It wasn't connected. You see she had to
turn this switch so that the desk picks up the messages. When she left in the
morning she would turn the switch, then switch it back when she got home
later."

"So you knew she had gotten home because the desk
wasn't picking up."

"That's it."

"You called a number of times and when you got no
answer you called Foy."

"Right. That's what I did. And he went over and found
her."

"So no one can say that it was your talk with her that
was the immediate cause of her death."

"How could it be? I never reached her. Not that
night."

"But you did call her frequently?"

"Yes I did. I wanted that divorce. I was pushing. It
wasn't fair. Not to me. Especially not to Beatrice."

"Why especially?"

"She was, well younger. Also traditional. She wanted
marriage, family. Frankie was being pigheaded. She would have ridden out the
divorce politically. It was vindictive on Frankie's part. I kept asking for a
better reason. Politics. Always politics. But I kept at it. Why was it okay
before and not now?"

"You were really madder than hell about her changing
her mind?"

"She was being a real bitch. It was making me
crazy."

He could not conceal his vehemence. Enough to kill? she
wondered.